Read Online Body Line by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cynthia Harrod-Eagles
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wisdom of not being involved.
‘And he gave up his home and his garden and everything. The garden here’s a fraction the size.’
‘Flagellate away,’ Atherton said. ‘I know you need it. Just remember he was all alone, day after day, stuck out there in the middle of nowhere—’
‘Essex,’ Slider corrected.
‘Same thing – hardly seeing a soul.’
‘Oh, thanks. Now I feel guilty about neglecting him before. Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to pop up and see George.’
He trod up the still-uncarpeted stairs, trying not to echo like a mastodon in a drill hall. The house did not yet feel like home, but his senses were soothed by the Edwardian proportions, and the fine detailing which, miraculously, had not been ripped out in the dread days of the seventies’ home improvement. The house had been quite a stroke of luck, for even with all Dad’s money it was not easy to find a place with a separate flat or ‘granny annexe’ attached, in the right place and at the right price. It had been a probate sale: an old lady who had lived there most of her married life and died alone, with only a son in New Zealand who wanted the money rather than the property. The separate quarters were in an extension added in the eighties to be let separately and create an income, but which latterly had been occupied by the old lady’s companion-stroke-housekeeper.
It needed a certain amount of updating and decorating, but they couldn’t afford to do that yet. They couldn’t even afford properly to furnish it. It was so much bigger than Joanna’s one-bedroom flat, where he had been living with her; and the family furniture from his marriage with Irene had been disposed of long ago. So there was too little in it yet to make it cosy. But they had done their best with the sitting-room, buying a Turkish-style carpet to cover the bare floorboards, opening up the fireplace and arranging Joanna’s saggy old sofa and two disreputable armchairs around it.
Dad had his own furniture in his own quarters, of course, and he’d given them one or two pieces that wouldn’t fit in; and he had found a wonderful second-hand furniture store where they sold ‘Utility’ furniture from the forties. The style of it was out of fashion, which was why it was cheap, but it was well made and of solid wood, and only wanted ‘a bit of buffing up’ as Dad called it. A solid oak extendable dining table, bought for ten pounds, rubbed down, stained and varnished, was a handsomer thing than any skimpy Ikea make-do, and a fraction of the price.
Mr Slider had done everything he could to make Bill and Joanna comfortable. As well as looking after George while they were at work he had turned his quiet, capable hands to a spot of repairing and decorating, as if he had to be grateful to them , rather than vice versa.
In the baby’s room, Slider’s latest son was asleep in his cot. By the small light from the hall through the open door, he could see his rosy face, the faint sheen of moisture on the delicate eyelids, the gently parted lips, the madly ruffled hair. George didn’t sleep curled up like his other children at that age: he was sprawled on his back, arms outflung, legs straight, fists lightly clenched, as though prepared to go three rounds with sleep before it got him. He hated to miss anything. He had thrown the covers off in his energetic struggle against unconsciousness. It was cold in the room. Slider lifted them gently back over the boy; and had a sudden flash of waking once in his own childhood to find his father doing the same thing. Ah, the massive continuity of fatherhood!
Downstairs again, the sitting-room was deliciously warm from the fire, which was at the red and glowing stage. Slider put on some more smokeless fuel and roused it up with a poker, and he and Atherton stood over it, warming their hands. Slider was remembering an exchange he had had with his father a week or so ago. He had got back from work one evening when
‘And he gave up his home and his garden and everything. The garden here’s a fraction the size.’
‘Flagellate away,’ Atherton said. ‘I know you need it. Just remember he was all alone, day after day, stuck out there in the middle of nowhere—’
‘Essex,’ Slider corrected.
‘Same thing – hardly seeing a soul.’
‘Oh, thanks. Now I feel guilty about neglecting him before. Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to pop up and see George.’
He trod up the still-uncarpeted stairs, trying not to echo like a mastodon in a drill hall. The house did not yet feel like home, but his senses were soothed by the Edwardian proportions, and the fine detailing which, miraculously, had not been ripped out in the dread days of the seventies’ home improvement. The house had been quite a stroke of luck, for even with all Dad’s money it was not easy to find a place with a separate flat or ‘granny annexe’ attached, in the right place and at the right price. It had been a probate sale: an old lady who had lived there most of her married life and died alone, with only a son in New Zealand who wanted the money rather than the property. The separate quarters were in an extension added in the eighties to be let separately and create an income, but which latterly had been occupied by the old lady’s companion-stroke-housekeeper.
It needed a certain amount of updating and decorating, but they couldn’t afford to do that yet. They couldn’t even afford properly to furnish it. It was so much bigger than Joanna’s one-bedroom flat, where he had been living with her; and the family furniture from his marriage with Irene had been disposed of long ago. So there was too little in it yet to make it cosy. But they had done their best with the sitting-room, buying a Turkish-style carpet to cover the bare floorboards, opening up the fireplace and arranging Joanna’s saggy old sofa and two disreputable armchairs around it.
Dad had his own furniture in his own quarters, of course, and he’d given them one or two pieces that wouldn’t fit in; and he had found a wonderful second-hand furniture store where they sold ‘Utility’ furniture from the forties. The style of it was out of fashion, which was why it was cheap, but it was well made and of solid wood, and only wanted ‘a bit of buffing up’ as Dad called it. A solid oak extendable dining table, bought for ten pounds, rubbed down, stained and varnished, was a handsomer thing than any skimpy Ikea make-do, and a fraction of the price.
Mr Slider had done everything he could to make Bill and Joanna comfortable. As well as looking after George while they were at work he had turned his quiet, capable hands to a spot of repairing and decorating, as if he had to be grateful to them , rather than vice versa.
In the baby’s room, Slider’s latest son was asleep in his cot. By the small light from the hall through the open door, he could see his rosy face, the faint sheen of moisture on the delicate eyelids, the gently parted lips, the madly ruffled hair. George didn’t sleep curled up like his other children at that age: he was sprawled on his back, arms outflung, legs straight, fists lightly clenched, as though prepared to go three rounds with sleep before it got him. He hated to miss anything. He had thrown the covers off in his energetic struggle against unconsciousness. It was cold in the room. Slider lifted them gently back over the boy; and had a sudden flash of waking once in his own childhood to find his father doing the same thing. Ah, the massive continuity of fatherhood!
Downstairs again, the sitting-room was deliciously warm from the fire, which was at the red and glowing stage. Slider put on some more smokeless fuel and roused it up with a poker, and he and Atherton stood over it, warming their hands. Slider was remembering an exchange he had had with his father a week or so ago. He had got back from work one evening when
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