There were a few cracks and creaks, naturally, some protestations from the pipes, and dampness had crumbled the plaster round the upstairs windows, but there was nothing that couldn't be put right, in time.

'It's a lovely old house you've got here,' Mr. Owen said, affirming my own thoughts as he took a seat on the packing crates beside me and passed me a polystyrene cup. 'Built in the 1580's, you said?'

'That's what the house agent told me.' I nodded. I poured out strong tea for the mover and his two perspiring helpers, then settled back on my makeshift seat to enjoy my own steaming cupful. 'I don't know much about its history, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, the village folk will fill you in there, I've no doubt,' said Mr. Owen sagely. 'Old houses like this always have a past. Interesting, most of 'em. You'll learn more over a pint in the local than you will out of any history book.'

'I'll remember that.'

The two younger men drank their tea in respectful silence, waiting patiently for Mr. Owen to finish chatting and give them the signal to return to work. Eventually, after his second cup of tea, he rose to his feet. At precisely the same moment, a terrific bang echoed in the front hall, and I lumped in my seat.

'Just the front door, miss,' one of the younger movers explained. 'The hinges swing inward, see, and the latch is none too sturdy. Strong gust of wind’ll blow it open.'

Mr. Owen promptly examined the door, fitted the inside handle with a protective cover to avoid further damage to the paneled wall behind, and suggested I buy a new lock as soon as possible. 'Can't be too careful,' was his fatherly advice.

It took the three men less than an hour to unload and distribute the remainder of my belongings, and at half-past two I found myself standing in the front doorway, giving a final wave to the retreating van and feeling, for the first time, very unsure of myself. And very much ne.

The enormity of what I'd just done suddenly struck me, with a force that neither my brother's outright skepticism nor my parents' gentler lectures on the telephone had been able to achieve.

I could do my work just as well from Exbury as I could in London, I'd told everybody. In fact, I would probably be more productive in Exbury, away from the distractions of the city. And property was, after all, a sound investment. The fact that I was exchanging a familiar environment and an established circle of friends for a community of strangers had never seemed to me to be very important. Until now. I felt a tiny pang of longing for my third-floor flat, and for my neighbor Angie, down the hall, who could always be counted on for a cup of coffee and gossip in the mid afternoon.

The longing vanished in an instant, though, as I turned from the hall into the study. It was a lovely, peaceful room, with dark paneled walls, rows of empty bookshelves smelling faintly of lemon oil, and a cozy-looking fireplace that corresponded to the one in my bedroom upstairs. Earlier that morning, sunlight had come spilling in through the curtainless window, falling in wide, slanting squares across the brown leather upholstery of my old sofa. Now the light was indirect, and dimly restful. Apart from the sofa, the only other pieces of furniture I'd added to this room were a matching armchair in front of the fireplace, and a simple walnut writing desk and chair. At the moment, they were buried beneath the boxes of books and papers I'd brought with me.

It was tempting to begin my unpacking in here, but I knew from experience how little it took to distract me. A favourite old book, joyfully discovered in the middle of a box, would mean my spending the rest of the afternoon in blissful, unproductive oblivion. Better to leave the study for last, I reasoned, and begin in the most logical and practical place—the kitchen.

I shut the study door reluctantly and retreated to the back of the house, where for the next few hours I attacked the packing boxes with a fervor that would have made my mother proud. The hard work left me, in the end, covered with dust, and longing—like the mole in my favourite children's story—for a breath of the fresh spring air.

With Mole's impulsiveness, I swung the back door wide and wandered outside, welcoming the gentle breeze that played upon my skin and lifted the curls from my damp forehead. I rubbed my palms on the legs of my jeans to get the worst of the dirt off, and stood for a moment with my hands on my hips, enjoying the feeling of well-earned freedom.

My gaze fell upon the tumbled pile of stones where Iain Sumner had been standing on the day I'd bought the house, and I altered my course toward it, interested.

It was some thirty yards or more distant from the house, well outside my own property line, and while it was therefore unlikely to have been part of a fence, it was far too symmetrical to be a natural feature. As I drew closer, I saw that the stones were arranged in an L shape, the longer side of the L running parallel to the back wall of my house. In places, the wall was not much shorter than my own height of five foot three, and in the shelter of the L someone had carefully broken and cultivated the earth to make a garden. The dark soil was neatly furrowed and newly fertilized, ready for planting.

'So you've bought it.'

For the second time I jumped, and turned, at the sound of Iain Sumner's voice. He was not a small man, and it was a mystery to me how he could have crossed the yard without my hearing him. Recovering quickly, I was able to greet him with my most brilliant smile. He was wearing a rough brown sweater over heavy work trousers, and a brown cap with a stained brim. He pushed the cap back on his head, and his gray eyes smiled back at me.

'You've bought the house,' he repeated. It was a statement, not a question, but I answered it anyway. 'Yes.'