Shortly after the funeral, Paul’s eldest sister, Mary, rang to say they were going down to the house, would he come? She spoke vaguely about some items in the will. Though Mary was distant and he wasn’t really listening, he answered vaguely that he would.
Their mother’s house was in Petersfield. She had moved there for her last three years. It was near the town centre and convenient and, though much smaller than the old family home, it had a back garden.
On the Sunday, Paul found himself outside the end-of-terrace villa. His sister’s car was already parked right outside, his brother’s a little farther along. So this is what it came down to.
“There’s some books, if you want them,” Mary said, after the rituals of awkward greeting. His older brother was rooting around upstairs; there was a bump and a loose floorboard. Paul nodded. He glanced at the garden beyond the French doors.
“I need a cigarette,” he said. “I’ll be five minutes.” And with that, Paul went out the back and to the garden.
The warm sun in the cold April wind opened to him. Paul lit a cigarette and stepped across the small lawn, already tatty with spring growth. There were crocuses and narcissi along by the fence. Paul lowered his cigarette and watched the flowers tremble and he saw, in the moment, how carefully they had been placed; how lovingly they grew.
When Paul went back to the house, his brother was there with Mary. His brother had the prized print under his arm and he smiled with a little triumph.
“You taking the books?” he asked.
“There’s the question of the piano,” Mary added with faint concern.
Paul shook his head. “No. I don’t want anything. I don’t need anything more.”
