Carrie leant the brush against the counter and checked the room again. Cardboard was stacked neatly in one corner, bubble wrap in a heap next to it and the twelve black bin bags of crap from twenty years neglect were by the door.
She sighed and dusted her hands off. Not bad for the first day.
The fading sunlight tumbled in through the stain-glass windows as she pattered towards the door.
‘De-consecrated,’ she murmured. ‘Just another word for abandoned.’
She spun and eyed up the old alter, broken and grimy with dirt. She smiled.
“Your grandfather used to run coal up and down this canal,” said Elizabeth’s grandmother, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her coat and they squidged through the muddy footpath side by side.
“My father was a farmer just over there. One day there was a knock on the door. There he was, covered in soot and wrestling this poor, soaked ewe into submission on the doorstep. Well he looks up at me and says mam, you need to fix your bloody fence. The canal is not a ship dip trough.