The Restoration of Otto Laird
Page 28
We will meet again soon, no doubt, in the memories I hold of you, though I’m glad to say these no longer overwhelm me. They emerge, rather, only when summoned, or when I’m of a mind to set them free. When I’m walking alone in the forest, and the feeling comes upon me, I release those memories like birds into the air. They nestle in the treetops, they sing to me their song, but it’s a song of celebration, not a lament. Your memory, these days, inspires and uplifts me – inviting life, where once it seemed to obscure it.
I’m at peace now, Cynthia. I am reconciled with our son. Knowing this, I sense that you, too, are finally at rest.
Sleep well, dear Cynthia. Sleep well, dear Cyn.
Otto
Thirty-Five
She was waiting for him outside the apartment that day. No beret, the auburn hair shining, the lips full and smiling – her dress a simple print of pale orange. As Otto pulled up alongside her, the sunlight glinted on the rich cream paintwork of the open-topped car he had hired for the trip. Cynthia laughed and made fun a little. She didn’t even know that he could drive.
‘Where did you find this? It must have cost you a fortune!’
He could tell that she was delighted.
‘It’s just for the weekend. I couldn’t resist. And since we’re going somewhere that is special to you, I thought we needed a special form of transport to get us there.’
‘It’s beautiful … thank you. It’s beautiful.’
She kissed him on the mouth. Her smile was radiant as she turned towards him.
‘If it rains we can always put the roof up, of course, but I thought it might be nicer to drive with it down, if you don’t mind the breeze.’
‘The breeze is perfect,’ she said, fastening her seatbelt.
‘And there’s a hamper in the back, for when we get hungry.’
She kissed him again with vigour.
‘You look nice,’ he told her.
‘So do you. I love the jacket – very elegant indeed.’
‘And you’ve brought the camera?’
‘I’ve brought two, just in case. The light is fantastic so I hope we can find lots to photograph.’
In the mid-1950s, the drive out through north-west London became pleasant more quickly. The ribbon development encircling the city was less pronounced; the countryside, or something approximating to it, arrived earlier. By the time they reached rural Buckinghamshire, it had become a day bathed in near-perfect sunlight: soft and diffuse, without sacrificing any clarity of line or colour.
The car dipped and rose through the softly rounded landscape, hugging its contours as naturally as the hedgerows. Cynthia reclined in the passenger seat, her eyes closed, her arms stretched out and her face upturned to the warmth, as though absorbing secret messages from the sun. Otto and she were talking and laughing; basking in each other’s presence. Their relationship, still in its early stages, was deepening in a way that seemed almost miraculous.
‘Very green,’ he shouted.
‘Mm?’
Cynthia opened her eyes.
‘The countryside … here in England. Everyone told me that it would be. Very green.’
‘You like it?’
‘Yes, the tones are exceptionally rich. And the grass seems to glisten, even though the weather is dry today. It’s as if the memory of the rain lives on inside it.’
She smiled.
‘How poetic. But then I suppose that’s England for you. Rather on the damp side, I’m afraid.’
Otto nodded.
‘I only wish I had visited the countryside earlier.’
‘I can’t believe this is your first trip outside London. You’ve been here several years.’
‘I was busy with all those books. The crazy man in the attic, remember?’
She leaned across to kiss him and then pointed off suddenly to the side of the car.
‘Look. A Cabbage White. The first I’ve seen this year.’
Otto was trying to keep his eye on the road.
‘Where?’
‘There. A few of them, in fact. Flying alongside us. Can’t you see?’
‘Flying cabbages, you say?’
Cynthia laughed.
‘Cabbage White. It’s a type of butterfly. Over there … look, in the hedgerow.’
At a quiet spot on a hill, with a view in the distance of Henley-on-Thames, its outline accommodating the silver flow of the river, they parked the car and removed the picnic hamper from the boot. They had lunch – ham and cheese sandwiches, apples and a flask of tea – on a blanket at the summit. The breeze flapped at Otto’s fringe and the orange folds of Cynthia’s dress. Afterwards, in a hidden crease of the hill, with no one else around that day, they made love slowly to the rhythms of the breeze and the birdsong, as soporific and timeless as the sunshine on their skin. Back in the car, they glanced over the map and decided to head further into the Oxfordshire Chilterns. The lanes were close and narrow here, the hedgerows thick with white spring flowers, which Cynthia could almost touch as she trailed her hand out over the side of the car.
‘There’s one. Let’s pull over and take a look.’
Otto drew up the car before a ruined cottage, which he estimated must date back to the early nineteenth century. It was steadily being reclaimed by the foliage coiling up its walls. The roof sagged badly in the middle, but just about held aloft. There was a sense of melancholy about the building, picturesque though it was. And then, higher up, a few hundred yards beyond it, lay the remains of an old outhouse, totally collapsed. Once a barn for keeping cows, it was now a pile of rubble on the crest of a slope.
Cynthia made her way up the hill, camera in hand, while Otto peered inside the broken windows of the cottage. No furniture was visible in the gloom, just bare walls and a few loose beams. Some broken glass was strewn across the floor. Wading through the tall grass at the side of the house, he gave a little wave to Cynthia, who was nearing the top of the hill. The retaining wall on this side had fallen down entirely. The empty rooms gave no clues about the lives of their former occupants. Otto snapped some pictures of the crumbling wall and exposed interior, kneeling down to get a satisfactory frame. Dusting the thick spores from the knees of his corduroy trousers, he rose to his feet and followed Cynthia up the hill.
‘The view is magnificent, come and see.’
She was standing at the top of the pile of rubble, reaching behind her to Otto with an outstretched hand. She smiled as he stumbled upwards to join her, losing his footing on the loose stones, but never halting. Sensing her broadening smile, he exaggerated his movements to please her; arms out sideways, swaying from side to side with each new step. Unable to control herself, Cynthia laughed, her head thrown back, delighting in the moment. A halo of sunlight burst between the trees.
Ever since his childhood, people had laughed at Otto: at his great height, his clumsiness, his eccentric demeanour and the impenetrable flow of his ideas. But this laugh was different. It told him it was all okay. No, more than that: that he was loved. Otto was laughing too, now, as his hand reached out towards hers.
‘Shall we get married?’ he asked her late that afternoon, as they sat in the car and watched the shadows lengthen on the hills. The question seemed to come naturally from him, without awkwardness or nerves. Otto himself could hardly believe how relaxed he sounded. To the casual observer, he might easily have been commenting on the view. Cynthia’s reply sounded equally unruffled. She was unhurried and at ease, allowing his words to play across her like the sunlight.
‘Yes,’ she said, matter-of-factly, leaning across to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Of course.’
About the Author
NIGEL PACKER is a former journalist, whose eclectic writing career spanned from music reviews for the BBC to a reporting officer at the International Committee for the Red Cross. He received his BA in Archaeology from the University of York and an MA from Leiden University. Nigel lives in London and The Restoration of Otto Laird is his first novel. You can sign up for email updates her
e.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE RESTORATION OF OTTO LAIRD. Copyright © 2014 by Nigel Packer. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First published in Great Britain by Sphere, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, an Hachette UK company
First U.S. Edition: November 2015
eISBN 9781466882683
First eBook edition: November 2015