The Inspection

Mr Percival Hemsley took quiet pride in rules, order, and correct procedure, which was unfortunate, as none of them had ever met Rose Cottage.

Mr Hemsley arrived at Rose Cottage four minutes early, because punctuality was a moral stance and also because it gave him time to brace himself for other people.

He stood at the gate, straightened his tie, clipboard tucked beneath his arm, and listened.

Thump.

Thump.

A steady, rhythmic knocking that suggested enthusiasm rather than restraint.

Mr Hemsley frowned. The cottage frowned back. It had been doing so since before roads were agreed upon.

He cleared his throat.

The knocking stopped.

A pause followed.

Then a crash.

“Don’t pull it like that!” shouted a man.

“I told you,” came a woman’s breathless reply, “it needs more support!”

Mr Hemsley adjusted his hat and rang the bell.

The knocking resumed immediately, faster now, accompanied by a groan that made him consider early retirement.

The door flew open.

Mrs Daphne Beecham stood there, flushed, hair escaping its pins, sleeves rolled up and dusted with white chalk and something fibrous.

“Yes?” she said brightly.

Mr Hemsley swallowed.

“I am here for the inspection. Structural integrity. Routine.”

“Oh,” she said. “How unhelpful.”

From inside the house came a long creak.

“It’s slipping again!” shouted the man.

“Hold it!” Mrs Beecham yelled over her shoulder. “For heaven’s sake, don’t let go!”

Mr Hemsley dropped his pen.

“Do come in,” she added cheerfully. “We’re in the middle of something.”

The sitting room looked as though it had been caught mid-apology. Cushions lay everywhere. The coffee table had been dragged to an angle that made Mr Hemsley itch. One chair lay on its back, legs in the air, as though it had surrendered.

He took one step inside.

A loud thud came from above, followed by a drawn-out creak that travelled through the beams like gossip.

“Oh!” cried the man upstairs. “That’s not meant to sway!”

Mr Hemsley froze.

“I must insist,” he began, “that this inspection be conducted under suitable—”

The kitchen door slammed.

Then opened.

Then slammed again.

Mrs Beecham darted in and out, gathering items with mounting urgency.

“Where did I put the harness?” she muttered.

Mr Hemsley stared.

“Harness,” he repeated faintly.

“For support,” she said briskly. “You absolutely cannot do it without support.”

Something banged overhead. The ceiling protested.

Mr Hemsley edged toward the front door.

“I can return,” he squeaked, “when things are less… suspended.”

“Oh no,” Mrs Beecham said, blocking him. “If we stop now, it’ll never settle properly.”

At that moment, the front door opened again.

Inspector Blenkinsop stepped inside.

He was broader, greyer, and carried a clipboard thick with experience. His eyes took in the cushions, the dragged furniture, the ceiling creak, and the faint smell of effort.

“I see,” he said. “We’ve arrived mid… activity.”

Inspector Blenkinsop closed the door behind him with deliberate care.

“Let’s all take a breath,” he said calmly.

Immediately, something upstairs slipped.

“Don’t—!” shouted the man.

A sharp metallic clang followed.

Mrs Beecham clapped her hands. “Right. Nobody move.”

Inspector Blenkinsop glanced at the ceiling, then at the walls, then at the floorboards, which dipped subtly beneath his feet.

“This cottage,” he said slowly, “is older than it looks.”

“Oh much older,” Mrs Beecham said. “It predates sensible measurements.”

Upstairs, the man coughed.

“Daphne?” he called. “We might need the padding.”

Mr Hemsley made a strangled sound.

“The padding,” Inspector Blenkinsop repeated.

“For protection,” Mrs Beecham said briskly. “You can’t risk impact.”

Inspector Blenkinsop stared at her for a moment.

“Of course,” he said. “Impact would be undesirable.”

The kitchen door opened again. Mrs Beecham reappeared with a folded quilt and something that rattled.

“Oh that’s just the carabiner,” she said. “Ignore it.”

Mr Hemsley did not ignore it.

The upstairs door slammed.

“I told you,” the man shouted, “the beam doesn’t like surprises!”

Inspector Blenkinsop rubbed his temple.

“I’m going to ask a question,” he said carefully. “Is anything in this house currently… hanging?”

There was a pause.

Mrs Beecham smiled.

“Temporarily.”

Inspector Blenkinsop closed his eyes.

Mr Hemsley sat down very suddenly on the overturned chair, which collapsed beneath him with a humiliating crack.

Everyone froze.

Inspector Blenkinsop looked at the broken chair.

Then deliberately looked away.

“I didn’t see that,” he said.

The front door opened again.

Mrs Cartwright leaned in.

“I heard banging,” she said.

“Yes,” everyone said.

Mrs Cartwright’s gaze travelled upward, then back to the inspectors.

“Oh,” she breathed. “My cousin had something similar fitted once. Awful noise. Perfectly innocent, though.”

Upstairs, something finally clicked into place.

There was a pause.

Then a soft mechanical hum.

The house held its breath.

Inspector Blenkinsop straightened his tie.

“Well,” he said, “either that’s settled, or we’re about to have paperwork.”

Silence followed.

Deep. Tense. Expectant.

Then Mrs Beecham exhaled.

“There,” she said. “That’s secured.”

Mr Hemsley opened one eye.

Inspector Blenkinsop removed his glasses.

From the landing above, Harold leaned over the banister, sweating, dusty, triumphant.

“Solid,” he announced. “Not going anywhere.”

Mrs Beecham smiled.

“Thank goodness. I was worried it wouldn’t take the weight.”

Inspector Blenkinsop swallowed.

“Weight,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “You never quite know with beams this old.”

She opened the bedroom door.

Inside, bolted neatly into the ceiling beams, perfectly aligned and undeniably respectable, was a ceiling hoist. Beneath it sat a carefully positioned armchair and, beside the bed, a folded walking frame.

No one spoke.

Mr Hemsley looked at the scratches on the table.

The displaced furniture.

The chalked beams.

Then he straightened his hat.

Inspector Blenkinsop coughed.

“Excellent reinforcement,” he said briskly.

Mr Hemsley ticked a box.

“Inspection passed.”

Mrs Beecham smiled, softer now.

“It’ll make things easier,” she said. “Nights especially.”

The inspectors left together.

Halfway down the lane, Mr Hemsley stopped.

“Blenkinsop,” he said quietly, “did we just—”

“No,” said Inspector Blenkinsop. “We did not.”

They walked on.

Back at Rose Cottage, the hoist hummed gently. The beams held.

Which was exactly why the council brochure recommended installing one before inviting inspectors round.