The Unseen(81)

Through a doorway in one wall was the en suite bathroom: a trail of blue-grey limescale in the bath, channelling a steady drip of water from tap to plughole; a splayed and dishevelled toothbrush in a chipped yellow mug that said Rise ’n’ Shine! in bold letters on the side; a razor furred with dried soap and traces of stubble. The carpet was dark with mildew around the sink and toilet pedestals; the lace curtains had moss growing along the hem, where the window did not shut properly and a small puddle of rain had found its way onto the sill. Leah pushed the window open slightly and peered out, over the back garden where the grass was knee-high, choppy and beige after the winter frosts. To the far left she could just see the high wall of a courtyard, and a selection of haphazard outbuildings, one of which had a gaping hole in its roof. Two fat wood pigeons huddled up to one another on the ridge tiles, their feathers fluffed against the rain.

Leah continued her tour, drifting from room to room on soft feet as if she might disturb somebody; but none of the other rooms seemed to have been occupied in years. They were full of random items of furniture and junk – one bedroom contained three commode chairs and a shop window mannequin – and crumpled cardboard boxes of books and magazines and blankets and toys and kitchen oddments. The attic bedrooms appeared to have been used as storage space for decades. Boxes and trunks stood in lopsided piles in all three of them. Leah picked her way to one of the dormer windows and peered out at the view. On the window sill, a dusty old fruit box held a stack of pictures in frames, most of which had lost their glass. Leah brushed some mummified flies aside, and flicked through them. Bleached watercolours; a small print of Charles I; another of kittens playing with wool; an embroidery sampler, the motto so faded she could hardly read it, with a small striped cat arching its back amidst flowers in one corner; a sepia picture of the house, with the caption Cold Ash Holt Rectory, 1928 typed neatly along the bottom. Leah drew this photo out, and took it down to show Mark.

The downstairs was better furnished, and better equipped, but it all had an air of long neglect that made Leah slightly sad – gave her a feeling of nostalgia, as though she herself missed the people who had once lived here as much as the house itself appeared to. A door that seemed to go down into the cellars was locked, and Leah left off rattling the handle with a tug of regret. She went back to the kitchen, where Mark had turned on a tinny radio and the lunchtime news was filling the room. His back was to her, at the stove, gently frying the omelette with a meditative air. Leah slid onto her stool, and he looked around as her knee knocked the counter.

‘I don’t suppose you know the property features writer? I suppose the place should go on the market. For a while I’d hoped Dad might come back to it, but he’s not going to. The sooner we all accept that, the better,’ he said absently, as if she’d never left the room.

‘The property features writer? Like I said, I don’t work for a paper. I’m freelance,’ Leah reminded him carefully. His moods seemed to chase across him like clouds on a windy day, and they consumed him. Even now, with his back to her, tension seemed to radiate from him. Leah shuffled Hester Canning’s letters and put the old photo of the house to one side, at a loss for something to say.

‘What’s wrong with your father? Is he ill?’ she asked, before she could stop herself. Mark glanced at her again, as if trying to read her face, to judge her worth. A heartbeat later his eyes softened, and his face fell into the tired lines she was becoming familiar with.

‘He’s in a care home. For the elderly.’ Leah studied him, trying to guess his age and therefore how old his father might be. Mark caught her scrutiny and smiled a tiny, bitter smile. ‘He’s seventy years old, in case you’re wondering. But he has early-onset dementia.’

‘Oh. I’m … really sorry to hear that.’

‘It’s wretched. It’s a wretched, awful thing to happen to a good, kind man; and it’s completely unfair. Which is how life is, I suppose. The last time I went to see him, he didn’t recognise me at all,’ Mark said, in a monotone, as he came over to the island with the frying pan and served the omelette onto two plates.

‘Thank you,’ Leah murmured.

‘Don’t mention it.’ He sat down opposite her and started to shovel the eggs into his mouth as if she wasn’t even there, his gaze far away again, jaw working mechanically. Leah picked up her fork and began to eat slowly. He’d scorched the bottom of the omelette, and the mushrooms hadn’t cooked through, sitting hard and dry inside the folds of egg. She picked at it politely, trying to keep a smile from her lips as she watched Mark chew and chew at his raw mushrooms, his attention finally returning to the room, and to her. ‘This is bloody awful,’ he said at last, and Leah smiled ruefully, nodding her head. ‘Come on, let’s go to the pub.’