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When Jasmine and Ben moved into their new house they joked with each other over what they should call it. While no longer young the couple were not yet old and decided against ‘Dunroamin’ (‘done roaming’) as they felt there was still ample time for future trips to Australia, Brazil, or China perhaps, while ‘Hersanmine’ (‘Hers and Mine’) also sounded a little too eternal. Still, it was a big, solid, detached house and while they did not believe that its road number – 13 - was in any way unlucky, its stature and Victorian elegance seemed to demand a title. Finally, because Jasmine and Ben were newly married and had moved from the city to the coast for some peace and privacy, they decided on ‘The Next House’, in the hope that this would divert all but the most determined of visitors.
The Next House was in a town on a remote stretch of Northeast England’s coast and the winds that whipped in from the sea scattered sand into the pavement cracks outside. Although Ben had always liked the coast he had never witnessed it during winter and certainly never found tiny grains of it in his hair, ears and sandwiches before. Jasmine tried to sort out the garden, anticipating Spring, but was put off again and again by the incessant gusts that seemed to benefit only the scavenging seabirds, gliding inland to make their mischief. Still, our newlyweds were happy enough indoors. An old-fashioned coal fire would be lit every night as they compared their workdays, read paperback novels or watched their favourite black-and-white films.
In April, Jasmine had some news.
‘I’m pregnant!’ she bellowed down the stairs to a startled Ben.
‘That’s wonderful!’ he called up, dropping the weekly shopping and running upstairs to embrace his wife.
‘Looks like someone’s discovered where we are’, she said, shining with happiness.
The summer brought changeable weather as the couple’s circumstances evolved. Ben went for a promotion at work and from Assistant Project Co-ordinator he became Regional Acquisitions Manager without being entirely sure what either title meant. But he certainly had more money and they went down to the beach to drink champagne and orange juice until a shower drove them back laughing towards the wind-smoothed sandstone of the house. Sinking into an armchair and patting her large belly, Jasmine wondered aloud,
‘What are we going to call this little Miss or Mister?’
Through the autumn they wracked their brains, trying to think of a name for their son or daughter-to-be. Ben suggested the first names of a trio of his favourite football players – Eric, Paulo, Ole-Gunnar - while Jasmine listed those of the female novelists – Katherine, Zadie, Joyce-Carol - who had inspired her most. They also looked back at old family names but decided they would only be back in fashion in time for their children to name their grandchildren.
Another couple, Marcia and Adam, came to visit the Next House over Halloween. Jasmine had gone to University with Marcia but, swinging open the door, she barely recognized the extremely organized woman she had become. Back then they’d had adjacent rooms in halls of residence and whichever of them failed to oversleep would hammer on the other’s door to shake them awake for breakfast. Now it was hard to believe that this honey-haired vision in a pearl-coloured dress, designer luggage at her feet and businessman husband by her side, had ever been irresponsible enough not to set an alarm clock.
‘Of course our kids are both at boarding school now. With them out of the way we can live eight months of the year at our villa in France.’
‘No matter how often I shave,’ Adam was telling Ben, ‘I always have this five o’ clock shadow,’ and he rubbed his chin gravely.
‘Adam,’ instructed Marcia, ‘please shut up.’
Everyone touched Jasmine’s bump for luck as they settled round the fire for the night.
‘It’s going to be a big one’, said her old friend.
‘No I’m not.’
Jasmine froze, looked around the room for the source of the strange yet familiar young voice, but there was no child to be seen. Even Squeaky the cat was fast asleep on top of the television. No-one else had reacted to the unidentified voice so Jasmine decided that it must be something to do with her condition and wished the doctors had told her more.
‘Ah, it’s good to get away from work isn’t it?’ Adam sighed contentedly and took a gulp of wine.
‘Certainly is. We’re so cut off here. Perfect.’ Ben replied, raising his glass.
Reclining on the sofa and about to close her eyes contentedly, Jasmine heard Marcia suddenly erupt with enthusiasm:
‘Let’s go down to the beach, it’s Halloween after all, we need to frighten ourselves a little.’
‘Why?’ the men protested in unison.
‘Come on Jasmine, we were so crazy back in ’92, this is just what we would have done.’
Somewhere beneath the power of her enormous groan Jasmine could again hear a tiny voice, this time saying,
‘Yes mummy, let’s go!’
The sea was very rough down at the front but someone had started a fire and the four began walking towards the sliver of beach it was illuminating. Jasmine looked uncomfortable.
‘Is it kicking you again, Jasmine?’ asked Marcia.
‘I’m pretty sure He is a He.’
‘Why don’t you name the little brat in the same way as the house – the Next Child? Then no-one will give him any attention!’
‘Tell her to shut up,’ said the voice.
‘Please, Marcia, I’m fine thank you,’ said Jasmine hurriedly.
Their husbands had been walking a few paces ahead but now they were slowing to a standstill twenty yards from the fire, pausing to squint into the half-darkness. Around the fire could be seen small, indistinguishable shapes, emitting high pitched laughter as they ducked in and out of the shadows that formed around the crackling wood.
‘I’m Sammy’ one seemed to shout. ‘I’m Fred’ screeched another, before dissolving into giggles.
Then, loudly and unmistakably from Jasmine’s belly, a high but steady voice announced,
‘I’m James Marcus Mohammed Elijah Bep!’
And with that they all rushed back to the house as fast as they could through the sand.
The next morning Adam, while shaving, heard Marcia having a long phone conversation with their son Jake and smiled. She only hung up when it was time to call their daughter who was at a different school, for girls. Meanwhile Ben was helping Jasmine prepare a large breakfast downstairs.
‘Amazing, quite amazing,’ he was saying, ‘James he is then. I guess we have no choice.’
‘It’s certainly shut him up for a while,’ said Jasmine, ‘maybe we can have a quiet, leisurely time together now.’
Marcia came into the dining room.
‘Thanks so much for the use of the phone. They’re both so well. You know, next year I wonder if the kids wouldn’t be better off at a school closer to us, in London.’
‘Sit down Marcia, coffee?’ offered Ben.
Looking round the room with its high ceilings, crimson walls, and large, unblinking windows, their guest couldn’t help comment,
‘The Next House, how clever. An anonymous name for a solid, secure, unthinking building.’
A rumbling suddenly began to shake the plates and cutlery on the old oak table. Upstairs Adam had to stop shaving and wondered aloud, ‘An earthquake, here?’
Then, rising from the very foundations of the house, in a deep and ancient voice, came an instruction they could not ignore.
‘I am not the Next House! I am the thirteenth guardian of this street of human souls, big and small!’
Jasmine and Ben looked at each other and gulped. Whatever next?
‘But you may call me Edward, or Eddie for short.’
And with that they were left to their breakfast.
THE END
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