Read Online Afterwards by Rachel Seiffert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rachel Seiffert
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mind for them to do together.
They waded under the trees to escape the sun, boots off, silt between their toes. Calf-deep water and slow, cool progress. The banks got steeper: twisted walls of root that they scaled, scrambling on elbows and knees, emerging smiling, blinking from the trees at the foot of the chalky rise. Joseph said it was still possible to find empty places, pointed east as they were climbing, told her about the country beyond the ridges and woodland, where the marshes started: wilder parts. He’d spent a lot of time down there a few years back, before he went to Portugal: every chance he got. Alice walked behind him up the slope, watching his arms and shoulders moving as he spoke. Enjoying his talk, this time with him, the invitation in what he was saying. The prospect of more time to come, over where he was pointing maybe, winter days together, like the ones he was describing, out on the empty coast.
– Smuggler territory, used to be. Best when the geese are flying and the low fields are flooded.
It was perfectly still at the top, only her own and Joseph’s breathing, standing, shoulders touching, squinting down at the quiet, yellow country. The sun had burnt off the haze by then and they could see out across the escarpment, as far as the dark band of the Channel. In the morning they went down to the sea, although it was already clouding over. They had the far end of the beach to themselves and made the best of it. Swam out beyond the breakers, then ate biscuits and apples for breakfast on the sand, because that’s all they had left. They were late packing their things up, even later back into London, and then the traffic slowed when the weather turned, raindriving everyone into their cars. Joseph had to drop Alice at a station so she could get to her grandad’s in time. She almost invited him to come along, but then apologised.
– I’d feel a bit bad, springing it on him, you know?
– Don’t worry about it. I’ll just see you tomorrow, will I?
The rain continued into the afternoon. Fell hard and steady, spattering off the patio and against the French windows, so Alice and her grandfather sat at the dining table with their cups of tea. She’d mentioned Joseph before, perhaps once or twice, and her grandad had shown polite interest. No more or less than with any of her boyfriends, but today he said he’d appreciate Joseph’s advice.
– I want to have the house decorated. Some of the rooms. I’d like to be sure I’m paying a good price.
– Which rooms?
– In here. The hallway. Our bedroom upstairs.
Alice knew those had been her grandmother’s plans: she’d wanted to have them done last summer, but then she got too unwell. Alice’s grandfather got up from the table, motioned to her to stay in her seat. He got a folder out of the drawers by the window, and held it up to show her as he came back across the room. He spread the contents out on the table, pushing the tray and the biscuits away. Alice cleared the cups and plates for him as he laid out the colour charts, and then she sat down while he arranged the wallpaper swatches, hand-drawn sketches of the rooms, her grandmother’s notes and arrows of explanation on the pencil walls. Alice picked up the picture of the hallway, eyes moving across the page, taking in her gran’s lines and words. Her grandfatherwas still standing, so she got up again and moved to the top end of the table next to him, watching while he pointed to each item and explained it in turn.
– This was the paper she chose for the hallway, and this for in here. That’s to be painted, of course. White with a hint of something. Here: cream, I’d call it. Same for the bedroom.
– And a new runner for the hall.
– Yes. We thought about carpet out there, but it’s the original tiling, so we decided to keep it that way.
– Yes. I would too.
– Yes?
He nodded at her briefly, approving. Most of the other houses on the street had new porches and
They waded under the trees to escape the sun, boots off, silt between their toes. Calf-deep water and slow, cool progress. The banks got steeper: twisted walls of root that they scaled, scrambling on elbows and knees, emerging smiling, blinking from the trees at the foot of the chalky rise. Joseph said it was still possible to find empty places, pointed east as they were climbing, told her about the country beyond the ridges and woodland, where the marshes started: wilder parts. He’d spent a lot of time down there a few years back, before he went to Portugal: every chance he got. Alice walked behind him up the slope, watching his arms and shoulders moving as he spoke. Enjoying his talk, this time with him, the invitation in what he was saying. The prospect of more time to come, over where he was pointing maybe, winter days together, like the ones he was describing, out on the empty coast.
– Smuggler territory, used to be. Best when the geese are flying and the low fields are flooded.
It was perfectly still at the top, only her own and Joseph’s breathing, standing, shoulders touching, squinting down at the quiet, yellow country. The sun had burnt off the haze by then and they could see out across the escarpment, as far as the dark band of the Channel. In the morning they went down to the sea, although it was already clouding over. They had the far end of the beach to themselves and made the best of it. Swam out beyond the breakers, then ate biscuits and apples for breakfast on the sand, because that’s all they had left. They were late packing their things up, even later back into London, and then the traffic slowed when the weather turned, raindriving everyone into their cars. Joseph had to drop Alice at a station so she could get to her grandad’s in time. She almost invited him to come along, but then apologised.
– I’d feel a bit bad, springing it on him, you know?
– Don’t worry about it. I’ll just see you tomorrow, will I?
The rain continued into the afternoon. Fell hard and steady, spattering off the patio and against the French windows, so Alice and her grandfather sat at the dining table with their cups of tea. She’d mentioned Joseph before, perhaps once or twice, and her grandad had shown polite interest. No more or less than with any of her boyfriends, but today he said he’d appreciate Joseph’s advice.
– I want to have the house decorated. Some of the rooms. I’d like to be sure I’m paying a good price.
– Which rooms?
– In here. The hallway. Our bedroom upstairs.
Alice knew those had been her grandmother’s plans: she’d wanted to have them done last summer, but then she got too unwell. Alice’s grandfather got up from the table, motioned to her to stay in her seat. He got a folder out of the drawers by the window, and held it up to show her as he came back across the room. He spread the contents out on the table, pushing the tray and the biscuits away. Alice cleared the cups and plates for him as he laid out the colour charts, and then she sat down while he arranged the wallpaper swatches, hand-drawn sketches of the rooms, her grandmother’s notes and arrows of explanation on the pencil walls. Alice picked up the picture of the hallway, eyes moving across the page, taking in her gran’s lines and words. Her grandfatherwas still standing, so she got up again and moved to the top end of the table next to him, watching while he pointed to each item and explained it in turn.
– This was the paper she chose for the hallway, and this for in here. That’s to be painted, of course. White with a hint of something. Here: cream, I’d call it. Same for the bedroom.
– And a new runner for the hall.
– Yes. We thought about carpet out there, but it’s the original tiling, so we decided to keep it that way.
– Yes. I would too.
– Yes?
He nodded at her briefly, approving. Most of the other houses on the street had new porches and
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