Sylvianne stood within the bay of her kitchen window, coffee mug clasped in both hands, cupping it to her lips like it were a small soup bowl with no spoon. She had on a fleecey dressing gown whose bouncy fibre had flattened and thinned through repeated washing and wear; the baby pink had greyed over time and had she been able to see herself, she would have seen not only was it sad looking, it also made her look fat and frumpy.

The early morning half light showed signs of promise for the day, the sky was silvery clear and the house martins were already flitting back and forth from their muddy pots under the eaves. Sylvianne smiled faintly at a cheeky Robin perched on a large green plastic watering can by the fence when her gaze flitted over the dandelion and groundsel sprouting through the gravel on the drive and she frowned deeply, if she didn’t get out there and start pulling those soon, merry May would arrive in force and she would have no chance, they would run amok across the whole driveway and it would look a mess. The house deserved better care than that.

It’s true that to the casual observer, there wasn’t a deal to get excited about when considering the village of Upper Framling; sadly as far as Upper Framling was concerned there were rather too many casual fleeting observers, positioned as it was, on a minor ‘B’ road which simply lead to a much more useful ‘A’ road, such that almost all vehicle bound visitors were simply cruising through, en route to somewhere more interesting.

Sylvianne had thought similarly to these countless other faceless people, Upper Framling was simply a through road and utterly forgettable, that was until she actually took special note of it. Quite suddenly one day as she drove through the village en route to a school hockey game, she saw it, really saw it for the very first time, and there was the house, and it was for sale.

She had been genuinely perplexed because she must have driven past that house a thousand times before, the silently spectacular Victorian gothic frontage, which stood slightly askance from the road, which veered right and slightly away from the house.

She slowed the car, three point turned and drove at a snails pace past it again in the opposite direction which offered a much more thorough persepective, she was awed by the place. Pulling up outside she got out and looked – the imposing frontage had more going on at the back and as she crossed over the road to take a closer look, she realised it was empty, she stepped over the small garden wall and went to peer into the picture window and she saw the stained glass and sweeping arches. She swung around as if to guage it’s position and it was then that she felt it. Upper Framling. She looked up and down the road seeing the village from the inside looking out- and she smiled. They had been looking for an age for ‘the’ family house, and here it was all along. Who’d have thought it?

Which is exactly the conversation she found herself having with Stockard that very evening, his screwed up his disbelieving face which told her he was pretty unconvinced, just as she had been. ‘In Upper Framling?’ He said again, ‘But it’s all dark and miserable.’

‘Yes, yes I know, you’d think so. But honestly it’s not. If you get out the car and just look at the house, feel the village, you’ll know exactly what I mean. And the house, it’s perfect. It’s got a little paddock next door to the house and it has an old barn which could work as a field shelter for the pony she wants- please just see it.’

He did. And that was it. Eight weeks later, the Stockards moved in to Upper Framling – bewildered that it had all been so simple, so quick.

‘Framling House’ became the ultimate project, and Sylvianne had thrown herself in to the task of transforming the potential all could see in the house, to beautiful reality. The house was her pride and joy, it had been their perfect bolt hole from a stressful world, it was where their two young children had blossomed in to adulthood; and ultimately it became the place where she had been left behind.

She would need to get outside and lift those weeds.

Sylvianne paused over the coffee cup and looked ruefully now at the little bird as it hopped up and down around the garden; it took so little to bring memories to the surface, every room, every space and closet had some tale to tell.

She said as much to Ellen, her good friend and neighbour of some 16 years, later that very morning. Sylvianne was knelt on a little padded cushion, yanking on the stems of hoary plantains that showed surprising tenacity against the assault, and infested the shaded areas around the walls and fences.

“You should get a job Sylvianne, take you out of yourself,, offered Ellen, as she manoeuvred both of their wheelie rubbish bins toward her hose pipe. Sylvianne stopped her attack on the herbage and sat back on her haunches and looked over at Ellen, busy now hosing out the bins.

“A job?” she said blankly, and her mind whirled a bit, a job, really?

“I think it’s time. You need something. You’re still young and yet you are hibernating in this mausoleum of a house. You’re rattling around with nothing but memories to keep you company, and I don’t think it’s healthy for you. If not a job, why not do some volunteering?“

A job?

Syvianne watched Ellen expertly swishing the water around the large wheelies – she did it for her every week without fail. Ellen was such a sprightly soul – and she was what? 75 years old now?

“You’re alone in your house Ellen, you don’t need for anything, ” Sylvianne was studying the older women, who stopped spraying and came over to the small wall marking the boundary between their homes. Ellen pulled hard on her rubber gloves as she thought over what she should say, she decided it was best to be direct.

“I have happy memories in my house Sylvianne, they keep me company in my days, they make me smile. But I have Church work, the Evergreen club, bell ringing practice – I am busy on a daily basis, I get out, see people. But your memories are clouded now with upset and anger – and you are too young to be cloistered away – you don’t look that well. I think it’s time you gave yourself some purpose.”

Sylvianne was listening, but already had started to drift away with her thoughts. Ellen could see that her words had registered something with her neighbour. It was time.

Sylvianne tossed a stubborn plant in to her wheel barrow and got up to empty it all into the compost bin in the corner. A job?

She didn’t need the money, Stockard was still depositing housekeeping in to their current account just as he had always done, he had continued to maintain his financial obligation each month and she had never questioned whether this was either right or permanent.

When she and Stockard had met, she was part way through teacher training at Bishop Grosseteste college in Lincoln, she wouldn’t pretend even now that she had nurtured some life long ambition to be a teacher, she had had some fuzzy, ill defined idea of a future for herself during her A levels, and had thought that being a teacher would be a pleasant enough way to spend her life, moulding young minds, and enjoying lengthy summer holidays. Her decision to teach was based on little more thought than that.

But she and Stockard were married barely 10 weeks after she graduated with her teacher training certificate, and they moved from Lincolnshire with his first of many promotions and relocations during those early years; whatever half formed plan she had had for herself during her study years, none of them seemed to pan out to any extent and the advent of her first pregnancy, quickly on the heels of the marriage vows, really cemented her role as a wife and mother.

She had always balked at any notion that she had wasted her education, after all, it was a well known adage, that to educate a woman ultimately educated an entire family – and she took her roles seriously, no one could have been more conscientious in their application. But the fact was she had done nothing else, and she had never had a paid job in her life.

Not even a Saturday job. A job though, it was a thought!

A thought that was short lived as it turned out.

She had gone to bed that night, wondering what kinds of things she might enjoy, and more practically, what she might be qualified to do in this new high tech age. It was nice to have something to think about, that had nothing to do with the past – and everything to do with some sort of future – even one that was completely imaginary.

The following morning, the post arrived. Flyers for a stair lift, a 3 for 2 Pizza deal and a hand written letter from Stockard.

Sylivianne hated the fact her had shook slightly as she ripped at the envelope and she could hear her heart hammering in her ears.

Stockard’s letter was short, they always were. He asked after her health and hoped she was well – he said that he hoped that time had helped her reassess her life and she was coping – that it was time now he said to discuss the prospect of selling Framling House.