Dublin Palms by Hugo Hamilton

Author:Hugo Hamilton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2019-03-18T13:11:03+00:00

By the time I get the keys to the house it’s summer. Helen is in Canada visiting her family with the girls, her mother booked the tickets. I drive back from the solicitor’s office with my elbow out the window, wearing my billowing white shirt.

This is my turn. My sweeping overstatement, my great family extravagance. I carry fantasies of arrival. Fantasies of home and never moving again. Getting to know everybody on the street, trading bits of gossip, watching cookery programmes on TV, inviting people for dinner, staying up late and singing my heart out in my own house.

I park the car down the sloped driveway. I get out and turn the key in the lock. Closing the door behind me, I listen to the silence inside the house. I am happy to stand in each room and allow the walls to get to know me, gently letting the wooden floors get used to the weight of my presence. I hear the creaks. I feel the handshake of doorknobs. I open the windows. The dusty stillness of the rooms begins to move with the noise of traffic entering from the street. A draught comes in to flip the estate-agent brochure off the windowsill, bringing the house to life. I hear my feet on the stairs. I stand in the children’s bedroom watching the sea, the lighthouse will be coming on for them at night, ships will cross right by their beds.

Filling rooms is like writing a book. I get bits of furniture from the auctions, things given to us by my mother, I hang the glass art angel from Cologne up by the door. I find second-hand curtains for the bedrooms, a bargain mat for the hall, a wicker chair for the bathroom.

The carved bass mouth is there on the mantelpiece. A voice going right through the house, speaking encouragement. Beside it, the carved ear listening to me working.

I have put in the heating, I’ve connected the phone, I rewired the house, somebody helped me with the fuse board.

My lungs are full of dust. My eyes are red, I eat a sandwich that tastes of varnish, I drink mugs of tea with the scum of sawdust. I get to know the faces at the hardware suppliers. I love building materials more than words. My hands buzz with the grip of drilling. My hair, my face, my arms are caked to the elbows in bits of cement, sealant, emulsion, my mind is under the floorboards. I can’t help laughing at one point because I find myself using the sick bowl to mix a bit of plaster.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.