The House Under the Hill — Novella
An extract from the historical novella (46,500 words) about a ruin I’ve had a lifelong interest in. It’s narrated by a few different characters from the Edwardian period to the present, but begins in the 1950s.
I’m currently resting from editing this as it’s possible to overdo it. It’s with a reader at present so there’ll be more edits ahead. Any comments from readers are very welcome! Is it clear who is narrating by the end of the section?
1
Gwylfa Hiraethog_March 1954
A piece of masonry falls in the north wing, bounds once over the moss-covered turf and colonises the shade with other crumbling specimens of its kind. It’s that child again, her fingers picking away at anything cracked or loose. She’s a small creature with spider-like curls squashed against her crown by the wool hat she wears. She writes on fallen roof tiles using sharp bits of flinty stone held cack-handed, always her name — Alis, followed by the date.
Chickens are living in the library, while the family live in the servant’s quarters. The fowls peck at the red carpet that was once stepped upon by the brogues of the Prince of Wales and roost in the empty shelves close to where Lloyd George discussed Home Rule with the Viscount. Chickens, princes, and prime ministers are all the same to me, but I miss the Viscount and his daughter. She used to play the piano and the harp; nowadays I have to make the music myself.
The bobble-hatted girl has finished defacing fallen tiles and has come inside. She wants to get into the library and pushes at the swollen door, but it’s stuck fast. She keeps trying, throwing herself at the splintered surface of what was once a fine oak-panelled door. Using quick bursts of strength, with rests in between, she perseveres. The rusted hinges groan. After several more pushes, when she’s quite out of breath, she falls through the door and looks up with surprise as she regains her feet and takes in the mist that flows in through the broken windows. Does she notice how the plaster has fallen away around the lintels? This is what happens to houses that aren’t maintained. Water is our worst enemy; once it gets in, the mischief begins. Alis can see — if she cares to look — my rotting floorboards and the warped panelling that is beginning to break free of the wall, the blackened remnants of a Persian rug, mildewed books stuck together on the dust-covered shelves, their spines rupturing, and wallpaper unpeeling from the walls, a whole sheet at a time.
If the holes around my windows and my roof’s disrepair aren’t sorted out soon, my demise will be certain. But what’s this? The mother is packing their things into boxes.
Next part of chapter one is here:
