Read Online The House at the Edge of the World by Julia Rochester - Free Book Online
Authors: Julia Rochester
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choice.’
‘Yes, we do. We have a
choice!’
Corwin’s calm assumption that he and I
would decay and die at Thornton whispered dread into my ear. A world twenty-four miles
in diameter might be sufficient for Matthew, but not for me. Until that moment,
Matthew’s map had always been an endearing eccentricity: one man’s one
painting, never to be completed. ‘A whole world is contained here,’ he
preached. ‘Sufficient for a lifetime of discovery.’ And then he would wave
his walking stick at some shy patch of colour in the hedgerow, and shout,
‘What’s that, then?’ And, when we didn’t know, we were like the
unbelievers in
Peter Pan
: somewhere, the flower of a rare fleabane or speedwell
wilted on its stalk; Matthew heard its dying scream. ‘You are appalling
children,’ he would say good-naturedly. ‘Ignorant as stone! Which might be
excusable, if you possessed any curiosity whatsoever!’ Now, for the first time, I
saw the map as perhaps Mum saw it: slightly sinister – as if he wrought some subtle
magic in the unending painting of it that bound us to Thornton.
‘This is an absurd
conversation,’ I snapped. ‘Stop it!’
‘OK!’ said Corwin, and stood up,
pulling me to my feet after him. We picked up our bikes. ‘Still want to go
back?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s
carry on. It’s time to face humanity.’
Mum returned from Jane’s composed and
generous, just after our A level results came out. ‘Darlings,’ she said.
‘I’m so proud of you!’ Her hair was a silky chestnut bob and she had
acquired ajacket with shoulder pads. ‘I really had been letting
myself go,’ she confided to me. ‘You know, your father never exactly
embraced change. And now you’re leaving!’ she added, startlingly.
‘It’s a good thing, darling. Really. I should have persuaded your father to
move. I wasn’t doing any of us any favours by being so biddable.’
Corwin and I suspected Jane of arranging for
some doctor to prescribe anti-depressants for Mum, and we went through her things one
afternoon when she had gone into town, and through her handbag when she returned, but we
found no evidence to support our theory.
Matthew had resumed his evening walks to the
sea. Time was pooling into the space left by my father. Soon that space would fill and I
would not have mourned him. The thought filled me with panic. Mum and Matthew were still
standing off over the memorial service. Corwin began to pack for India.
‘There’s something wrong with
us,’ I said. In the kitchen Mum hummed along to a couple of bars of the
Archers
theme tune. ‘It’s because he’s not at
rest,’ I said. ‘There’s a reason people have funerals. You have to
send their souls across.’
‘Across what?’ asked Corwin.
‘Across whatever is between us and the
other side, wherever that is.’ I imagined a flaming boat on a still tide.
‘We need a ceremony,’ I said.
‘I can’t bear to think of his soul being stuck.’ At the bottom of the
sea, I thought, entangled in seaweed.
Corwin rolled up a pair of patched jeans and
stuffed them into the battered old Karrimor rucksack that had been the crowning gift of
Christmas 1983. ‘I don’t believe in it,’ he said.
‘In what?’
‘In any of it – the after-life, the
soul. And neither, incidentally, did Dad.’
‘Yes, he did! He believed in the soul,
at least. He thought everything had a soul.’
‘No, he
didn’t,’ said Corwin. ‘He believed in some overarching principle of
nature, but not in individual souls.’
‘That’s it, then? We just leave?
I can’t bear it,’ I shouted. ‘I can’t bear the nothingness of
it. There’s something wrong with us!’
‘Why do you keep saying that?
You’re getting hysterical. There’s nothing wrong with us!’
But there was. ‘I think it’s a
good thing we’re going our separate ways,’ I yelled, and ran
‘Yes, we do. We have a
choice!’
Corwin’s calm assumption that he and I
would decay and die at Thornton whispered dread into my ear. A world twenty-four miles
in diameter might be sufficient for Matthew, but not for me. Until that moment,
Matthew’s map had always been an endearing eccentricity: one man’s one
painting, never to be completed. ‘A whole world is contained here,’ he
preached. ‘Sufficient for a lifetime of discovery.’ And then he would wave
his walking stick at some shy patch of colour in the hedgerow, and shout,
‘What’s that, then?’ And, when we didn’t know, we were like the
unbelievers in
Peter Pan
: somewhere, the flower of a rare fleabane or speedwell
wilted on its stalk; Matthew heard its dying scream. ‘You are appalling
children,’ he would say good-naturedly. ‘Ignorant as stone! Which might be
excusable, if you possessed any curiosity whatsoever!’ Now, for the first time, I
saw the map as perhaps Mum saw it: slightly sinister – as if he wrought some subtle
magic in the unending painting of it that bound us to Thornton.
‘This is an absurd
conversation,’ I snapped. ‘Stop it!’
‘OK!’ said Corwin, and stood up,
pulling me to my feet after him. We picked up our bikes. ‘Still want to go
back?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s
carry on. It’s time to face humanity.’
Mum returned from Jane’s composed and
generous, just after our A level results came out. ‘Darlings,’ she said.
‘I’m so proud of you!’ Her hair was a silky chestnut bob and she had
acquired ajacket with shoulder pads. ‘I really had been letting
myself go,’ she confided to me. ‘You know, your father never exactly
embraced change. And now you’re leaving!’ she added, startlingly.
‘It’s a good thing, darling. Really. I should have persuaded your father to
move. I wasn’t doing any of us any favours by being so biddable.’
Corwin and I suspected Jane of arranging for
some doctor to prescribe anti-depressants for Mum, and we went through her things one
afternoon when she had gone into town, and through her handbag when she returned, but we
found no evidence to support our theory.
Matthew had resumed his evening walks to the
sea. Time was pooling into the space left by my father. Soon that space would fill and I
would not have mourned him. The thought filled me with panic. Mum and Matthew were still
standing off over the memorial service. Corwin began to pack for India.
‘There’s something wrong with
us,’ I said. In the kitchen Mum hummed along to a couple of bars of the
Archers
theme tune. ‘It’s because he’s not at
rest,’ I said. ‘There’s a reason people have funerals. You have to
send their souls across.’
‘Across what?’ asked Corwin.
‘Across whatever is between us and the
other side, wherever that is.’ I imagined a flaming boat on a still tide.
‘We need a ceremony,’ I said.
‘I can’t bear to think of his soul being stuck.’ At the bottom of the
sea, I thought, entangled in seaweed.
Corwin rolled up a pair of patched jeans and
stuffed them into the battered old Karrimor rucksack that had been the crowning gift of
Christmas 1983. ‘I don’t believe in it,’ he said.
‘In what?’
‘In any of it – the after-life, the
soul. And neither, incidentally, did Dad.’
‘Yes, he did! He believed in the soul,
at least. He thought everything had a soul.’
‘No, he
didn’t,’ said Corwin. ‘He believed in some overarching principle of
nature, but not in individual souls.’
‘That’s it, then? We just leave?
I can’t bear it,’ I shouted. ‘I can’t bear the nothingness of
it. There’s something wrong with us!’
‘Why do you keep saying that?
You’re getting hysterical. There’s nothing wrong with us!’
But there was. ‘I think it’s a
good thing we’re going our separate ways,’ I yelled, and ran
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