The Liberation of Alice Love(15)
Author: Abby McDonald

A sudden sharp knock on her door broke through Alice’s reverie. She peered through the peephole to see her landlord waiting in the hallway, his arms folded and a scowl on his wrinkled face.

She braced herself and opened the door. “Mr. Bloch,” Alice exclaimed, trying to sound warm and friendly. “How are you?”

He glared back, unmoved. “I came to give you this.” He thrust a single sheet of paper into her hand. “I’m a reasonable man, so I’m giving you three days. That should be plenty of time to get your things out.”

Alice stared at him in confusion. “What do you mean?” She glanced at the typed letter. “I don’t under—”

She stopped, her words catching in her throat as the black ink arranged itself into letters and words, curled innocuously across the page despite their ominous meaning: Notice to evict.

“No.” Alice looked up at him in panic. “You can’t.”

“Oh, yes I can.” Mr. Bloch puffed out his chest. “You’re four days late with this month’s rent.”

“But I told you the standing order wouldn’t go in this month,” Alice protested. “I explained, about what happened with my bank!”

“And I was understanding.” He pursed his lips. “I let you have a whole extra day to pay by check. But it bounced.”

Alice’s heart fell. “Next week—the bank said it would have my current account refunded by Wednesday, at the latest!”

Mr. Bloch was unmoved. “Your tenancy agreement clearly states all rent must be paid on time. And since you were already on probation, you’ve left me with no choice.”

“Please, I—”

“I’ll be around to inspect the property before you leave.” He shot a suspicious look past her. “I expect everything to be accounted for.”

Alice watched him march back down the stairs, her mind already buzzing with panic. What was she going to do? There were still two weeks until her next payday, and she barely had enough for day-to-day living, not a temporary rental or the security deposits on a new lease. And where could she go? Staying with Ella or Cassie was one thing, but what about her belongings—a whole flat full of books and furniture and…

With a sinking heart, Alice realized there was only one place she could go now. A place of chaos, disorder, and distraction.

She was going home.

Chapter Six

Alice woke with an ache in her back and the sound of breaking china echoing through the Sussex cottage. She yawned, bleary eyed. The muscle pain was from hoisting boxes all weekend, and sleeping in the tiny single bed in her childhood room, but the china? She could only imagine.

There was another crash.

Alice reluctantly went to investigate, her feet bare on the dusty floorboards. She’d only brought up a haphazard suitcase of things from the van, so she took a blanket from the hall cupboard to wrap herself up against the draft that always drifted through the house. It was a charming home, with wooden beams, an open fireplace, and an abundance of small nooks, perfect for a small child to hide away with her latest book. As a girl, she’d loved it, but now, all Alice could see were the patches of damp creeping in the corners and the original features crumbling into disrepair. And the clutter. Oh, the clutter. Between her father’s ever-expanding collection of secondhand books (hunted down at every charity shop, church rummage sale, and car-boot sale in a twenty-mile radius), and Jasmine’s hoarding for future art projects, every room and shelf in the place was loaded down with random knickknacks. Her bedroom, still papered with fading floral print, now housed three vast oak bookshelves, a broken set of mirrors, and a collection of chipped figurines showing shepherdesses in various states of repose. Alice had dreamed of porcelain sheep all night long.

By the time she reached the kitchen, there had been several more crashes. Alice paused cautiously in the doorway and peered in. Her stepmother was standing in the middle of the room, her petite frame swathed in a bright sarong, her graying curls caught back from her face as she happily hurled china at the far wall.

“Oh, hello, sweetie. I didn’t know you were up.” Jasmine paused to greet her, a green vase in her hands. Alice watched it smash on the stone-paved floor and explode in a burst of fragments. “Put something on your feet,” Jasmine warned, reaching for a large bowl. “Your father got a nasty shard of glass in his foot last week.”

“All right,” Alice answered faintly.

“There’s some quinoa if you’re hungry!” Jasmine called helpfully, now picking through the rubble for shards of particular interest. “And I made a gluten-free pasta bake the other day.”

“I think I’ll go into the village,” Alice decided, finding a lone apple in the corner of the fridge. “Is Dad in the garden?”

“I think so.” Jasmine looked up with an absent frown. For a moment, she looked identical to Flora, with the same expression of pale confusion.

“It’s OK,” Alice reassured her. “I’m sure I’ll find him somewhere out there.”

***

After waiting twenty minutes for the hot water to get going, Alice showered and pulled on some jeans and a jumper, assembling a matching pair of wellies from the mud-splattered jumble in the porch. It was a clear, sunny day, and as she ventured out into the overgrown back garden, she had to admit that being stuck in the middle of the countryside had some advantages: the house backed onto open fields, and the patchwork of grass and crooked hedges stretched in front of her, wide and windswept.

She headed toward the dilapidated shed, tucked away behind flower beds and an overgrown vegetable patch. “Hello?” Alice tapped at the peeling doorframe and peered in. As usual, her father was in his old rocking chair, surrounded by an avalanche of research notes and unfinished manuscripts. The sunlight dappled his thin face; gray hair stuck out in tufts as he pored over one of his red-and-black, spiral-bound notebooks.

“Pumpkin!” He blinked in surprise from behind large, grandpa-style spectacles, as if he’d forgotten she was even visiting. “Everything all right?”

“Good enough.” She slipped inside, careful not to disturb the mess. “Jasmine is tearing the place apart again.”

Her father smiled slightly. “Ah, yes, she said something about a new mosaic for her studio…”

“That would explain the china.” Alice looked around. The last time she’d been down, the room had been full of Revolutionary War paraphernalia, but now the muskets were being edged out by new curiosities. Small, model hot-air balloons spilled from the narrow window ledge, and blueprints trailed over his wide wooden desk. “Starting a new project?” she asked. Now that Alice thought about it, her father was looking different: his threadbare jumper had been replaced with a shirt and blue scarf, tied at his neck like a cravat, and there was a sense of energy and purpose about him that always meant he’d found some new fascination.