In the centre of town, behind the primary school – and you might not notice it unless you were particularly observant – there’s a redbrick building. It’s more attractive than it sounds, with dozens of arched, white-framed windows and ivy climbing almost to the roof. The front door’s dark green, sturdy-looking enough to keep out anyone unfriendly, but such a welcoming sight that you’d want to walk through it and join in with whatever was going on inside. There’s a wreath hanging on a ribbon: fir, holly and eucalyptus.
On the right of the door, on a narrow brass plaque, is the word Pharos. If you’re standing close enough to read it, you’ll notice that someone cares about the front garden. There’s lavender, rosemary, a dozen types of bush and shrub, none at their best because it’s winter, but pruned and neat and tidy. The beds are clear, and there’s the promise of snowdrops around the corner. And trees – so many trees. Bare, but not for too much longer. Someone’s raked the leaves up off the lawn. There are at least five bird-boxes at a safe height, and seed hanging in feeders. A squirrel darts across the grass. It looks well-fed.
Charles rings the doorbell, and a woman opens the dark green door after quite a long time – he supposes she was at the opposite end of the building. She smiles and holds the door wide open. The next thing he sees is the ten-foot Christmas tree, covered in hundreds of warm white lights and baubles – not one’s the same as another, but the effect’s beautiful.
“You’re Charles, I expect? I’m Flora.” She puts her hand out to shake his. It’s the first time he’s been touched by another person for… how long? Could be months. “You’re very welcome. Will you come and have a coffee?”
It’s the first time Charles has been offered coffee on the doorstop of a property he’s viewing, but then again, he’s never viewed a property like this before. It’s late morning, but the sky’s heavy with snow and his coat’s not quite warm enough, so he’s grateful when Flora closes the front door.
“Come on,” she says, and leads the way through the entrance hall, past the Christmas tree and down a corridor. The carpet’s the same dark green as the door, and the left hand side is all windows. Charles stares through them while they’re walking, and sees a library and armchairs and a real fire. There’s a smell of tumble-dried towels, and he knows he’s come home.
Flora leads the way up a staircase with a curved wooden banister. It bends round to the right at the top, and curled around every spindle there’s a garland with more warm white lights laced through it. “We’re just along here,” she says, and takes him through some double doors. On the other side there’s what might once have been a small school hall – polished herringbone floor, enormous windows with heavy curtains, a grand piano – but there are rugs and more books, and sofas and a long wooden table, and people reading or chatting in twos and threes. Charles can smell gingerbread cake and coffee, and he can’t think of a more lovely place.
For a moment he’s afraid that everyone’ll turn round and he’ll suddenly be the centre of attention. But it doesn’t happen. A few people smile and wave before going back to their books and conversations. Flora hands him a mug and pours coffee into it. Evidently he doesn’t look like a tea person, which is useful, because he’s not.
Flora isn’t talking, but there’s no awkward silence. It feels, instead, as though she’s giving Charles space to think. He stands next to her, drinking and eating and looking around properly at the room. There’s another tree in the corner, a smaller one, and candles on the piano. This is a place that takes Christmas seriously.
“I’ll show you the room in a moment,” says Flora, “and the rest of the house, then if you like, you could have lunch with us? It’s always soup and bread at lunchtime.”
There’s nothing much in his fridge at home. The plan, if there even was one, was to pick something up on the way back. Soup and bread sounds like just what he wants. “I’d love that,” he says, and means it.
Charles finishes his coffee and Flora holds out her hand to take his mug. She puts it down with hers at one end of the table, where someone else gathers them up straight away. “Shall we go and have a look?”
The room’s a bit further down the same corridor, on the opposite side. As soon as he’s through the door, it’s clear that someone’s made an effort with it. There are flowers in a vase and a cushion on the armchair. It smells clean, and the carpet’s spotless.
Flora’s still standing on the other side of the threshold. “Take your time,” she says, and starts a quiet conversation with someone in the corridor. Charles goes over to the window. It’s started snowing lightly, and tiny flakes drift against the glass and swirl down to the garden. There’s a cherry tree directly outside – no leaves or blossom, obviously, but he’d recognise that bark anywhere.
There’s no bed, but he’s got one already. It’s not a very big room, but it doesn’t need to be. What colour are the walls? He’s not quite sure, but they’re calming and muted and – crucially – not magnolia.
“There’s plenty of storage in the cellar,” Flora says from the doorway, “and the bathroom’s next door. The building’s too old for all the rooms to be ensuite, but everyone’s really considerate about hot water and cleaning. Do you want to see the rest of the house?”
Charles does, very much. Flora takes him to the end of the corridor and up more stairs. The ceiling slopes here, and it’s almost like an attic. “More bedrooms up here, and a study. Practice rooms, for the musicians. Oh, and there’s a workshop out at the back, if that’s your sort of thing?”
At the other end of the corridor, they go down two flights of stairs. “This is the noisy common room – we’ve got two. The one we had our coffee in, that’s the quiet one,” Flora says cheerfully, holding the door open so he can see inside. It’s smaller than the other one, which surprises him. There’s a TV mounted to the wall, and lots more sofas, and more board games than he’s ever seen. There’s no one in there, though.
They’ve done a loop, and are almost back where they started. “Oh – the dining room!” and Flora takes him past the library again and into what looks like a monks’ refectory: long wooden tables, benches and a servery in front of a kitchen. “Then the laundry room’s behind there – we’ve got plenty of washers and dryers and space to get everything done. All the stuff for cleaning, too – the hoovers and mops and everything. Shall we sit down? Is there anything you’d like to ask?”
Charles tries to remember what it said in the advert. Bills included. Some maintenance and cleaning duties.
“Well, just… how does it all work? It’s an enormous house. You said everyone’s really considerate about cleaning. I’m struggling – well, I can’t see a down side to living here, I suppose is what I’m trying to say. I don’t understand why there’s space for me, if that makes sense?”
Flora looks straight at him. “It does. There’s space for you because someone died. Arthur, he was called. We all loved him. He was here for years, and it was his room I showed you. He used to be a priest, and this place – well, it just suited him.” She looks away for a moment, gazing out of the window at the thickening snow. The two of them sit in silence for a few minutes, but again, it’s not uncomfortable.
“Who does this place suit?” Charles asks, after a while. Flora smiles.
“It’s hard to explain how it works here. I’ve lived in house-shares before – maybe you have too?” He nods, and remembers what it was like – mostly the difficult bits. The bill-paying, the cleaning and tidying, the way those things always landed on one person. The way resentment built up over a long time of feeling disregarded and taken for granted, until you left and paid far more for the luxury of your own space. If you could afford it, that is, or put up with the loneliness.
“It’s different here. Hard to explain why it works – but it does. We’re honest with everyone who comes to look round. It’s not so much that there’s an expectation of anything in particular – just that we’ve got shared values, I suppose. We’re all here because we want to live with other people, but it’s more than that. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a higher level of respect than you might get elsewhere. But there’s something about Pharos which makes us all want to look after each other, and that means a lot of different things. Cleaning, cooking, even just choosing which common room to spend time in.”
Charles can hardly believe this place is real, it sounds so close to his ideal environment. Living alone wasn’t all that good for him, in the end.
“How does the shopping work? And the cooking?”
Flora gestures over to the cooking area. “We get a couple of big food deliveries every week. I’ll be honest, it takes a bit of organising, but Rob’s really good at that. Most of us eat together, and we’ve got a cooking rota, but you can opt out if you want to. There’s no pressure. We just want everyone to be happy. You’ll see how it works at lunchtime, anyway. Everyone’ll be down soon.” She stands up, and he does too. “Let me show you the back garden, and the workshop. We’ve not been in the library yet, either.”
Charles looks at Flora with a sudden desire to give her what she’s offered him since he arrived: openness, time, effort, care. “I’m so sorry Arthur died,” he says. “And I should probably sleep on it, but I’m almost sure I want to live here. Can I let you know tomorrow? Is there anyone else interested in the room?”
She smiles. “Thank you. And you’re the first on the list, so you’ve got first refusal. Tomorrow’s fine. Come on – the garden’s going to look even better now the snow’s settling.”
“Almost forgot to ask,” Charles says as Flora pushes the library door open. “Why’s it called Pharos? Is that Latin?”
They go down a short flight of stairs into what could easily be the most beautiful room he’s ever seen. Sofas and cushions, books for miles, a log fire and a view out onto the garden. Flora’s right – it’s perfect, covered with snow.
“Yes, it’s Latin,” she says, “and it means lighthouse. But we prefer to think of it as a house of light. I’ve never met anyone yet who doesn’t think it’s the ideal name. It’s this way out to the garden – and lunch’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
