Newly carved window frames and doorways hang suspended by ropes from the rafters of the stone built arches in the farmyard. I watched them breeze swing awhile. Hung out to paint. Hung out to dry. They frame space; miss panes of glass and wooden doors. You think, not of hanged men, that would be macabre. You think of possibilities. You could step through the empty door to find a finer world; open a magic window on to a sunnier life. Gordon Brown has something similar, hanging in his attic. The frames hang like a promise."Open this window and you will see the view is of a beauteous Britain, more beauteous than the one you've known. " My house in well-plastered tatters, walls now just memories, the frames say: "The future is walking through our doors any minute now. Keep faith awhile and see. "
I know I can relax. Where there was a wall along the back of the kitchen, there will be doors to a courtyard garden. The builder placed a penny coin, as shiny as could be, beneath the first stone of the door surround to wish us luck. Is that not kind and noble? A well-meant wish for luck. Can a house fail to be happy when founded on another person's kindess? He does the same in every house he builds. Mine, of course is not a new house, though I could argue it is a new life we are building up here. The house though, the house is a renovation, restoration, knock through. Not new. More noble yet then to wish me luck. He made an exception. Perhaps, he thought we needed more luck than most. I did not ask him which way it lay. Heads or tails? I wonder, if he cannot quite remember, will he lift the house to check?