The Comforts of Home
Page 29
‘Good.’ He lifted his glass, turned it round and round by the stem, set it down, moved it to and fro.
‘Can you pick up a pin?’
‘Haven’t tried but probably. It’s amazing actually. And fits perfectly.’
‘Prosthetics have come on very fast – it’s probably the only thing we can thank foreign wars for.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Ascot Court have nearly finished the conversion and Dad’s flat will be one of the first ready. He’s started sending for paint charts and furniture catalogues.’
‘Never having done such things in his life.’
‘Always left it to the women. He’s a reformed character.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’
‘Exactly what Kieron said.’
They talked on as the sun moved off the garden, about Cat’s work, his, Sam’s plan to share a flat with a nurse and a junior doctor from the hospital.
‘He’s happy as Larry, Si. He loves the hospital, loves the job, loves the porters’ cameraderie, loves being independent … but he can’t stay there forever.’
‘He won’t. He’ll gradually work out his real future – and I wouldn’t put money on which way he’ll jump, but meanwhile, he isn’t dossing about at home, he isn’t spending time wandering uselessly round the globe with a backpack – what’s not to like?’
‘And Kieron’s happy – by Christmas he’ll soon have me in the house to himself.’
‘Plus Felix, Hannah, on the rare occasions she gets home, Wookie and Mephisto.’
‘Bit worried about Mephisto actually … he’s not himself. Sleeps most of the time and isn’t out half the night any longer.’
‘He’s – what – eighteen?’
Yes.’ She shivered. ‘Let’s go in and eat.’
Over whitebait, he told her about Kimberley Still, her mother, Lee Russon. But not about the island, not about Sandy Murdoch and Iain. Not about his feeling that he did not want to go back there.
Calves’ liver and roast salmon.
Cat wanted to ask him about Rachel and did not.
‘The gallery was asking if I have enough for another exhibition,’ he said.
‘Have you?’
‘Maybe. But I want to do some more portrait drawing. I’m quite keen to do Felix.’
‘Why Felix?’
Simon laughed. ‘Because he has such a quirky, interesting face. This calves’ liver isn’t as good as they used to do at Dino’s.’
‘Nostalgia’s a sign of old age.’
‘But it’s pretty damn good all the same. Are you and Kieron OK?’
This was the way it always had to be with them, chat and then the quick lunge. This worked.
‘Fine. You asked that before. Listen – it’s never going to be the same, bro. I know that. The arrow only strikes home once and my once was Chris. But I can’t stay alone forever, I love Kieron, he’s a good man, he’s been fantastic with the kids and we get on. Yes, it’s been bumpy with Dad but when wouldn’t it have been? I didn’t mean to get married again – I was never looking for it and I never expected it, but I’m very glad he came along. You’re OK with it, aren’t you?’
‘With him as him or him being the Chief?’
‘Both.’
‘Got used to the second and it’s fine – better than I expected actually. Him as him is all right too … like you. No, I’m good with it all. Never thought I would be but I am.’
He looked up at her, a direct, warning look. Don’t ask, it said. Don’t ask.
She didn’t ask.
He dropped her at the farmhouse, where the lights were all on, but didn’t go in, just waited, watching Cat wave briefly and close the door.
Home. The Close was quiet, the lamps casting their tawny rings of light onto the cobbles, lights on behind curtains or in porches of the houses that were lived in by cathedral clergy and staff, dotted between those that were offices and dark now.
There was not a soul on foot.
He parked and turned for a moment, to walk back down the avenue. It was cold. He looked, as he always looked, at the tower and the nave end of St Michael’s Cathedral. He had often tried to draw it and always given up. It did not need an interpreter, or any copied image. It was itself and perfect, and he would never attempt it again. But he suddenly remembered the face of a very old, bent man he had seen a few days earlier, going in through the west door, a timeless but very individual face such as Dürer might have drawn and made a mental note to look out for him, and ask the man if he would sit to be sketched. He was more used to drawing objects and creatures, of which he did not need to ask permission. This was a new direction and he felt the old excitement spiking through him.
He ran up the stairs two at a time. Opened the flat door. Switched on the lights and looked first. At the white sofa and chairs, the elm floorboards, the white walls, the huge, curtainless windows with their long view down the close, the paintings, the tall, full bookshelves. He smiled slightly, with pleasure.
He went inside. Home.
He closed the door.
SUSAN HILL’s novels and short stories have won the Whitbread, Somerset Maugham, and John Llewellyn Rhys awards, the Yorkshire Post Book of the Year, and been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. The play adapted from her famous ghost story, The Woman in Black, has been running in the West End since 1989. Her crime novels featuring DCS Simon Serrailler are currently being adapted for television.
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