I spent some time reading back over the letters he’d sent. I’d built a picture of him in my mind, based on the man I’d seen in the cemetery. I picked up my drawing pad and sketched that image. I imagined him sitting at his desk with his fountain pen, beside an open fire. I wondered if he had an elderly dog at his feet that he’d pet every now and again. Did he speak out loud to the silence that surrounded him just to hear a voice, some noise?
Those thoughts pulled me up short. My dad had been alone for years. Although I’d lived four, maybe five hours drive away, I’d try to visit as often as I could but not as frequently as I should have. I knew Christian visited monthly, but my dad was like Lincoln—alone for most of the time.
It was a bright morning, the sun that snaked across my bedroom floor picked up small particles of the dust that floated around. I couldn’t think of the last time I’d cleaned, and Dad didn’t like to intrude in my ‘personal space,’ as he called it. I looked at the photograph of Hannah and the usual pang of guilt hit me. It made me question what kind of a mother I would have been. I hadn’t been able to hold her, she was a part of me and I hadn’t felt the connection I’d read about. I hadn’t looked at her and noticed her beautiful silky strands of fair hair. I hadn’t taken in her perfect rosebud lips, or her small fingers curled into fists. There had been no ‘new baby’ smell. I rose and picked up the photograph. I held it to my chest as if I could inject some life, some warmth, into it.
I didn’t cry that morning. Maybe I was all out of tears, and there was a small part of me thankful for that. I didn’t want to cry anymore. I was beginning to enjoy the numbness.
After my shower, I dressed and made my way downstairs. Dad hadn’t woken, so I took my tea and sat with Lucy in the back garden. She pottered around, sniffing for visitors in the night. She whimpered a couple of times as her poor arthritic legs adjusted to the chill and movement. It wasn’t long before she came and sat beside me. She rested her head on my lap and her chocolate-coloured eyes looked up at me. She looked as sad as I must have. I stroked her head and she closed her eyes with contentment.
“I wondered where you were,” I heard.
At the sound of her master’s voice, Lucy raised her head and looked towards the back door. She wagged her tail as Dad joined us.
I watched the wince cross his face as he took a seat. I guessed his arthritic bones were protesting at the cold as much as Lucy’s were. I remembered back to a time when Dad had talked about moving away, somewhere warm. He couldn’t tear himself away from the house he’d lived in with my mother, though. He was attached to the property and her memory. I wondered why I didn’t feel that way.
I never thought of my house in London. Was I betraying Trey’s memory in some way? I’d wanted nothing more than to run as far away as possible from the home we’d shared.
“Miller wants to take another look around the barn, with a structural engineer this time,” Dad said.
I nodded, reaching in my pocket for a pad and pencil.
What does a structural engineer do? I wrote.
“Well, you want to take out one wall, there will have to be some steels in place to hold up the roof, I imagine. An engineer would have to advise on load-bearing and all that stuff. And he has to create a second floor. I like his idea of the bedrooms downstairs, though. Can you imagine, sitting up top and just looking out to sea each day?”
Who recommended him to you? I turned the pad towards Dad.
“He was born here but moved away for a while. Anyway, he did some work for Mrs. Hampton, you know her? She owns the shop. And, obviously, the vicar recommends him. I think he does a bit of free work at the church when needed. If a vicar recommends someone, you know you’re in for a good thing.” Dad laughed at his statement.
I’m going to take a walk over to the barn, want to join me?
“Sure. I guess we should make a start at clearing it out. Perhaps I should organise a skip, I’m pretty sure most of what’s in there needs to be thrown.”
We walked to the barn and opened the creaking door. A tool bench ran along one side. There were boxes of items piled high against one wall. I tapped Dad on the arm and pointed to the boxes.
“You know, I have no idea what’s in those. I guess it’s all your childhood things; they’ve been here for years. Let’s get one down.”
He reached up and grabbed one of the boxes from the top of the pile. He laid it on the workbench and opened it. He pulled out something wrapped in white tissue paper.
“Jesus, I remember these. Your mother had this dinner service given to her as a wedding gift. We used to laugh because it was hideous. Some old aunt gave it to her, I think. Might be worth money nowadays.” He laid a white and blue plate on the bench before reaching in to grab another.
I picked up the plate. I was sure it was a design I’d seen before, usually in a quaint coffee shop. The plate had a delicate flower decoration. I turned it over. Although faded I could see that it might have possibly been made in Denmark. I didn’t think it had any value other than sentimental, but I liked it.
Can I have these?
“Of course. It would be a shame to throw them away, I guess.”
Sitting in my London home was stark white, modern crockery. It suited London; it wouldn’t suit the barn. We put the box to one side, satisfied all it contained was crockery. The next box held my childhood possessions. I smiled as I reached in and pulled out Panda. He’d lost the rings of black around his eyes, the red bow tie that I recalled him wearing, and he was a little grubby, but I remembered him fondly.
“That was the first bear you owned. I bought that from the market on my way to the hospital…”
Dad’s sentence tailed off. I knew the story; the day I was born he’d given me that. It was bigger than I was. I guessed he didn’t want to talk about births. I squeezed his arm, hoping he understood the gesture. It was okay. I wasn’t about to break down at his memories of my own birth. I placed the bear to one side. Aside from the usual first, sixteenth, and eighteenth birthday cards, the box contained old diaries I had never completed, notes from school friends, school reports, hair ribbon that, for some reason, had never been thrown away.
“I think maybe you should go through all this, decide what you want to do with it,” Dad said.
In addition to the boxes there were tools: so many old carpentry tools in pristine condition. I remember my dad being studious about cleaning his tools after every use.
“Maybe Miller might like these,” he said, picking up what looked like a wooden hammer and chisel.
“Like what?” I heard. I startled at the low tones of his voice as they echoed through the barn.
“Miller, we were just talking about you,” Dad said.
Miller strode into the barn; he wore dark jeans with a checked shirt. With the scruff that covered his chin, his physique, and the tattoos down one arm that I’d noticed before, he looked like a lumberjack. That thought brought a chuckle to my mind.
“I thought you might like these old tools,” Dad said.
“Hi, Dani, how are you today?” he asked with a smile. I gave him a smile and a nod in return.
He picked up one of the tools from the bench; I noticed the grazes to his knuckles.
“These are great, Alistair. I’d love to have whatever you want to get rid of. I remember my dad using one of these. I’d get a tanned arse if I ever tried to touch it,” he said with a laugh.
“Your dad was a carpenter?”
“In his spare time, he taught me all that I know. He’d call himself a master craftsman, if I remember. He could turn his hand to pretty much anything.”
I grabbed my pad and pencil.
Does he still do carpentry?