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To accommodate its burgeoning population, 1890s London pushed its railways out into the surrounding countryside, turning what had been villages and fields into suburbs. Those drawn to the capital for work no longer had to live in its crowded slums, and could instead live outside its center and commute. In a frenzy of building of all sorts, the late Victorians and Edwardians expanded the city until it was, briefly, the largest in the world.

Review

“London is an epicenter of change, and a house imbued with increasing human understanding sees much from its place on a hill—a view nostalgic, curmudgeonly, and hopeful. A delightful romp through the changing times of the city and how the residents of one house thrive, cope, or succumb.”

—Gaoler, Amazon reader

Sample chapter: © David Andrew Westwood 2025, all rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

1900s

Now I am becoming accustomed to these creatures living in me, but it is not easy, or comfortable. They feel like some kind of parasite spreading through my rooms. I still don’t particularly like my inhabitants. Not the Wheatstones specifically, but Homo sapiens in general. I was better unoccupied and uncontaminated.

And it is not just their animal persons. If there is one thing that humans are good at, it is filling a house with a jumble of objects to which they have become attached. Carpets and cabinets, armchairs and settees, loveseats and chaises longue, upright pianoforte, tables of every conceivable size, wardrobes and china cabinets, highboys and breakfronts, secretaries and four-posters, shutters and screens, curtains and valances, ottomans and valet stands. And that’s just the furniture. There is an overabundance of smaller items too—picture frames, flower vases, Staffordshire dogs, Toby mugs, photograph albums, umbrella stands, mantel clocks, fruit bowls, candlesticks, sewing machine, framed silhouettes, stuffed birds in glass cases… Each time one of the family leaves they return with something new to add to the collection.

There is apparently no end to the human urge to acquire material possessions, as if you are what you own. It must have started in prehistoric times, with cave dwellers bringing home interesting rocks and chipping out a shelf to put them on. I could almost believe that houses are less for sheltering these creatures and more as a showcase to display their things. Humans are possibly just curators.

All this hodgepodge is what makes each house a home, I suppose, but I don’t like it. I expect humans judge each other by the quality and quantity of the bric-a-brac with which they surround themselves. I miss my pristine state, just the clean lines and empty spaces of freshly-plastered rooms. My walls and windows were unsullied with tobacco and coal smoke, my fireplaces and chimneys unsooted, my rooms uncluttered. But I am stuck with them.

* * *

And decoration. Humans seem to love garnishment and ornamentation. Not content with plain molding and any stark areas of more than a few square inches, they have to adorn it all with some form of arabesque. The wallpaper demands attention, the curtains compete for the eye. The chairs and settee are decorated with carved rococo flourishes and covered in multicolored chintz. It is as if my tenants are afraid any plainness will be equated with poverty. They try overhard to display their social standing to a point at which each item clashes with the others in a visual free-for-all.

Even Frederick, males being less ornamented than females, seems to require refined touches to assert his class. The pinstripes in his three-piece suit, the tie pin, the cufflinks, the watch chain—attached to an ornamented pocket watch, of course.

Even Clementine, stuck inside my rooms for most of her days with no one to admire her, must apparently advertise her wealth with earrings, tiaras, necklaces, rings, bracelets, and brocaded fabrics. Things must shine, apparently, to signal prosperity. I find it overwhelming.

I decide this must be a historical sign of status, a form of class distinction. Everything in Britain revolves around class, from its houses to its railway carriages. This must be extremely important to humans.

* * *

I have discovered sleep. It seems I am really aware only when my inhabitants are too. When they sleep, my consciousness can either retreat to another room where someone is still awake, or go into a kind of limbo itself, to reawaken when they do. This is probably a good thing, since what would I do if I were awake all the time with nothing to do except think? It would be … bedlam.

At night, when my rooms and our surroundings are quiet, there is no one to listen to.  I have no goals, no reminiscences, and as far as I know no deep-seated phobias. I drift, part of the ever-growing city.