memoirs.
You will be the sole subject of mine, with or without you. No cheap cracks about the kitchen, please note.
Patrick x
The doctor says the reason I canât shift the cough is smoking, so trying to cut down. Hell.
Â
N IGEL HADNâT INTENDED to arrive unannounced on Saturday afternoon, but no one picked up the landline despite three attempts, and although he left a message on Louiseâs mobile, she didnât get back to him. The house was shut-off and dim as he paid the cab, its pall of unwelcome enhanced by the mizzle that filled the air like a teenage mood. If they were going to put the place on the market, and that âifâ was highly moot, and a very compelling reason to talk to Patrick, the whole lot would need much more than a lick of paint.
By now, he knew better than to present himself at the front. He went round to the kitchen, knocked for formâs sake, and let himself in through the door that skewed down from its frame at the top.
The kitchen looked better for Louiseâs efforts, no doubt about it. With the bottle installation removed and surfaces scoured, you could appreciate the depth of the window frames and the solidity of the walls. For the first time, Nigelâs imagination reached beyond estate agentâs details to him and Sophie and the boys settled here, under mellow beams. A second home, why not? Plenty of the partners had them. For Sophie it would be a whole invigorating projectâshe loved that sort of thing. Sheâd never been happier than when tearing out the perfectly good bathroom in the house theyâd bought when she was pregnant with Olly, replacing it to specifications uncompromised even by having to relieve her increasingly strained bladder in a bucket. It would be interesting to see what Patrick might say.
âHello?â he tried. The house was silent. Nigel walked up the dark corridor that led from the kitchen, glancing into each low, cold room that led off it. The smell in the dining room declared a damp problem that got worse in the library, absorbed, no doubt, into the pages of all those books, which remained. The vast TVwas dark in the den. No one ever went into what he supposed was called the drawing room, with its handsome chimney breast and rigidly opposed sofas. At the end of the corridor was Patrickâs study. Approaching it, Nigel couldnât deny a tickle of fear. The uneven flags had resounded against his shoes with each step; if Patrick was in there, surely he must have heard him by now? His feet landed softly outside the shut door, where a cheap, newish rug marked the threshold. Nigel knocked, just in case.
The chair was pushed snugly into the desk, the computer off. The ashtray was empty. It was all a bit Marie Celeste . Nigel took out his phone and called Louise again. This time she answered, patchily.
âWeâre on the train!â
Theyâd left that morning, heading back to Leeds. Mia had gone the night before, disappointingly. But Louise was worried to hear that Patrick wasnât around: had Nigel checked upstairs? He couldnât have had a fall, could he? Maybe Nigel shouldâThe line died. Nigel went upstairs, without ringing her back.
Nigel was relieved to find the bathroom clear of Patrick, as well as the bedroom. He briskly glanced into the other rooms, the one where his mother had died included, although he left it to last, and was perfunctory. Empty. There was no one in the house except him.
He rang Louise back.
âHe isnât here. The back door was open.â
They wondered together what to do, although Nigel immediately regretted the collaboration. His sister told him to check the garden, as though he wouldnât have thought of it. After he had promised to do this, and to call her if Patrick turned up, she interrupted his sign-off to ask, âHave you seen the curtains?â
âWhat curtains?â
âThe ones in the room, you know, where Mum . . . not their
You will be the sole subject of mine, with or without you. No cheap cracks about the kitchen, please note.
Patrick x
The doctor says the reason I canât shift the cough is smoking, so trying to cut down. Hell.
Â
N IGEL HADNâT INTENDED to arrive unannounced on Saturday afternoon, but no one picked up the landline despite three attempts, and although he left a message on Louiseâs mobile, she didnât get back to him. The house was shut-off and dim as he paid the cab, its pall of unwelcome enhanced by the mizzle that filled the air like a teenage mood. If they were going to put the place on the market, and that âifâ was highly moot, and a very compelling reason to talk to Patrick, the whole lot would need much more than a lick of paint.
By now, he knew better than to present himself at the front. He went round to the kitchen, knocked for formâs sake, and let himself in through the door that skewed down from its frame at the top.
The kitchen looked better for Louiseâs efforts, no doubt about it. With the bottle installation removed and surfaces scoured, you could appreciate the depth of the window frames and the solidity of the walls. For the first time, Nigelâs imagination reached beyond estate agentâs details to him and Sophie and the boys settled here, under mellow beams. A second home, why not? Plenty of the partners had them. For Sophie it would be a whole invigorating projectâshe loved that sort of thing. Sheâd never been happier than when tearing out the perfectly good bathroom in the house theyâd bought when she was pregnant with Olly, replacing it to specifications uncompromised even by having to relieve her increasingly strained bladder in a bucket. It would be interesting to see what Patrick might say.
âHello?â he tried. The house was silent. Nigel walked up the dark corridor that led from the kitchen, glancing into each low, cold room that led off it. The smell in the dining room declared a damp problem that got worse in the library, absorbed, no doubt, into the pages of all those books, which remained. The vast TVwas dark in the den. No one ever went into what he supposed was called the drawing room, with its handsome chimney breast and rigidly opposed sofas. At the end of the corridor was Patrickâs study. Approaching it, Nigel couldnât deny a tickle of fear. The uneven flags had resounded against his shoes with each step; if Patrick was in there, surely he must have heard him by now? His feet landed softly outside the shut door, where a cheap, newish rug marked the threshold. Nigel knocked, just in case.
The chair was pushed snugly into the desk, the computer off. The ashtray was empty. It was all a bit Marie Celeste . Nigel took out his phone and called Louise again. This time she answered, patchily.
âWeâre on the train!â
Theyâd left that morning, heading back to Leeds. Mia had gone the night before, disappointingly. But Louise was worried to hear that Patrick wasnât around: had Nigel checked upstairs? He couldnât have had a fall, could he? Maybe Nigel shouldâThe line died. Nigel went upstairs, without ringing her back.
Nigel was relieved to find the bathroom clear of Patrick, as well as the bedroom. He briskly glanced into the other rooms, the one where his mother had died included, although he left it to last, and was perfunctory. Empty. There was no one in the house except him.
He rang Louise back.
âHe isnât here. The back door was open.â
They wondered together what to do, although Nigel immediately regretted the collaboration. His sister told him to check the garden, as though he wouldnât have thought of it. After he had promised to do this, and to call her if Patrick turned up, she interrupted his sign-off to ask, âHave you seen the curtains?â
âWhat curtains?â
âThe ones in the room, you know, where Mum . . . not their
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