‘I haven’t thought about it.’
‘We need to look. All the equipment, the stuff he was working on before he got too poorly. His archives, all those boxes. Shouldn’t we at least get rid of the chemicals?’
‘I’ve told you Miriam, I haven’t thought about it,’ Julian snaps. A spoonful of cereal on the way to Peter’s mouth stops in mid-air. The boy glances at his father and mother.
‘You’re right, Miriam. I just find the whole thing upsetting,’ Julian adds quickly. Though he appreciates his wife’s efficiency, he finds her persistence exhausting. ‘Could you see what’s in there? I suspect a total muddle. I can’t bear it yet.’
Later that morning, she takes the key from a nail by the darkroom door. The lock turns easily.
‘Can I come with you, Mummy?’ Peter stands against her thigh.
‘I don’t think… Alright darling, stay by me.’
Miriam feels for the switch. A bulb emitting dim light hums into life. Mother and son shuffle into the room. Blacked-out windows make it hard to distinguish what’s there. The smell of chemicals.
Miriam feels along the wall for another switch. Two single bulbs hanging from wires now illuminate a ceiling-high stack of shelves and a row of filing cabinets. A desk, several chairs and tables are stacked with paper and cameras and other paraphernalia. A floor-length black curtain waves in the draught. Holding Peter’s hand, she draws it back. A line of three deep sinks and arched taps.
Trays of photographs floating like squid. Above their heads, other images dangle from a line.
‘Is this where granddad lives?’ whispers Peter.
‘No, he’s in the graveyard, do you remember, darling? He used to work in here. He took photographs. Look, here’s one he took of you.’
Propped up on the draining board is a picture of Julian kneeling by Peter.
‘Can I have it?’
‘Of course you can. Sit here for a moment.’ She lifts the boy on to a chair. ‘I’ve just got to find something in Grandad’s office.’
Seymour had been more orderly than this bedlam suggests. In his desk drawer, there are piles of invoices, bills, commissioning letters, statements and invitations to events long past. Two letters from the German dealer are clipped together with a clip.
It all needs sorting and she will do it at some point. She won’t mind. Creating order out of chaos has a satisfaction. She flattens the paperwork to close the drawer but something is jammed. She feels inside. Bent against the back wall of the drawer is a stamped letter. It’s addressed to Seymour’s lawyer, Sunil Rao. It’s unsealed.
Miriam reads it. She gasps.
‘What is it, Mummy?’
‘Nothing, darling. Just something important that I must deal with.’
34
‘I’m going to the cottage tomorrow,’ Simon hands Amy a gin and tonic. It has a sliver of lime and plenty of ice, just the way she likes it.
She wonders what he is about to say.
‘Since our D-D-Dave isn’t using the c-c-cottage, I called Julian and suggested a b-b-boy’s weekend.’
‘That sounds nice,’ Amy sips her drink.
It is not clear why but since discovering her husband has known all along about her affair with Seymour, she has felt faintly ridiculous. She wishes she had been honest with Simon.
‘Julian’s up for it. He says M-M-Miriam’s obsessed with s-s-sorting out the house at w-w-weekends. I’ll leave t-t-tomorrow, be b-b-back Sunday evening.’
‘But we’ve been invited to the Palmers for drinks.’
They exchange the glances. Neither wants to spend an evening drinking wine discussing neighbours who aren’t present.
Amy goes to check the pasta. Simon follows her into the kitchen.
‘Mum, when’s supper? I’m starving,’ Chloe hollers from upstairs.
‘Chloe, can you c-c-come down if you want to speak to us. Amy, I’ll c-c-call the Palmers and make our excuses, s-s-say something’s c-c-come up at the cottage.’
‘So I’ll have to go on my own. That’s great, thanks. Chloe, supper’s ready! Can you come and lay the table, please? Forks and spoons for pasta.’
‘I know what we need.’ Chloe glares at her mother as she comes through into the kitchen. Grabbing a handful of cutlery, she piles it on the table. ‘Dad, Mum, I have to tell you something.’ She eyes them defiantly.
‘Set the table properly, please. And mats, too, Chloe. These bowls are hot.’
‘God, Mum, you’re so anal. Look, I’m spending the weekend at Tilly’s. I’m 18. I should be able to do what I want and they’re my exams. I’ll study all Saturday, then me and Tilly are going to a party and her Mum is going to pick us up at midnight and I won’t get smashed but I can’t miss this party.’ She has not drawn breath.
‘Fine,’ Amy snaps. ‘Simon, we were living at the farm when we were her age with no responsible adults. It’s up to you, Chloe.’
On Saturday morning, Amy wakes to an empty house. Odd to be alone and without any plans. The third time she finds herself straightening the tea towels, she knows she has to act. At the station, she buys a listings magazine and takes the train to London. The pub is packed with people who are drinking and shouting.
She walks to the back of the bar. Through a door is the place where the music happens. On a raised portion of the floor that does not justify the description of ‘stage’, four musicians manoeuvre like matadors between mike stands and amps. David’s jeans and boots give him a certain glamour and the flame-haired saxophonist in a tight gold dress looks good, too. Another woman tunes her bass. A rotund accordion player in a trilby hat spits ‘one, two, three’ into a complaining microphone.
Amy goes to the Ladies, pins up her hair and slashes colour on her lips. Then, buying a beer, she joins the fifteen or so other people standing around the edge of the music room as though they are avoiding a massive hole. Then the long-unfamiliar intoxicating sound of electrically-enhanced live music begins. Amy’s bones jangle. Quirky songs that mix jazz, blues and Klezmer are sung by
