buzzing of my phone. I’m determined not to do any work today if I can help it, and I don’t immediately recognize the number calling me. I don’t intend to take the call, then I relent, some instinct at work perhaps. Or maybe I feel a need to deflect Eva’s attention away from my prospective motherhood, or lack of same. Whatever, I hit the green button. “Hello, Ashley McAllister…”
“Miss McAllister? It’s Mr Miller. Ernest Miller, of Hampson and Miller. In Gloucester.”
I think for a moment, then the penny drops. “Oh, yes, Mr Miller.” It’s my solicitor, the lovely old gentleman who saw me without an appointment and helped me sort out my mother’s affairs. His firm now acts as my agent with the student housing folk, looking after the financial side of things and forwarding me my quarterly checks. “What can I do for you? There’s nothing wrong is there?”
“Well, actually, yes. There is.”
I listen quietly as he explains the reason for his call, and I have to agree. Something has gone very, very wrong indeed. There’s been a fire, last night, at my house in Gloucester. I hear his words, try to make sense of what he’s saying. Extensive damage, smoke and water, fire doors, tenants asleep inside…
“Was anyone hurt?” It’s the only thing I can think of at this moment, and I desperately wrack my brains for anything else I could possibly have done to make the place safer. Did I miss something? Did I do enough?
“No, Miss McAllister. Everyone got out safely. The property’s badly damaged though…”
“Safe? You say they’re all safe. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. But you’ll need to talk to your insurers, and the Student Housing Team. And the fire service will want to investigate as it was a HMO…”
“A what?”
“HMO—House in Multiple Occupation. They need to check that you complied with all the fire regulations. I’m certain you did though, so nothing to worry about there. But the formalities, the process, the insurance, it’s all rather complicated. Are you planning to be down here at all in the next few weeks?”
“What, yes, yes of course. I’ll come. I’ll be there later today. Oh, God, are you sure no one’s hurt?”
“Quite sure. Today you say? I’ll be here at the office all day then, let me know when you arrive.”
I hang up, briefly tell Eva what’s happened, and that I’ve got to go. To Gloucester. Now.
She agrees, but doesn’t think I should be haring off alone. “What about Tom? He’s out on the farm somewhere. He’ll go with you. It’ll be easier to sort things out if you’re not on your own.”
She’s right, and I hit Tom’s button on my speed dial. I get the unobtainable signal—he’s obviously in one of the many mobile phone black spots around here, one of the perils of rural life. I leave a voicemail, and Eva promises to keep trying him as well. Thanking God or whoever else might be listening that we came over here in my car last night, I sprint for my faithful little Clio. Tom scrounged a lift from Nathan this morning so I’ve still got my transport. I make a brief detour to the farm to grab a bag, chuck in a few things to tide me over for a couple of days and I’m back on the road, heading for the M65.
All the way down the monotonous gray drag of the M6 and the M5, I’m turning over in my head all the things I did to try to make my house safe and fire-proof. I read the regulations carefully, installed everything that was required and a lot of the additional recommendations too. I spent a bloody fortune, but it’ll have been worth it if those precautions meant that my tenants survived the fire. What did Mr Miller say, they all got out safely? Did he mean no one was injured? It’s at last sunk in that no one died in my house last night, but what about smoke inhalation? Horrific burns? Other terrifying images swirl around my head as all the possible disastrous consequences compete for the honor of distracting me from the
“Miss McAllister? It’s Mr Miller. Ernest Miller, of Hampson and Miller. In Gloucester.”
I think for a moment, then the penny drops. “Oh, yes, Mr Miller.” It’s my solicitor, the lovely old gentleman who saw me without an appointment and helped me sort out my mother’s affairs. His firm now acts as my agent with the student housing folk, looking after the financial side of things and forwarding me my quarterly checks. “What can I do for you? There’s nothing wrong is there?”
“Well, actually, yes. There is.”
I listen quietly as he explains the reason for his call, and I have to agree. Something has gone very, very wrong indeed. There’s been a fire, last night, at my house in Gloucester. I hear his words, try to make sense of what he’s saying. Extensive damage, smoke and water, fire doors, tenants asleep inside…
“Was anyone hurt?” It’s the only thing I can think of at this moment, and I desperately wrack my brains for anything else I could possibly have done to make the place safer. Did I miss something? Did I do enough?
“No, Miss McAllister. Everyone got out safely. The property’s badly damaged though…”
“Safe? You say they’re all safe. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. But you’ll need to talk to your insurers, and the Student Housing Team. And the fire service will want to investigate as it was a HMO…”
“A what?”
“HMO—House in Multiple Occupation. They need to check that you complied with all the fire regulations. I’m certain you did though, so nothing to worry about there. But the formalities, the process, the insurance, it’s all rather complicated. Are you planning to be down here at all in the next few weeks?”
“What, yes, yes of course. I’ll come. I’ll be there later today. Oh, God, are you sure no one’s hurt?”
“Quite sure. Today you say? I’ll be here at the office all day then, let me know when you arrive.”
I hang up, briefly tell Eva what’s happened, and that I’ve got to go. To Gloucester. Now.
She agrees, but doesn’t think I should be haring off alone. “What about Tom? He’s out on the farm somewhere. He’ll go with you. It’ll be easier to sort things out if you’re not on your own.”
She’s right, and I hit Tom’s button on my speed dial. I get the unobtainable signal—he’s obviously in one of the many mobile phone black spots around here, one of the perils of rural life. I leave a voicemail, and Eva promises to keep trying him as well. Thanking God or whoever else might be listening that we came over here in my car last night, I sprint for my faithful little Clio. Tom scrounged a lift from Nathan this morning so I’ve still got my transport. I make a brief detour to the farm to grab a bag, chuck in a few things to tide me over for a couple of days and I’m back on the road, heading for the M65.
All the way down the monotonous gray drag of the M6 and the M5, I’m turning over in my head all the things I did to try to make my house safe and fire-proof. I read the regulations carefully, installed everything that was required and a lot of the additional recommendations too. I spent a bloody fortune, but it’ll have been worth it if those precautions meant that my tenants survived the fire. What did Mr Miller say, they all got out safely? Did he mean no one was injured? It’s at last sunk in that no one died in my house last night, but what about smoke inhalation? Horrific burns? Other terrifying images swirl around my head as all the possible disastrous consequences compete for the honor of distracting me from the
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