It's time. I promised I would finally post something on the Harrow Writers' blog and here it is.
This story won the President's short story competition in 2008. I have added her comments at the end of the story.

The Haven

What a lovely name for a house, thought Lizzie.

            A cross between a cottage and a bungalow, it lay in the gentle embrace of the lower slopes of the Downs, on the outskirts of a once-pretty seaside town now polluted by new housing and commercial developments.

            Lizzie and Tom had bought the house as an investment. Now the older children were grown up and only Katy still lived at home, they had enough spare cash to venture into the property market.

            The Haven had been neglected for many years and needed a lot of work before they could sell it. The slate roof leaked and the once-white plaster rendering outside was damaged. But they had bought it for a good price and it was attractive enough to show potential.

            ‘Spacious accommodation on two floors,’ droned the estate Agent.  ‘Three beds, two receps., usual offices. Needs updating, of course.’

            ‘Updating’ was a familiar euphemism. Inside the little house everything needed to be done.

            ‘It hasn’t been touched for fifty years,’ said Lizzie, relishing the challenge. ‘We must get it!’

            An operation to rewire, replumb and redecorate was planned. Lizzie was formulating schemes to extend the kitchen, making it open-plan to the dining room. The sitting room was cast in gloom and she visualised a new window to bring in light and air.

            The incipient smell of mould entailed a major upheaval before any other work could start. But the damp-proofing alone made the atmosphere more pleasant.       

‘When we opened up the windows and let the air in the house was stretching; waking up after years of sleep. I’m sure it’s happier now.’ Lizzie told Tom.

            ‘That’s a bit fanciful, isn’t it?’

            ‘No, really, you could almost hear it sigh with contentment.’

Chaos ensued for several weeks as floorboards were taken up. Electricians and plumbers laid the intricate wires and pipes of their trades. Holes were drilled for pipes and gleaming new radiators installed. The ancient bath and sanitary wares were smashed and piled onto the tottering heap on the overfull skip.

            Inches of dust covered everything as the builder removed the wall between the kitchen and dining room creating a lovely open room, light and airy.

            Lizzie found herself patting the walls.

            ‘That’s better; much more spacious.’

            They argued over where the new window in the lounge should go.

            ‘If we put it on the south side you’ll just about be able to see the sea.’

            ‘You’d have to stand on tiptoe,’ laughed Lizzie. ‘The other side there’s a lovely view of the Downs.’

            But Tom was so persistent, claiming that there would also be more sunshine from the seaward side that the builder was finally ordered to make the aperture on the south side of the room.

            ‘I’ll just mark out the plaster for now,’ the builder said, holding his ruler and thick pencil. ’We’ll knock it through tomorrow when I’ve got the beam ready to put in.’ He left dark pencil marks on the wall, gouging the surface in places, where the new window was to go.

             Early the next morning, before the builders arrived, Lizzie wandered into the sitting room and switched on the single light bulb. The room was still dark so initially she wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t see Jim’s pencil marks on the wall. She peered closer. No - no marks, even the gouges had disappeared. She could have sworn … hadn’t he drawn it out yesterday? Tom was there too, she’d check with him.

            Lizzie took out her mobile and called Tom at work.

            ‘Sorry to bother you, love. Something’s odd here. Didn’t Jim mark out the position for the new window yesterday evening?’

            ‘You know he did. I was with you. You’ve not changed your mind have you?’

            ‘Well, either I’m going mad or something very weird’s going on. There’s no marks there now.’

            ‘There must be. You’re not looking properly. Put on another light or something. Do you want me to come over? I haven’t got much on this morning.’

            ‘No, don’t bother. I’ll look again. But, Tom, I think the house may be trying to tell us something.’

            ‘Don’t be daft. You’re just being fanciful again.’

            ‘I’ll speak to you later. Jim’s arriving.’ Lizzie cancelled the call, not wishing to prolong the argument. She looked again, squinted her eyes, put on her reading glasses, but there was no doubt, there was no trace of any pencil marks.

            Jim and his men arrived, expecting cups of tea and switching on their loud radios as soon as they had taken off their coats. Lizzie told Jim what had happened. He didn’t want to believe it either.

            ‘Well, would you credit it? Not a sign of pencil marks. How did that happen? Never mind, I’ll mark it out again.’

            ‘No,’ Lizzie laid a hand on his arm, ‘I’ve got another idea.’ She led him to the other side of the room. ‘Mark it out here and we’ll leave it for a bit.’

            ‘OK. I’ve got plenty of other things to do. We should get the heating on today. Then the plaster’ll dry in no time and we can start decorating.’

            An hour or so later Lizzie inspected the north wall. She touched the pencil marks, still visible on the plaster.

            ‘ Here, Jim,’ she said, ‘the window’s got to be here.’

            ‘Righto. I’ll get Bert onto it straight away.’

            Together Bert and Jim inserted a prop to support the ceiling.  Bert set to work on the wall. In just a matter of minutes the perfect window-sized opening was excavated; the timber beam inserted across the top.

            ‘It came away like butter,’ said Bert. ‘Never done an easier one. Almost as if there had been a window here before.’

            Lizzie smiled and peered through the aperture. It seemed meant to be. The window would overlook the garden just where a pretty jasmine was planted. She could smell the scent of the flowers. In the distance the gentle sweep of the Downs rose above them.

            ‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘This is the right place.’

‘I knew you’d changed your mind,’ said Tom later, trying to keep an edge of annoyance out of his voice. ‘You always get your own way in the end.’

            ‘No, it was supposed to be there. Really, Tom, the house told us.’

            ‘Hmpf,’ Tom strode away.

            That evening they turned on the heating and the ultra-efficient boiler throbbed into life. It seemed that in mere seconds the house was warm and snug.

            ‘It’s going to be a cosy place when it’s finished. I wouldn’t mind living here myself.’

            ‘It’s lovely. I’d be happy here too,’ agreed Lizzie.

            ‘No. We’ve bought it as an investment. We’ve got to sell it soon to get our money back.’

            ‘I know, but all the same…’ Lizzie stroked her hand over the new surfaces in the kitchen and as she did so she fancied she could hear the little house purr in contentment.

A couple of weeks later they called the unctuous estate agent.

            ‘Well, you’ve done wonders with this! Shouldn’t be any problem to sell.’ He then quoted an improbably high price for the property.

            ‘Great!’ Tom cried. ‘Let’s go for it.’

            ‘I’ll get it on the market tomorrow.’ The estate agent roared off in a haze of dust, probably fantasising about his fat potential commission.

From the first viewer things began to go wrong. Lizzie was showing them round, explaining the renovations.

            ‘The new window in here,’ she pointed out, ‘gives this room a lot more light.’

            The branch of a tree scratched against the new double-glazing. A sharp draught sighed from nowhere.

            ‘It’s chilly in here,’ shivered the husband, ‘I thought the heating was on.’

            ‘It’s usually very cosy’ said Lizzie. ‘The wind must be in the wrong direction. I know, perhaps someone fiddled with the thermostat.’ But when she looked it was set at the usual comfortable temperature.

            Whenever she was showing someone over the house peculiar new sounds emerged from the woodwork. The stairs creaked on every step; the doors refused to close properly, the lights flickered.

            ‘It’s all been rewired,’ reassured Lizzie.

            Fierce gales of wind blew through the attics. It sounded as if the roof was about to blow away. Once she couldn’t open the main bedroom door however hard she tried.

            ‘One of the children must have locked it.’

            The viewers gave her a very old-fashioned look.

            ‘You’re sure it isn’t haunted?’ asked a particularly nervous viewer. ‘It seems very noisy.’

            Every couple sent by the once enthusiastic agent complained about some peculiarity of the house.

            ‘No-one seems to like it,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps we should lower the price?’

            But even a £10,000 reduction didn’t help and after six months on the market Lizzie and Tom despaired.

            ‘We can’t afford to keep it up much longer,’ said Tom. ‘The interest charges are crippling us.’

            ‘Let’s try a bit longer.’

            ‘If it goes on more than a couple of months we’ll have to sell our own house and move in ourselves.’

            Lizzie had a revelation. Of course, that was what the house wanted. She kept a careful eye and ear open every time she visited. Whenever she was alone or with the family the house welcomed her. It felt warm, quiet and peaceful. When anyone else came, especially the estate agent and his clients, the house responded with noises, winds and eerie draughts.

            ‘That’s it, Tom,’ she admitted eventually. ‘We’ve got to move in ourselves.’

            ‘I don’t like that idea,’ complained Tom. ‘It’s miles from the golf course.’

            ‘Oh, come on, Tom. Not that far. Anyway we don’t need such a big house now there’s just Katy. There’s still a spare bedroom for the others to come and visit.’

            Tom put up all the objections he could think of, but eventually he came round to Lizzie’s way of thinking.

            ‘Well, the interest charges are a nightmare,’ he conceded. ‘And it is a lovely setting.’

The estate agent was stunned by their news and sold their bigger house on the other side of the town in record time.

            ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘Properties like this are hard to come by nowadays.’

            ‘Yes. We’re doing the right thing.’ Lizzie was as sure as she could be.

            Within weeks they were moving into the new house. The day was sunny; without a breath of wind. Lizzie felt the house breathe a sigh of relief as they brought in their furniture, an almost tangible contented shrug and warming of the bricks as they settled into their house, their haven.

Julia Underwood - 2008

Comments by Harrow Writers' President, Cynthia Harrod Eagles 

Very nicely done story, well written and engaging. Nice lively style. I liked the touch of conflict on page 5 between the characters over the window, and I think the story could benefit from a touch more conflict at the end - I think Tom falls in with the plan to move in too easily. Without a bit of acid here and there the story's in danger of being too saccharine.