The History Room by Eliza Graham

Author:Eliza Graham [Graham, Eliza]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780330509275
Publisher: Pan

Twenty

First morning of half-term. I lay back in bed and let the shadows from the curtains blow backwards and forwards over my face. Peace. Samson snoozed beside me in his basket. Soon he’d want to be let out; it was nearly eight. But I could enjoy just another five minutes before . . .

My mobile made a sound I hadn’t heard for a long time. I reached out and grabbed it from the bedside table, almost uncertain what the two-tone ring meant. Incoming text. I didn’t have much call to send or receive them here, as everyone I needed to speak to was on hand. I opened the message and the sender’s name made me sit bolt upright in bed. Hugh. Just wondering how you were. Sorry, really none of my biz. now.

I switched off the mobile with a shaking hand. This was not how I had imagined starting the first day of half-term. I’d promised myself tranquillity: a long walk with the dog without the need to keep peering at my watch in case we were running short of time. Lunch in the pub with Simon and then sorting out Mum’s clothes. With a possible early evening cinema outing afterwards, if the previous exertions hadn’t worn me out. Communication with my husband hadn’t been on my list. I got up and carried out my morning tasks, the mood spoiled even though I forced myself to have a long, hot shower instead of the usual working-day quick one. I needed to respond to the text message. I needed to untangle the twisted emotions that stopped this from being a straightforward task. But first I’d check on Dad, see if he needed help with arrangements for the entrance examinations.

Today I’d expected to feel the relief I’d felt as a child when term had ended, the pupils had gone home and we’d had Letchford to ourselves again. For a week or four or eight Clara and I could slide down banisters and make a noise at any time of the day anywhere we wanted. But as I approached the lawns in front of the house they seemed lonely and abandoned. I took the dog home and then walked over to the big house. The quietness pressed itself into my head. As I entered through the oak doors I almost longed to hear the roar of an approaching classful of pupils returning from a games lesson out on the fields, the low laughter of sixth-form girls gliding along the terrace on the way to the art studio.

The pupils’ absence had dissolved the protective membrane between us and the memories layered in the house. I realized how much I’d let myself be distracted away from the reality of my mother’s death. I’m sorry, I told her silently. Instead of going into Oxford perhaps I’d spend the afternoon in her garden, doing all the things the school gardener wouldn’t have had time to do: deadheading the remaining roses and sweeping leaves. I’d pick the last of the asters and put them on her grave.

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