shower, but it was done in semi-jocular fashion so I thought nothing of it. Grogan also slept beside him on an old futon I’d dug out. He warned Kinsella at the outset that he slept like a cat, so God help him if he tried making a run for it. They turned in every night at eleven, slept right through and were both four square at the breakfast table by seven o’clock the next morning. Their conversational style was such that Kinsella, as he gained confidence, took the piss gently and Grogan responded with two-word threats or put-downs. Fairchild clearly found Kinsella’s remarks amusing, which often they were, but she tried not to let it show.
Fairchild had taken Ellie’s old room with its feminine ambience, its sweet smell of something I’ve never identified, its legion of soft toys in family groups. They were a direct link to her mother, Ellie said, and when she’d gone off to Nepal with Terrific Rick she could only take a few of them with her, insisting that I leave the rest exactly as they were. When she had come home the previous Christmas they’d been the first things she had checked on.
The visitors had been living with me for nearly a week when a plaintive text from Laura Peterson reminded me that she still hadn’t met my house guests. I apologised and we arranged that she would come round early the following morning and join us for breakfast. That fitted in with her plans perfectly, she told me, but, conscious that it wasn’t going to be the social event she’d hoped for, I explained that Grogan was pretty bloody in the morning, Fairchild was no ray of sunshine either and Kinsella was in need of another bath. It didn’t put Laura off and she duly arrived at about 7.00 am and stood just this side of the back door with an oddly shaped smile on her face.
I could pick up the next half hour of my life, put it down in another time and place, and it would fit perfectly. It was made up of the challenges and surprises which in kind, if not exact detail, have typified my existence. It began with a classic blunder on my part.
“Hi! Surgery?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Sorry.”
I went over and kissed her on the cheek, at which point she seemed to deflate a little.
“I’m missing something, aren’t I?” I said.
“Yes.” Seeing no hope of getting me up to speed she moved on. “I’m having a day off today. I’m going into Oxford with Sheila Bright. She’s got an appointment at the John Radcliffe for chemo, after which we’re going to Brown’s for lunch, if she can manage it. Then shopping.”
“Ah, if you’re going to the covered market, get me a crab from...”
“Nathan, does this look like mutton dressed as fish?” she blurted out.
She stood there, hands splayed, demanding a response. She was referring to the clothes she was wearing: soft lace-up boots, fashionable leggings and a sparkly smock top. She’d hoped I would say, straight off, how fabulous she looked. I dug deep.
“Laura, the reason I didn’t notice was that everything you wear looks absolutely...” I was floundering. “...terrific. I’ve never seen you looking anything but...”
“Nathan, please.” She looked away, over my shoulder and out through the window by the sink. “Just tell me why Ben Gunn is sliding down the roof over the living room?”
From her allusion to the castaway in Treasure Island I knew exactly who she was referring to and turned to see, through the window, Liam Kinsella making his way down the thatch over the extension, using the chicken wire which held it in place to aid his descent. He must have come out through the attic room window above, dropped down onto the roof and was now heading for the wide blue yonder.
I’ve never been sure what kicks in at moments of crisis, just grateful that it usually does. Clearly, if a loved one is in danger a whole raft of instincts combine to help in the ... interception process. Kinsella certainly wasn’t a loved one, nor was he my responsibility,
Fairchild had taken Ellie’s old room with its feminine ambience, its sweet smell of something I’ve never identified, its legion of soft toys in family groups. They were a direct link to her mother, Ellie said, and when she’d gone off to Nepal with Terrific Rick she could only take a few of them with her, insisting that I leave the rest exactly as they were. When she had come home the previous Christmas they’d been the first things she had checked on.
The visitors had been living with me for nearly a week when a plaintive text from Laura Peterson reminded me that she still hadn’t met my house guests. I apologised and we arranged that she would come round early the following morning and join us for breakfast. That fitted in with her plans perfectly, she told me, but, conscious that it wasn’t going to be the social event she’d hoped for, I explained that Grogan was pretty bloody in the morning, Fairchild was no ray of sunshine either and Kinsella was in need of another bath. It didn’t put Laura off and she duly arrived at about 7.00 am and stood just this side of the back door with an oddly shaped smile on her face.
I could pick up the next half hour of my life, put it down in another time and place, and it would fit perfectly. It was made up of the challenges and surprises which in kind, if not exact detail, have typified my existence. It began with a classic blunder on my part.
“Hi! Surgery?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Sorry.”
I went over and kissed her on the cheek, at which point she seemed to deflate a little.
“I’m missing something, aren’t I?” I said.
“Yes.” Seeing no hope of getting me up to speed she moved on. “I’m having a day off today. I’m going into Oxford with Sheila Bright. She’s got an appointment at the John Radcliffe for chemo, after which we’re going to Brown’s for lunch, if she can manage it. Then shopping.”
“Ah, if you’re going to the covered market, get me a crab from...”
“Nathan, does this look like mutton dressed as fish?” she blurted out.
She stood there, hands splayed, demanding a response. She was referring to the clothes she was wearing: soft lace-up boots, fashionable leggings and a sparkly smock top. She’d hoped I would say, straight off, how fabulous she looked. I dug deep.
“Laura, the reason I didn’t notice was that everything you wear looks absolutely...” I was floundering. “...terrific. I’ve never seen you looking anything but...”
“Nathan, please.” She looked away, over my shoulder and out through the window by the sink. “Just tell me why Ben Gunn is sliding down the roof over the living room?”
From her allusion to the castaway in Treasure Island I knew exactly who she was referring to and turned to see, through the window, Liam Kinsella making his way down the thatch over the extension, using the chicken wire which held it in place to aid his descent. He must have come out through the attic room window above, dropped down onto the roof and was now heading for the wide blue yonder.
I’ve never been sure what kicks in at moments of crisis, just grateful that it usually does. Clearly, if a loved one is in danger a whole raft of instincts combine to help in the ... interception process. Kinsella certainly wasn’t a loved one, nor was he my responsibility,
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