The Last Summer at Home
William arrives on Wednesday, just as the sun edges past midday, heating the roof until the tiles creak with the warmth. The garden gate dropped off its hinges three years ago; William simply steps over it and pauses before the porch. Three steps rise up, the bottom one rotted straight through. He treads carefully on the second, testing its strength, then continues inside.
A musty tang of stale air and mice lingers within. Dust carpets the window sills, and in the lounge, cobwebs stretch from the beam to the old sideboard. William forces open a window; the frame finally gives, and a rush of hot nettle and dry grass scents roll in from the garden. He tours all four rooms, making a mental list: mop the floors, check the old stove, fix the leaky tap in the summer kitchen, throw away anything thats mouldered. Then hell ring Andrew, Mum, and the nephews. Invite them: come over in August, lets spend a month here, just like old times.
Old timesits been a full quarter-century since they did this, when Dad was still alive and every summer they gathered here, the whole family. William remembers making jam in a copper pan, how the brothers dragged water in buckets from the well, how every evening Mum would read aloud on the veranda. Then Dad died, Mum moved to a flat in the city with the youngest, the house was shuttered. William kept coming once a year to check no one had broken in, then returned to town. But something clicked in him this spring: he had to try and get it back, just once.
For the first week, William works alone. He cleans the chimney, replaces two porch planks, scrubs the windows. He drives into the market town for paint and cement, wrangles with an electrician to sort out the wiring. The parish chairman spots him outside the shop and shakes his head.
Why bother pouring money into this, Will? Youll only end up selling it.
William answers flatly, Not before autumn, and walks on.
Andrews the first to arrive, Saturday evening, with his wife and two children in tow. Crawling out of the car, he surveys the garden and wrinkles his nose.
You really think well last a month here?
Three weeks, William corrects. Fresh air for the kids. Do you some good too.
There isnt even a shower.
Theres the old wash-house. Ill stoke it up tonight.
The childrena boy of eleven and a girl of eightslouch over to the swings William rigged up yesterday on the ancient oak. Andrews wife, Emily, heads into the house without a word, hauling a big bag of groceries behind her. William helps unpack. Andrew is still frowning, but doesnt say more.
Their mother comes on Monday, delivered by a neighbour. She steps inside, halts in the middle of the lounge and sighs.
Everything feels so small, she murmurs. I remember it being bigger.
You havent been here in thirty years, Mum.
Thirty-two.
She wanders into the kitchen, trailing her hand over the worktop.
It was always cold in here. Your father said hed put in heating, but never did in the end.
William cant hear nostalgia in her voiceonly weariness. He pours her a cup of tea, settles her on the veranda. She sits watching the orchard and talks of how hard it was lugging water, how her back ached from the laundry, how the neighbours used to gossip. William listens, realising for her this place isn’t a fond refuge, but an old wound.
That evening, once Mums gone to bed, William and Andrew sit by a firepit in the garden. The children sleep; Emilys inside reading by candlelightthe wiring only stretches to half the house so far.
Why are you doing all this? Andrew asks, staring into the flames.
Wanted us all together.
We see each other on holidays anyway.
Its not the same.
Andrew snorts. Will, youre being sentimental. Think three weeks here will turn us into some perfect family?
Ive no idea, William admits. I just thought it was worth a try.
Andrews silent for a moment, then softens. Im glad you did. Dont expect miracles though.
William hasnt, but hes quietly hoping.
The following days are filled with chores. William mends the fence, Andrew helps patch the shed roof. The boy, Henry, starts out bored but discovers a stash of old rods in the shed and disappears to the river most days. The girl, Lucy, helps their grandmother weed the hastily dug veg beds by the south wall.
One afternoon, as theyre all painting the veranda, Emily bursts out laughing.
Were like some sort of commune.
Communes at least have a plan, grumbles Andrew, but hes grinning now.
William notices the tension softening. Every evening they dine at the big table on the veranda; Mum simmers soup, Emily bakes cheese and onion pies with curd from the village shop. Conversation is all practicalities: where to get a proper mosquito net, whether to strim the grass under the windows, if the pump is finally fixed.
One evening, after the children are in bed, Mum says suddenly, Your father wanted to sell this place. The year before he died.
William freezes, mug in hand. Andrews brow tightens.
Why?
He was exhausted. Said the house was an anchor. He wanted a flat in town, close to the hospital. I wouldnt have itsaid it was ours, the family place. We argued. He never sold it, then a year later he was gone.
William sets his mug down.
Do you blame yourself?
I dont know. Im just tired of this house. It only reminds me how I insisted, and he never got to enjoy peace.
Andrew leans back heavily in his chair.
Mum, you never mentioned this before.
You never asked.
William studies her, noticing for the first time the stoop in her shoulders, the worn hands. For her, the house isnt a treasure, but a burden.
Maybe we should have sold, he says softly.
Maybe, she replies. But you all grew up here. That must count for something.
What, exactly?
She looks at him, eyes bright.
That you remember who you were. Before life scattered you all over.
He doesnt believe her at first. But next day, with Andrew and Henry fishing at the river, the boy catches his first perch. Andrew throws his arm round his sons shoulders and laughs, truly, without strain. And that evening, as Mum recalls to Lucy how she taught her father to read here on this veranda, William hears not pain, but something elseperhaps a bit of peace.
Theyre set to leave on Sunday. The night before, William fires up the old wash-house, and they all bathe together, then drink tea on the veranda. Henry asks if theyll come back next year. Andrew glances at William but gives no answer.
In the morning, William helps load the car. Mum hugs him goodbye.
Thank you for asking us.
I hoped it would be better.
It was good. In its own way.
Andrew claps him on the back.
Sell it if you want. I wont mind.
Well see.
The car disappears down the lane, dust settling in its wake. William returns inside, walks through the rooms, collects the last bits of crockery, takes out the rubbish. He closes the windows, locks the doors. From his pocket, he pulls an old iron padlock hed found in the shed, and fixes it to the gate. The lock is heavy, rusted, but still strong.
He stands at the end of the path, gazing at the house. The roof is sound, the porch solid, the windows bright. The house looks alive. But William knows its only appearance. A house is alive only when its full of people. For three weeks, it was alive. Perhaps thats enough.
He gets in his car and drives off. In the rear-view mirror, the roof flashes past before the trees swallow it up. William rolls along the bumpy lane, thinking that hell ring an estate agent in autumn. For nowhell remember them all at the table, Mum laughing at Andrews quip, Henry showing off his catch.
The house has done what it needed to do. It brought them together. That, William thinks, is enough to let it go in peace.
