A small sound behind makes me jump.
Mrs B.
God, the woman knows how to sneak up on you.
“We thought you’d might like a cup of tea.” She holds a tray with a steaming mug and a plate of sandwiches which she places on a small table by the window then comes to stand beside me looking down at the boxes. “I hope you don’t mind my packing up Liam’s things.”
I press my lips together and say nothing, hoping my silence would tell her to go away and leave me alone.
It doesn’t work.
“He left me a letter.” She reaches into the box marked BOOKS and pulls out an envelope. “It arrived two days after we heard the news. He said to pack up his things and donate them to charity and not to leave them for you and his mother to deal with.”
Again, that tightness in my chest, the pain, and the thought that while I’d been busy living the good life in one European city after another, my brother was making arrangements to protect me and our mother.
Mrs B holds out the envelope. Suddenly I see her, really see her. A kind middle-aged woman trying her best to do the right thing and probably confused because I’m nothing like my gentle, affectionate brother.
“Thank you, Mrs B, and I appreciate what you did. But the letter was addressed to you. You can keep it.” I draw in a deep, deep breath. “I’m sorry I haven’t been good company.”
It’s not quite what I mean, but I’m not good with words and I don’t know how to apologise for being such a self-involved arse.
She brightens and give me a kind smile. “You’re all right. No one is good company after a bereavement.”
She walks back to the door. Just before leaving, she clears her throat. “We’re more or less finished downstairs.”
“Thank you. How much do I owe you both…”
The horrified expression on her face is answer enough.
“I’m sorry.” It sounds lame even to my own ears.
God, how do I handle this? The only women who normally come into any bedroom with me are either housekeeping – whom I usually tip – or a girlfriend I’m planning to sleep with.
So, I stand there like a lamppost not knowing what to do with myself while Mrs B fidgets.
“Before we leave, I was going to make the bed for you in the master bedroom,” she says, making things a hundred times more awkward.
“Thank you.”
She closes the door quietly and leaves me alone – finally. I sigh with relief.
Oh, Liam. What were you thinking making me come here?
I glance around the room, trying to find a trace of my brother, something, a clue to his life.
The window has a tiny Juliet balcony overlooking the garden. It’s as good a place as any to sit and think. Perching on the windowsill, I swing my legs out. Below, the garden is overgrown with trees and bushes, but it must have been something in a past life. A stone footpath curves around bushes leading far to the back where it disappears behind some tall trees.
My garden, now, I suppose.
What the hell do I do with a garden? I’m a classical musician, for God’s sake. My life is mostly spent in hotels travelling from one city to another with whatever orchestra wants me to play. I rarely make my own bed or do my own laundry, let alone cut grass or pull out weeds. Besides, a musician’s hands are essential. Underwriters charge a king’s ransom to insure them. I can’t go catching my fingers in a set of secateurs…. No, this whole thing is impossible.
After a moment, I dig into my pocket and pull out Liam’s letter.
One – Take over my cottage, make it yours anyway you like and live here…
Propping my feet on the balcony’s iron railing, back against the folded shutters, I help myself to the mug of tea and one of the sandwiches Mrs B brought me – cheese and pickle on some kind of seeded bread.
What if I kept the house and split my time between Europe and the English Channel? This might not be a bad place to spend a short break with a girlfriend.
