Read Online The Life of Houses by Lisa Gorton - Free Book Online Page B

freckle had meant her right hand. This body, her own, but she was not here: her body, not her, was in the room, with them. Something had happened; somebody had died. She had not thought that Treen could have secrets. Treen, in her blue linen shirt, her ironed jeans: there was something grotesque about it; something rapturous about the way they bent their heads together. Their way of ignoring so much made Kit notice more: the creaking sound of some loose join in the decking; and that lasting roar: it was the wind, not the sea, she could hear. Thinly from the toy shop below came the sound of women talking.
    Treen remembered and looked back at Kit. Her eyes, still blind with feeling, showed their blueness. Hands out, she came across the room. She crouched stiffly by Kit’s chair, so close Kit could see small veins threading the skin under her nostrils. ‘I’m sorry,’ Treen said. ‘Your first morning here. I wasn’t going to mention. Only one of our young men…’ She gestured back: ‘So talented.’
    â€˜What happened to him?’
    â€˜Oh…’ Treen looked dazedly at the door. ‘Crash. A car crash.’ She took hold of Kit’s hands. ‘I haven’t told them at the house yet. Dad gets so upset.’
    So much raw feeling: Kit had to work hard not to pull away her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Scott watching. It was a stranger who had died. Kit’s shock was nerveless. What she mostly felt was guilt that she did not feel more. She pictured again on Treen’s head that unnecessary hat.
    â€˜I won’t say anything.’
    â€˜Thank you dear.’ Treen stood upright, found a handkerchief in her sleeve, blew her nose. Standing, she rocked back on her heels. She stood immense—a statue. Some confused sense of ritual made Kit feel that she, too, should get up from her chair. Standing, she wished she had stayed where she was. The two of them looked back at Scott.
    â€˜Your aunt’s upset,’ he said. ‘We all are. When you’re our age you’ll understand, such waste…’ He touched Treen’s arm just above the elbow. ‘We feel the years he hasn’t had.’ He bent down to look at one of the photographs. ‘I’m so angry with him,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Isn’t that terrible. I’m angry with him! His father too, of course.’
    Treen raised her arms and let them drop. ‘I don’t know how I’ll tell them.’
    Kit stepped around them both to look at the dead boy’s photographs. They were close-ups of grass stalks, black and white with colour tints—ordinary. Only the thought of the boy’s death made them frightening, the way the stalks filled the foreground.
    Behind her, the two of them were talking about an art class. She heard Scott say: ‘But do come today. Bring her with you.’
    He had dismissed them. Saying goodbye, he bent over her hand, brought his heels together—an oddly formal gesture. The door shut. Cast into the weird glare of midday, Kit and Treen glanced uncertainly down the street. A dry inland wind was making the flags outside the ice cream shop lift and subside. Treen tucked her glasses back into her handbag and clipped it shut.
    â€˜The woman said one for the car.’
    Kit had forgotten about the car. Scott had made himself the day’s event. That was what he could do, she saw already. Leaving him, they had stepped into a blank. Treen opened her handbag again and peered into it. She took out an ironed, folded handkerchief and patted at her nose.
    â€˜Don’t tell me I’ve forgotten the shopping list.’ She looked back at the closed door. ‘Listen, it’s so hot.’
    The teashop was air-conditioned. They sat at a table by the window, the street hidden by half-curtains of tea-coloured lace. Between them on the table, a white ceramic teardrop vase held a yellowing plastic rose.
    â€˜He