and telling her to have a safe trip. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to take me with them. Luckily, the phone call dropped out before I could.
I pulled the curtains back to let in the grey wintry light. The nap of the velvet had worn in places from countless fingers doing the exact same thing. I wondered whose room it had been before Dad’s. Maybe I’d keep that question up my sleeve for when I was sitting in the drawing room with Grandma and Rumer and had nothing to say.
The weak light at the window couldn’t chase away the gloom, so I turned on a bedside lamp then pushed at the springs of the bed that sagged in the middle. The room was cold. I got up and ran my hand over the heating coil against the wall. It was barely tepid. Just warm enough, really, to keep the damp from the walls. I’d have to ask Mrs Skelton for a hot water bottle for my bed. Grandma didn’t believe in electric blankets.
This was the room that my family bunked in whenever we stayed at Vinegar House when I was little. There were plenty of spare bedrooms but us kids were always too scared of the house to sleep without an adult around. I found it hard to picture the young Mathew – my Dad’s name – hanging out in his room with posters and a radio (if Grandma had let him).
His old study desk took up a lot of space in one corner of the room. It made a great cubbyhouse if you threw a blanket over it and climbed under into the space left for feet. It was during my cubbyhouse days that I found Dad’s initials carved into the underside of the desk. I’d been learning my alphabet at school, and discovering his initials was like uncovering a lost treasure map to my father. This proved he had been a boy once. Someone short like me. Someone who didn’t always stride about barking commands. But when I asked Dad about it he seemed annoyed, saying it was, “not in his nature to deface property, even as a child.” He’d used the work “deface” as if I should know what it meant. I was five at the time.
For years, Dad would bring some blow-up mattresses when we stayed over, and we’d pretend we were camping. Oscar usually ended up in bed with Mum and Dad by the morning, but Isabella and I would line up our beds side by side, giggling at the dust bunnies under the high double bed, telling each other ghost stories until we were left breathless in the dark, scared by the strength of our imaginations.
We hadn’t stayed over for years. Dad was always in a hurry to get back to some business thing, and Isabella used uni as an excuse to do whatever she wanted. I felt sorry for Oscar. By the time he was old enough to join in with the games of the older cousins, we’d pretty much stopped playing, although Isabella was always up for a board game if he ever got tired of doing nothing.
Isabella. I wished she were with me, putting up with Grandma and Rumer and old Mrs Skelton. Then I realised it was all her fault. If she hadn’t taken a holiday, I’d be in my own home right now, checking out the pantry, or lying on the couch in front of the TV. I’d gotten through to her mobile phone before I left home, and though she was sad for Mum, she was happy to take Dad’s advice and continue her holiday, agreeing with him that there was nothing she could do. At least she hadn’t laughed when I told her about staying at Vinegar House.
“Oh, sorry, Freya, but it won’t be that bad,” she said. “I’ll bring you back a present.”
“Thanks,” I’d said dully.
“And say hi to Rumer for me.” And then she did laugh.
“I hate you,” I said.
“I’ll make it a big present,” she said.
I lay down on the bed and smelled the strange mix of must and lavender that always reminded me of Vinegar House. The pillowcases felt damp. I noticed the paint on the ceiling was peeling in one corner of the room, and there was a stain near the window as if the roof might be leaking.
“Your grandmother says you might like to come downstairs. Afternoon tea is
I pulled the curtains back to let in the grey wintry light. The nap of the velvet had worn in places from countless fingers doing the exact same thing. I wondered whose room it had been before Dad’s. Maybe I’d keep that question up my sleeve for when I was sitting in the drawing room with Grandma and Rumer and had nothing to say.
The weak light at the window couldn’t chase away the gloom, so I turned on a bedside lamp then pushed at the springs of the bed that sagged in the middle. The room was cold. I got up and ran my hand over the heating coil against the wall. It was barely tepid. Just warm enough, really, to keep the damp from the walls. I’d have to ask Mrs Skelton for a hot water bottle for my bed. Grandma didn’t believe in electric blankets.
This was the room that my family bunked in whenever we stayed at Vinegar House when I was little. There were plenty of spare bedrooms but us kids were always too scared of the house to sleep without an adult around. I found it hard to picture the young Mathew – my Dad’s name – hanging out in his room with posters and a radio (if Grandma had let him).
His old study desk took up a lot of space in one corner of the room. It made a great cubbyhouse if you threw a blanket over it and climbed under into the space left for feet. It was during my cubbyhouse days that I found Dad’s initials carved into the underside of the desk. I’d been learning my alphabet at school, and discovering his initials was like uncovering a lost treasure map to my father. This proved he had been a boy once. Someone short like me. Someone who didn’t always stride about barking commands. But when I asked Dad about it he seemed annoyed, saying it was, “not in his nature to deface property, even as a child.” He’d used the work “deface” as if I should know what it meant. I was five at the time.
For years, Dad would bring some blow-up mattresses when we stayed over, and we’d pretend we were camping. Oscar usually ended up in bed with Mum and Dad by the morning, but Isabella and I would line up our beds side by side, giggling at the dust bunnies under the high double bed, telling each other ghost stories until we were left breathless in the dark, scared by the strength of our imaginations.
We hadn’t stayed over for years. Dad was always in a hurry to get back to some business thing, and Isabella used uni as an excuse to do whatever she wanted. I felt sorry for Oscar. By the time he was old enough to join in with the games of the older cousins, we’d pretty much stopped playing, although Isabella was always up for a board game if he ever got tired of doing nothing.
Isabella. I wished she were with me, putting up with Grandma and Rumer and old Mrs Skelton. Then I realised it was all her fault. If she hadn’t taken a holiday, I’d be in my own home right now, checking out the pantry, or lying on the couch in front of the TV. I’d gotten through to her mobile phone before I left home, and though she was sad for Mum, she was happy to take Dad’s advice and continue her holiday, agreeing with him that there was nothing she could do. At least she hadn’t laughed when I told her about staying at Vinegar House.
“Oh, sorry, Freya, but it won’t be that bad,” she said. “I’ll bring you back a present.”
“Thanks,” I’d said dully.
“And say hi to Rumer for me.” And then she did laugh.
“I hate you,” I said.
“I’ll make it a big present,” she said.
I lay down on the bed and smelled the strange mix of must and lavender that always reminded me of Vinegar House. The pillowcases felt damp. I noticed the paint on the ceiling was peeling in one corner of the room, and there was a stain near the window as if the roof might be leaking.
“Your grandmother says you might like to come downstairs. Afternoon tea is
Similar Books
