then to watch
Craig at his labours. The afternoon was clammy - thunder later, Adele promised, it'll clear the air - and Craig
stripped down to a threadbare vest, the sweat trickling down his neck and face from his low hairline, his neck
and arms peeling where he'd caught too much sun. Will was envious of his muscularity; of the curling hair at his
armpits, and the wispy sideburns he was cultivating. Pretending a concern for the care Craig was exercising
with the tables and lamps, he idly followed the youth from room to room, watching him work. Occasionally,
Craig would do something that made Will feel as though he shouldn't be watching, though they weren't
particularly odd things for anyone to do. Passing his tongue over his frizzy moustache; stretching his arms
above his head; splashing water on his face at the kitchen sink. Once or twice Craig looked his way, a little
bemused at the attention he was getting. When he did Will made sure he was wearing a facsimile of that
indifference he'd seen on his mother's face so often.
The unloading went on until the early evening, the house - which had not been lived in for two years - subtly
resisting its re-occupation. Interior doors proved too narrow for several of the tea-chests, and rooms too small
gracefully to accommodate pieces of furniture from the house in the city. As the hours went on, tempers grew
tattered. Knuckles were skinned and bloodied, shins scraped and toes stubbed. Eleanor maintained an imperious
calm throughout, seating herself in the bay window which offered a magnificent panorama of the valley and
sipping herbal tea, while her husband made decisions as to the arrangement of rooms she would never have
trusted to him in the old days. Once, trapping his fingers between a box and the wall, Craig let loose a fair
stream of foul language, silenced by a hard slap on the back of the head from Adele. Will chanced to witness
the blow, and saw how Craig's eyes reared up from the sting. He was, Will realized, just a boy, for all his sweat
and muscle, and his interest in watching Craig's labours instantly evaporated.
iii
That was Saturday. The night did not bring thunder, as Adele had predicted it would, and the next day the air
was already sticky before St Luke's solitary bell had summoned the faithful to worship. Adele was amongst the
congregation, but her husband and son were not. By the time their task-mistress finally appeared, they had
already put in almost two hours of graceless work, unloading the tea-chests in such a ham-fisted fashion that
several pieces of crockery and a Chinese vase had been forfeited.
Alert to the general malaise, Will decided to keep out of the way. While the Bottrall clan stamped around below
he remained upstairs in the room with the sloped, beamed ceiling which he'd been given. It was at the back of
the house, which suited him fine. From the deep-Billed window he had a view up the unspoiled slope of the fell,
with not a house in sight, just a few wind-stunted trees and a scattering of hardy sheep.
He was pinning a map of the world up on the wall when he heard the wasp, its last days upon it, come weaving
around his head. He snatched up a book and swatted it away, but back it came, its buzz escalating. Again, he
struck out at it, but somehow it avoided his blow and winding its way around him, stung him below his left ear.
He yelped, and retreated to the door as the insect flew a victory circuit around his head. He didn't attempt to
swat it a third time, but opened the door, and stumbled downstairs, wailing.
He got no sympathy. His father was in the midst of a heated altercation with Donald Bottrall, and shot him such
a glance when he approached that he swallowed his complaints. Gulping back tears he went to find his mother.
She was once again sitting at the bay window, with a bottle of pills on the arm of her chair. She had a second
bottle open, the contents in her palm, and was counting
Craig at his labours. The afternoon was clammy - thunder later, Adele promised, it'll clear the air - and Craig
stripped down to a threadbare vest, the sweat trickling down his neck and face from his low hairline, his neck
and arms peeling where he'd caught too much sun. Will was envious of his muscularity; of the curling hair at his
armpits, and the wispy sideburns he was cultivating. Pretending a concern for the care Craig was exercising
with the tables and lamps, he idly followed the youth from room to room, watching him work. Occasionally,
Craig would do something that made Will feel as though he shouldn't be watching, though they weren't
particularly odd things for anyone to do. Passing his tongue over his frizzy moustache; stretching his arms
above his head; splashing water on his face at the kitchen sink. Once or twice Craig looked his way, a little
bemused at the attention he was getting. When he did Will made sure he was wearing a facsimile of that
indifference he'd seen on his mother's face so often.
The unloading went on until the early evening, the house - which had not been lived in for two years - subtly
resisting its re-occupation. Interior doors proved too narrow for several of the tea-chests, and rooms too small
gracefully to accommodate pieces of furniture from the house in the city. As the hours went on, tempers grew
tattered. Knuckles were skinned and bloodied, shins scraped and toes stubbed. Eleanor maintained an imperious
calm throughout, seating herself in the bay window which offered a magnificent panorama of the valley and
sipping herbal tea, while her husband made decisions as to the arrangement of rooms she would never have
trusted to him in the old days. Once, trapping his fingers between a box and the wall, Craig let loose a fair
stream of foul language, silenced by a hard slap on the back of the head from Adele. Will chanced to witness
the blow, and saw how Craig's eyes reared up from the sting. He was, Will realized, just a boy, for all his sweat
and muscle, and his interest in watching Craig's labours instantly evaporated.
iii
That was Saturday. The night did not bring thunder, as Adele had predicted it would, and the next day the air
was already sticky before St Luke's solitary bell had summoned the faithful to worship. Adele was amongst the
congregation, but her husband and son were not. By the time their task-mistress finally appeared, they had
already put in almost two hours of graceless work, unloading the tea-chests in such a ham-fisted fashion that
several pieces of crockery and a Chinese vase had been forfeited.
Alert to the general malaise, Will decided to keep out of the way. While the Bottrall clan stamped around below
he remained upstairs in the room with the sloped, beamed ceiling which he'd been given. It was at the back of
the house, which suited him fine. From the deep-Billed window he had a view up the unspoiled slope of the fell,
with not a house in sight, just a few wind-stunted trees and a scattering of hardy sheep.
He was pinning a map of the world up on the wall when he heard the wasp, its last days upon it, come weaving
around his head. He snatched up a book and swatted it away, but back it came, its buzz escalating. Again, he
struck out at it, but somehow it avoided his blow and winding its way around him, stung him below his left ear.
He yelped, and retreated to the door as the insect flew a victory circuit around his head. He didn't attempt to
swat it a third time, but opened the door, and stumbled downstairs, wailing.
He got no sympathy. His father was in the midst of a heated altercation with Donald Bottrall, and shot him such
a glance when he approached that he swallowed his complaints. Gulping back tears he went to find his mother.
She was once again sitting at the bay window, with a bottle of pills on the arm of her chair. She had a second
bottle open, the contents in her palm, and was counting
Similar Books
