Read Online In a Dry Season by Peter Robinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Robinson
Ads: Link
rules occasionally, Banks had never yet abused his position for his own ends, and even at his lowest ebb he wasnât going to start.
His hatred was unreasonable, he knew, but when was hatred ever reasonable? He had never even met Sean. Besides, if Sandra wanted to pick up some toy boy and take him home to her bed, it was hardly the toy boyâs fault, was it? More likely hers. But reason didnât stop Banks from wanting to kill the bastard.
That night, after several whiskies too many, he had fallen asleep on the sofa as usual, with Dylanâs Blood on the Tracks playing on the CD . Long after the music had finished, he woke from a dream peculiar only for its emotional intensity.
He was sitting alone at a pine table in a kitchen, and sunlight flooded through the open curtains, bathing everything in its warm and honeyed glow. The walls were off-white, with a strip of red tiles over the sink and counter area; matching red canisters for coffee, tea and sugar stood on the white Formica counter-tops, and copper-bottomed pots and pans hung from a wooden rack beside the set of kitchen knives. The clarity of detail was extraordinary; every grain and knothole in the wood, every nuance of light on steel or copper shone with a preternatural brightness. He could even smell the warm pine from the table and the fitted cupboards, the oil on the hinges.
That was it. Nothing happened. Just a dream of light.
But the intense feeling of well-being it gave him, as warm and bright as the sunlight itself, still suffused him when he awoke, disappointed to find himself alone and hung-over on the sofa in the Eastvale semi.
When Sandra decided a few weeks later that their separation was to be permanentâor at least that reconciliation wasnât imminentâthey sold the semi. Sandra got the television and VCR ; Banks got the stereo and the lionâs share of the CD collection. That was fair; he had collected them in the first place. They split the kitchenware, and for some obscure reason, Sandra also took the tin-opener. Books and clothes were easily divided, and they sold most of the furniture. All in all, there hadnât been a hell of a lot to show for more than twenty years of marriage. Even after the sale, Banks didnât care much where or how he lived, until a few weeks in a bed-and-breakfast place straight out of Bill Bryson changed his mind.
He began to seek isolation. When he first saw the cottage from the outside, he didnât think much of it. The view of the dale was terrific, as was the seclusion afforded by the woods, the beck, and the ash grove between the cottage and Gratly itself, but it was a squat, ugly little place that needed a lot of work.
A typical Dales mix of limestone, grit and flag, it had originally been a farm labourerâs cottage. Carved into the gritstone doorhead was the date 1768 and the initials JH , probably the time it was built and the initials of the first owner. Banks wondered who JH was and what had become of him. Mrs Perkins, the present owner, had lost both her two sons and her husband, and she was finally leaving to move in with her sister in Tadcaster.
Inside, the place didnât make much more of an impressionat first, either; it smelled of camphor and mould, and all the furniture and decor seemed dark and dingy. Downstairs was a living-room with a stone fireplace at one end, and upstairs, only two small bedrooms. The bathroom and toilet had been tacked onto the kitchen at the back, as they often were in such old houses. Plumbing was pretty primitive back in 1768 .
Banks was not a believer in visions and prescience, but he would have been a fool to deny that when he walked into the kitchen that day he experienced the same feeling of well-being and peace he had experienced in the dream. It looked different, of course, but he knew it was the same place, the one in his dream.
What it all meant, he had no idea, except that he had to have the cottage.
He didnât think
His hatred was unreasonable, he knew, but when was hatred ever reasonable? He had never even met Sean. Besides, if Sandra wanted to pick up some toy boy and take him home to her bed, it was hardly the toy boyâs fault, was it? More likely hers. But reason didnât stop Banks from wanting to kill the bastard.
That night, after several whiskies too many, he had fallen asleep on the sofa as usual, with Dylanâs Blood on the Tracks playing on the CD . Long after the music had finished, he woke from a dream peculiar only for its emotional intensity.
He was sitting alone at a pine table in a kitchen, and sunlight flooded through the open curtains, bathing everything in its warm and honeyed glow. The walls were off-white, with a strip of red tiles over the sink and counter area; matching red canisters for coffee, tea and sugar stood on the white Formica counter-tops, and copper-bottomed pots and pans hung from a wooden rack beside the set of kitchen knives. The clarity of detail was extraordinary; every grain and knothole in the wood, every nuance of light on steel or copper shone with a preternatural brightness. He could even smell the warm pine from the table and the fitted cupboards, the oil on the hinges.
That was it. Nothing happened. Just a dream of light.
But the intense feeling of well-being it gave him, as warm and bright as the sunlight itself, still suffused him when he awoke, disappointed to find himself alone and hung-over on the sofa in the Eastvale semi.
When Sandra decided a few weeks later that their separation was to be permanentâor at least that reconciliation wasnât imminentâthey sold the semi. Sandra got the television and VCR ; Banks got the stereo and the lionâs share of the CD collection. That was fair; he had collected them in the first place. They split the kitchenware, and for some obscure reason, Sandra also took the tin-opener. Books and clothes were easily divided, and they sold most of the furniture. All in all, there hadnât been a hell of a lot to show for more than twenty years of marriage. Even after the sale, Banks didnât care much where or how he lived, until a few weeks in a bed-and-breakfast place straight out of Bill Bryson changed his mind.
He began to seek isolation. When he first saw the cottage from the outside, he didnât think much of it. The view of the dale was terrific, as was the seclusion afforded by the woods, the beck, and the ash grove between the cottage and Gratly itself, but it was a squat, ugly little place that needed a lot of work.
A typical Dales mix of limestone, grit and flag, it had originally been a farm labourerâs cottage. Carved into the gritstone doorhead was the date 1768 and the initials JH , probably the time it was built and the initials of the first owner. Banks wondered who JH was and what had become of him. Mrs Perkins, the present owner, had lost both her two sons and her husband, and she was finally leaving to move in with her sister in Tadcaster.
Inside, the place didnât make much more of an impressionat first, either; it smelled of camphor and mould, and all the furniture and decor seemed dark and dingy. Downstairs was a living-room with a stone fireplace at one end, and upstairs, only two small bedrooms. The bathroom and toilet had been tacked onto the kitchen at the back, as they often were in such old houses. Plumbing was pretty primitive back in 1768 .
Banks was not a believer in visions and prescience, but he would have been a fool to deny that when he walked into the kitchen that day he experienced the same feeling of well-being and peace he had experienced in the dream. It looked different, of course, but he knew it was the same place, the one in his dream.
What it all meant, he had no idea, except that he had to have the cottage.
He didnât think
Similar Books
