Read Online The House at the Edge of the World by Julia Rochester - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julia Rochester
Ads: Link
on a quest – for his personal Holy Grail, his perfect fifteen
acres.’
This raised an affectionate melancholy
laugh, but it was unfortunate. The closest my father and Matthew had ever come to a row
was two years earlier, when Matthew insisted on selling off the remaining acres of what
had once been Thornton Farm to the farmer who leased them from him, and who promptly
acquired planning permission to build a caravan site. My father had always harboured
ideas that he would farm them himself one day. It was not a realistic dream. Mum never
believed that he could make it work. In the dry-eyed front pew, I took Matthew’s
hand and squeezed it. But at the same time I caught a glimpse of something dark and
formless, the beginning of a thought that I could not yet complete.
A procession of people passed into our house
and before my eyes in a jumbling of fragments of my childhood that made me feel, for a
moment, as if I were the one moving into the next world with my life unfolding before
me. I was hugged in turn by Willow, Mickey and Oliver, who would, or could, not stop
crying, perhaps, I thought, because he felt it his duty to cry on my behalf. He sobbed
on my shoulder: ‘I really loved your father!’ I had had no idea. I could not
imagine when he had had the opportunity to love my father. Corwin chatted with Sandra
Stowe, which was a gross betrayal. Sandra and I were old, old enemies. She probably
couldn’t remember why any more than I could. As soon as I had the opportunity I
hissed at Corwin, ‘What’s
she
doing here?’
‘She was fond of Dad.’
‘What do you mean she was fond of Dad?
She didn’t even know Dad!’
Clearly, Corwin had slept with her when I
was not payingattention. ‘Of course she did,’ said Corwin.
‘She used to come over with her dad when we were small. Try and be
nice!’
‘She was a little thug!’
‘No. You were a little thug – you used
to beat everyone up with words.’
‘She started the whole “Morwenna
the witch” thing.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Corwin.
‘And if she did, you probably provoked her. Anyway, you were both about
seven!’
‘Well, I’ll give her one thing.
She’s not pig-faced and pregnant yet. Although it can only be a matter of
time.’
When most of the guests had left we sneaked
up to our rooms with our friends. Mickey sat drunkenly on the floor next to
Corwin’s record player, putting on songs and taking them off again before they
were finished. He was trying to find the definitive song, the one that would suspend the
moment in amber, but he failed.
Oliver, I thought, had left early, but the
next morning when, after a restless sleep, I went down at six, I found him in the
kitchen making tea.
‘I thought you’d
gone.’
‘I crashed on your sofa,’ he
said. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Of course I
don’t.’
Oliver’s face was full of concern for
me. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Fine. I think,’ I said.
‘Yesterday was nice …’ I corrected myself, ‘I mean, it was what it
ought to have been, don’t you think?’
He nodded, but in a slightly masculine,
disapproving way. My answer had been inadequate.
‘When are you off?’ I asked.
‘Thursday.’
‘Wait there,’ I said.
‘I’ve got something for you.’
Oliver had not been in the room when I had
handed out myleaving presents. I went upstairs, retrieved the last
accordion book and put it into his hands. He gently pulled on the slender ribbon that
held the pages in place, and unfolded it on the kitchen table. His eyes scanned the
verses. When he looked up they were tearful.
‘Don’t be sad for us,
Oliver,’ I said, because he couldn’t speak. ‘We’ll be all
right.’
‘It’s lovely,’ he said
finally. He smiled. ‘It’s our childhood.’
I was pleased. You could always trust Oliver
to understand the important point. He
acres.’
This raised an affectionate melancholy
laugh, but it was unfortunate. The closest my father and Matthew had ever come to a row
was two years earlier, when Matthew insisted on selling off the remaining acres of what
had once been Thornton Farm to the farmer who leased them from him, and who promptly
acquired planning permission to build a caravan site. My father had always harboured
ideas that he would farm them himself one day. It was not a realistic dream. Mum never
believed that he could make it work. In the dry-eyed front pew, I took Matthew’s
hand and squeezed it. But at the same time I caught a glimpse of something dark and
formless, the beginning of a thought that I could not yet complete.
A procession of people passed into our house
and before my eyes in a jumbling of fragments of my childhood that made me feel, for a
moment, as if I were the one moving into the next world with my life unfolding before
me. I was hugged in turn by Willow, Mickey and Oliver, who would, or could, not stop
crying, perhaps, I thought, because he felt it his duty to cry on my behalf. He sobbed
on my shoulder: ‘I really loved your father!’ I had had no idea. I could not
imagine when he had had the opportunity to love my father. Corwin chatted with Sandra
Stowe, which was a gross betrayal. Sandra and I were old, old enemies. She probably
couldn’t remember why any more than I could. As soon as I had the opportunity I
hissed at Corwin, ‘What’s
she
doing here?’
‘She was fond of Dad.’
‘What do you mean she was fond of Dad?
She didn’t even know Dad!’
Clearly, Corwin had slept with her when I
was not payingattention. ‘Of course she did,’ said Corwin.
‘She used to come over with her dad when we were small. Try and be
nice!’
‘She was a little thug!’
‘No. You were a little thug – you used
to beat everyone up with words.’
‘She started the whole “Morwenna
the witch” thing.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Corwin.
‘And if she did, you probably provoked her. Anyway, you were both about
seven!’
‘Well, I’ll give her one thing.
She’s not pig-faced and pregnant yet. Although it can only be a matter of
time.’
When most of the guests had left we sneaked
up to our rooms with our friends. Mickey sat drunkenly on the floor next to
Corwin’s record player, putting on songs and taking them off again before they
were finished. He was trying to find the definitive song, the one that would suspend the
moment in amber, but he failed.
Oliver, I thought, had left early, but the
next morning when, after a restless sleep, I went down at six, I found him in the
kitchen making tea.
‘I thought you’d
gone.’
‘I crashed on your sofa,’ he
said. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Of course I
don’t.’
Oliver’s face was full of concern for
me. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Fine. I think,’ I said.
‘Yesterday was nice …’ I corrected myself, ‘I mean, it was what it
ought to have been, don’t you think?’
He nodded, but in a slightly masculine,
disapproving way. My answer had been inadequate.
‘When are you off?’ I asked.
‘Thursday.’
‘Wait there,’ I said.
‘I’ve got something for you.’
Oliver had not been in the room when I had
handed out myleaving presents. I went upstairs, retrieved the last
accordion book and put it into his hands. He gently pulled on the slender ribbon that
held the pages in place, and unfolded it on the kitchen table. His eyes scanned the
verses. When he looked up they were tearful.
‘Don’t be sad for us,
Oliver,’ I said, because he couldn’t speak. ‘We’ll be all
right.’
‘It’s lovely,’ he said
finally. He smiled. ‘It’s our childhood.’
I was pleased. You could always trust Oliver
to understand the important point. He
Similar Books
