We Can Make Something Grow Between the Mushrooms and the Snow

The Mushroom House

This highly-unusual dwelling will make the perfect home for the right occupants. Eco-friendly and ripe for development. Buyer be aware that house is set on a bed of mushrooms with most of the organism below the soil surface, providing a sturdy and constantly-growing base for the structure. The organism’s above-surface aspect forms the walls and roof. Three public rooms, two bedrooms, family bathroom—though these will expand as the organism grows. Damp-proofing recommended.

Richard’s notes: Three seconds in this house, and I feel my body pulse fertile as earth. It’s perfection. We can have children here, I know it. Three, four—eight, ten. As many as we want, no effort at all. What can I say? It’s a house made of sodding mushrooms, and I bloody well love it! I really can’t see a single problem. Where can I sign?

Carolyn’s notes: This is not a house. It’s a pit of rot. The walls are grey and spongy and everything stinks of decomposition. My feet are mired in dirt. Every time I breathe I feel like I’m inhaling spores, invisible things that will wriggle and burrow and grow inside me. I could never work in a place like this. I need space and quiet, cold and clearness. This grimy, mildewed house is the opposite of that. How quickly can I leave?

The Bluebell House

This charming and unique cottage is situated in the centre of a bluebell wood. Previous owner was a witch, but house has been professionally cleaned with bleach and appropriate rituals. Bijoux, but still with all the necessities. Big enough for a family, assuming the family is one person, or multiple people who are very small. Living room, two bedrooms, outdoor bathroom. Good-sized kitchen, particularly the oven.

Richard’s notes: Carolyn wouldn’t take the mushroom house, even though she got pregnant right after we went there—I knew it was a fertile place! I’d happily have stayed there. But hey, marriage is about compromise. It’s creepy to me that a witch lived here. Cast her weird spells and curses, thought her nasty thoughts. For all we know, she cooked stolen children in that oven. The estate agent didn’t say that, but I’ve read the stories. Still, perhaps bringing a child here would be a good thing. Perhaps that would cleanse it. I mean, we’re certainly not going to put any children in the oven! I think we could make a good go of it here.

Carolyn’s notes: The flowers on the ground here are thick as dust. The second I got near the house, I was choking on pollen. But I’m trying. I even brought my supplies to see if I could do some work, just as a test. He just goes on whether or not he likes the place, but for me it’s more complicated than that. If I can’t work, I can’t earn, and we’ll lose whatever house we’re in. I left him talking to the estate agent and tried to work. Nothing came. I can’t breathe. The pollen is inside me.

But for me it’s more complicated than that. If I can’t work, I can’t earn, and we’ll lose whatever house we’re in.

The Cave House

Sturdy roof and walls. Open aspect to the front, interior fully open-plan. Easily maintained. Free food and water sources in the form of lichens, mosses, and a nearby stream. A fixer-upper, ideal for an enthusiastic and motivated buyer.

Richard’s notes: It’s a cave. Literally a cave. And I don’t know what she wants, but to be honest I’ll stay in any godforsaken hole that pleases her as long as she can be happy with me and our child. She’s grown so much bigger over the past few months, and the baby will be here before we know it. Even she must see that modern people don’t raise babies in caves. A fucking cave! She can’t possibly want it.

Carolyn’s notes: This place is better than the others. Fewer distractions. There are horses in the field nearby, which I like. One of my chapters is about Icelanders’ conversion to Christianity in the year 1000. They had to follow the religion, obviously, but they were allowed three exceptions. One was the eating of horse-meat—luckily for that horse, we’re not Icelandic. The other exceptions were ritual scarification carried out in secret, and bera út, abandoning a child in nature to die of exposure. I’ve tried to tell Richard so many times but he doesn’t think it’s interesting. Anyway, I don’t think this is the right house for us.

The Bird House

Spacious and airy, complete with open skylight. Fantastic views. Comes as seen, trunk and all attached branches included, as well as any feathers. Birds may return to lay eggs, meaning an environmentally-friendly and organic food source for owners. 

Richard’s notes: This is getting ridiculous. We’re eight months in and she’s enormous, almost past walking. How is she supposed to get up and down a tree? It would be impossible to attach any sort of decent ladder to the trunk, it’s so spindly. And that’s not even mentioning a child who’ll be crawling in no time—right off the branch, no doubt, and what then? And what are we supposed to do when it rains? I need to put my foot down. Or, at least, I would if it wouldn’t snap the branch we’re standing on.

Carolyn’s notes: This is closer. This is better. I need light and air and space and solitude. I need to be able to move, to think. It’s not just for me, it’s not selfishness. We won’t get any more of my advance money until I finish the book. I have to support us all, and I can’t do that in the dark and the earth and the foetid heat. This is nice—open, airy. The twigs are a bit scratchy but there are plenty of feathers and they’re very soft. Of course they're soft; that’s what people stuff duvets and cushions with. The baby will soon need a home that isn’t me, and what could be more perfect than a literal feather bed? We’re not quite there, but we’re near.

I need light and air and space and solitude. I need to be able to move, to think.

The Island House

This cosy and charming wooden structure is set on its own island. Structure in fact covers the whole island, which is compact and ideally-situated in a peaceful and secluded part of the ocean. Ideal for the homeowner who likes their own space.

Richard’s notes: Look, I’ll admit that it sounded good when the estate agent said we could live on our own island. But when I imagine island life, I do imagine that I’ll be able to actually walk on the island. You know what I’m picturing: a beach, some trees, maybe some green patches for chickens or sheep. This one is so tiny that you can’t leave the house without stepping into the ocean. It’s not even a calm, blue, tropical sort of ocean—it’s grey and choppy and every other wave crashes into the outer walls. I can’t believe this is what she wants. The baby is only a few weeks old, and as we’re looking around the house I swear she’s eyeing up places she could put him down.

Carolyn’s notes: What was my life before? What was it like to arrange my time the way I chose? What was it like to be able to hear my own breathing? Three weeks, and I can barely remember. It needs so much. It wants so much. I thought if I could go away, away, away—to an island, no one else there—then I could work. But there will never again be a place with no one else there. I could be on the other side of the world and I would still hear him cry for me in the night. His tiny mouth, never full, never silent.

The Glacier House

A spacious, secluded, one-of-a-kind property created from a much-sought-after glacier. Fully open-plan with far-reaching views to all sides: front, back, top, and bottom (when over deep water). Currently three bedrooms, though further rooms can be carved out.

Richard’s notes: Why on earth would she even consider this? Dragging us up to the hinterlands, so far fucking north I feel like we’re about to tip off the map. I get that her book is on northern cultures, but come on! She wants to go from a northern country, to a further northern country, and then when she’s in that country she wants to go even further? I mean, Christ, why don’t we just move to the middle of the Arctic and call it quits? Not only is this house on the ice, it’s made of ice—beds and sofas and tables and chairs made of ice. There are no walls. There is no roof. I can’t believe she’d even suggest bringing our child here. The wee guy will freeze to death in about three seconds. I’m freezing to death in about three seconds, and I’m a bloody adult, with enough body fat to shame a seal. I can’t live here. He can’t live here. God, I miss the mushrooms.

Carolyn’s notes: Three seconds in this house, and I feel my mind flash clear. It’s perfection. I can work here, I know it. I love this glacier: the chill, the cleanse of it. We’re taking this house. It’s everything I need. I think of the horses, of the ritual scarring, of the cold. There are rules to the world, I know. But perhaps there can be exceptions. I don’t need three, only one. We’ll take it. Are you listening? I’ll take it.