water.
I’ll go uphill, skirt the town and make my way secretly to the Dennises’ house. This is what we always called it, although it had a grand name: Albert House, named after the Albert Memorial in London.
Because of the way the land folds here, this is one of the few places in the town from which the sea is invisible. Even from the attic windows you can’t see it. There are sycamores around the house, which have grown taller since I was last here. They bend over it, inside the high granite walls. Mr Dennis wanted his own gates, and a short sweep of drive. When the house was new and raw, he bought land around it so that no other houses would swim up the slope to touch his. He planted two monkey puzzles in the front garden, but they are slow-growing things and still unimpressive.
The gates are shut, but not locked. I trace the name of the house, carved into the granite side-pillars. Albert House. And now I’ve seen the Albert Memorial too. It’s an ugly thing. I’d never name a house after it myself. I open the small side-gate and go inside. The gravel is weedy, but the camellias are in flower, big white ones that show up in the dusk and go brown when the rain beats on them. I remember those camellias too. There is a light on in the bottom right-hand window. Mr Dennis had the ambition of generating his own electrical supply, using water power, but it came to nothing. They lived by gaslight and candles, like the rest of us.
The curtain to the window is not drawn. It’s Mrs Dennis’s old sitting room, empty, but there’s a small fire burning in the grate. One wing chair is set close to it. I go round to the front door and pull down the bell chain. Deep inside the house, I hear it ring. Only one person can possibly answer it. All those others have gone.
Even though the door is thick, I’m sure I hear Felicia’s light, firm footsteps, and then the drawing back of the bolt. A moment later the lock turns. She opens the door, and light spills out of the hall behind her.
‘Oh!’ she says, seeing me. ‘I thought it was Dolly Quick come back for something.’
‘You ought not to be so trusting. I could have been anyone.’
‘But you were you.’ Her voice has lightened, but she makes no move to welcome me inside.
I take my hand from behind my back. ‘I brought you these violets. I remember how much you liked flowers.’
She looks puzzled, almost wondering. I hold the flowers towards her and she touches them lightly. ‘They’re wet, Daniel.’
‘You hold them upside down like this, dip their heads into water and shake it off. They’ll keep for five days then.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Her voice strays into the night, like a child’s voice. I keep on talking about violets, but she wants me to go. She touches the flowers again, and half turns. The line of her body makes a shallow curve against the light. My breath goes out of me. I look down at the violets, which she still hasn’t taken.
‘Goodnight, Felicia.’
‘Won’t you come in for a minute,’ she says quickly, ‘after your walk? Jeannie’s asleep.’
I hesitate. Now that I’m at the threshold, I’m not sure that I want to cross it. Until I enter the house, I can remember it as it was. I’ve always thought that there was very little resemblance between Frederick and Felicia, given that they were brother and sister, but now I’m not so sure. Her face has grown thinner and the cheekbones shape it now, as they shaped his.
We are in the hall. The big pewter plate that used to stand on the black oak dresser has gone. There are no flowers. The house has lost its confident smell of roast beef gravy and floor polish, and there are pale patches on the walls where pictures and photographs used to hang.
Felicia says, ‘I was in the kitchen. I’ll make some tea if you’d like it.’
The Felicia of the old days would not have known where to find the kettle. In the kitchen, she goes to a small gas ring fed by a rubber pipe, lights it and sets the
I’ll go uphill, skirt the town and make my way secretly to the Dennises’ house. This is what we always called it, although it had a grand name: Albert House, named after the Albert Memorial in London.
Because of the way the land folds here, this is one of the few places in the town from which the sea is invisible. Even from the attic windows you can’t see it. There are sycamores around the house, which have grown taller since I was last here. They bend over it, inside the high granite walls. Mr Dennis wanted his own gates, and a short sweep of drive. When the house was new and raw, he bought land around it so that no other houses would swim up the slope to touch his. He planted two monkey puzzles in the front garden, but they are slow-growing things and still unimpressive.
The gates are shut, but not locked. I trace the name of the house, carved into the granite side-pillars. Albert House. And now I’ve seen the Albert Memorial too. It’s an ugly thing. I’d never name a house after it myself. I open the small side-gate and go inside. The gravel is weedy, but the camellias are in flower, big white ones that show up in the dusk and go brown when the rain beats on them. I remember those camellias too. There is a light on in the bottom right-hand window. Mr Dennis had the ambition of generating his own electrical supply, using water power, but it came to nothing. They lived by gaslight and candles, like the rest of us.
The curtain to the window is not drawn. It’s Mrs Dennis’s old sitting room, empty, but there’s a small fire burning in the grate. One wing chair is set close to it. I go round to the front door and pull down the bell chain. Deep inside the house, I hear it ring. Only one person can possibly answer it. All those others have gone.
Even though the door is thick, I’m sure I hear Felicia’s light, firm footsteps, and then the drawing back of the bolt. A moment later the lock turns. She opens the door, and light spills out of the hall behind her.
‘Oh!’ she says, seeing me. ‘I thought it was Dolly Quick come back for something.’
‘You ought not to be so trusting. I could have been anyone.’
‘But you were you.’ Her voice has lightened, but she makes no move to welcome me inside.
I take my hand from behind my back. ‘I brought you these violets. I remember how much you liked flowers.’
She looks puzzled, almost wondering. I hold the flowers towards her and she touches them lightly. ‘They’re wet, Daniel.’
‘You hold them upside down like this, dip their heads into water and shake it off. They’ll keep for five days then.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Her voice strays into the night, like a child’s voice. I keep on talking about violets, but she wants me to go. She touches the flowers again, and half turns. The line of her body makes a shallow curve against the light. My breath goes out of me. I look down at the violets, which she still hasn’t taken.
‘Goodnight, Felicia.’
‘Won’t you come in for a minute,’ she says quickly, ‘after your walk? Jeannie’s asleep.’
I hesitate. Now that I’m at the threshold, I’m not sure that I want to cross it. Until I enter the house, I can remember it as it was. I’ve always thought that there was very little resemblance between Frederick and Felicia, given that they were brother and sister, but now I’m not so sure. Her face has grown thinner and the cheekbones shape it now, as they shaped his.
We are in the hall. The big pewter plate that used to stand on the black oak dresser has gone. There are no flowers. The house has lost its confident smell of roast beef gravy and floor polish, and there are pale patches on the walls where pictures and photographs used to hang.
Felicia says, ‘I was in the kitchen. I’ll make some tea if you’d like it.’
The Felicia of the old days would not have known where to find the kettle. In the kitchen, she goes to a small gas ring fed by a rubber pipe, lights it and sets the
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