The Last Summer at Home
Edward arrived on a Wednesday, just as the afternoon sun began melting the moss off the roof, making the slates creak put it down to good old British weather. The gate had come off its hinges about three years ago, so he simply stepped over it and stopped at the front steps. There were three: the bottom one was nothing but rotted splinters. He tested the second one gingerly before making his way up.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale mice and old dust; the kind of mustiness that seems to hang on out of stubbornness. Sunbeams fell on the windowsills through a haze of grime, and a cobweb stretched bravely from a ceiling beam over to the grandfather clock. Edward forced open a sash window it took a good bit of effort and the living room was instantly flooded with the scent of nettles and sunbaked grass drifting in from the garden. He wandered through all four rooms, forming a mental checklist: mop the floors, scrub the range, sort out the plumbing in the summer kitchen, bin everything mouldier than a Stilton. Then ring up Richard, his mother, and the nephews: Come for August lets have the month here, like old times.
Old times meaning some twenty-five years ago, when Dad was still about and every summer the family reunited here. Edward remembered them making jam in the copper pan, his brothers lugging buckets from the well, Mum reading stories on the veranda as twilight fell. Then Dad died, Mum moved to the city with the youngest, and the house was shuttered. Edward would turn up annually to make sure the place hadnt been shredded by burglars, then head back. But this spring, something inside him went, Right, its now or never. Lets try bringing it back just once.
For the first week, Edward worked alone. He cleared the chimney, replaced two planks on the porch, and washed the windows within an inch of their lives. He motored into town for paint and cement, and badgered a local electrician about the ancient wiring. The parish council chair, bumping into him outside the shop, shook his head.
Why bother, Ed? Youll flog it off soon anyway.
Not before autumn, said Edward, and left it at that.
Richard arrived first, Saturday evening, with his wife and their two kids. He squinted critically at the garden as he clambered out of the Volvo.
You actually think well survive a month here?
Three weeks, Edward corrected him. The kids could do with a bit of country air, and so could you.
Theres not even a shower.
Theres a proper bathhouse. Ill fire it up tonight.
The children, an eleven-year-old boy and an eight-year-old girl, shuffled off unenthusiastically towards the swing Edward had hoisted up in the old oak. Richards wife, Harriet, breezed silently into the house dragging a carrier loaded with shopping. Edward carried the rest of the bags. Richard was still frowning, but kept his thoughts to himself.
Mum arrived on Monday, neighbour Mrs. Jenkins driving her over in her battered Nissan. Inside, she paused in the front room and looked around.
It all seems so small, she whispered. I remembered it… bigger.
You havent been here in thirty years, Mum.
Thirty-two, she corrected him.
She drifted to the kitchen, running her fingers along the scratched worktop.
It was always freezing in here. Your father promised central heating but never got round to it.
Edward could hear not nostalgia in her voice, but fatigue. He made her a cup of tea and settled her on the veranda. Sitting there, gazing into the overgrown apple trees, she recounted how tough it was hauling water, how her back ached after the washing, how the neighbours gossiped. Edward listened, realising the house wasnt a cosy nest for her, but rather an old bruise that throbbed if you touched it.
Once shed gone to bed that evening, Edward and Richard sat by a fire in the garden. The kids were already asleep, Harriet was reading by candlelight only half the house had electricity working.
What are you getting out of all this? Richard asked, watching the flames.
I wanted us all together again.
We see each other. At Christmas.
Its not the same.
Richard gave a half-smile. Youre a dreamer, Ed. Hoping three weeks here will make us a closeted, cheerful lot?
I dont know, Edward admitted. I just wanted to try.
Richard hesitated. After a moment he spoke more gently. Im glad you did, honestly. But dont hold your breath for a miracle.
Edward didnt expect a miracle. But he did hope for something.
The following days were busy ones. Edward mended more of the fence, Richard helped re-tile the shed roof. The boy, Oliver, moped at first but then uncovered a pile of rods in the shed and vanished daily to the river. The girl, Emily, happily weeded beds with her grandmother, where Edward had hastily planted a run of beans by the south wall.
One afternoon, while everyone was slapping new paint on the veranda rails, Harriet broke into laughter.
Were like a peculiar commune, really!
Communes usually have a plan, muttered Richard, but he was smiling.
Edward noticed the tension starting to drift away. Evenings they dined together at the long table outside, Mum made soups, Harriet baked pies from eggs and cheese bought down the village. Their talk was cheerfully mundane: where to get mosquito nets, whether to mow under the windows, had anyone fixed the pump yet.
But one evening, just as the kids were tucked up, Mum said quietly:
Your father wanted to sell this house. The year before he died.
Edward froze, mug in hand. Richard frowned.
Why?
He was tired. Said the house was an anchor round his neck. Wanted to move to town, get a little flat near the surgery. I was against it thought we should keep our family place. We quarrelled. He died, and it never got sold.
Edward set down his mug.
Do you blame yourself?
Im not sure. I just got so tired of the place. Everything here reminds me I insisted, and he never got his peace.
Richard leant back in his chair.
You never mentioned this before, Mum.
You never asked.
Edward gazed at her. She sat hunched, her hands gnarled by years of work now he saw this house wasnt her treasure, but a weight.
Maybe we should have sold it, he said very softly.
Maybe, agreed Mum. But you grew up here. Thats something.
What does it mean, though?
She looked up at him.
That you remember who you were. Before life blew us all apart.
At first, Edward didn’t believe it made a difference. But next day, by the river, as Oliver reeled in his first perch and Richard threw an arm round his shoulder and roared with laughter real laughter, not the tired holiday kind he felt he might have been wrong. And that evening, when Mum sat telling Emily how she once taught their dad to read right there on the veranda, Edward caught something new in her voice. Not pain anymore perhaps forgiveness.
They were due to leave on Sunday. The night before, Edward fired up the bathhouse and together they steamed and thumped each other with birch twigs, before retreating to the veranda for a last cup of tea. Oliver asked if theyd come again next summer, Richard looked at Edward but said nothing.
Sunday morning, Edward packed up the car. Mum hugged him at the gate.
Thank you for inviting us.
I thought it might be better, you know.
It was good in its way.
Richard clapped him on the back. Sell it if you want. I dont mind.
Well see.
The car pulled away, dust rising on the lane. Edward wandered through the empty rooms, gathered up leftover dishes, took out the bins. Then he shut the windows and locked up. He fetched an old iron padlock hed found in the shed and fixed it to the gate. Heavy, rusty, but solid as anything.
Standing there at the edge of the garden, he looked back at the house. The roof was neat, porch sturdy, windows gleaming. It looked alive, almost. But Edward knew looks could be deceiving. A house only lives when people are in it. For three weeks, it had been alive. Maybe that was enough.
He got in his car and set off. In the rearview mirror, he caught a final glimpse of the roof until the trees swallowed it. Edward drove slowly down the bumpy track, thinking hed ring the estate agent come autumn. But for now for now, hed hold onto the memory of them at the table, Mum laughing at Richards dry jokes, Oliver waving that unlucky fish about.
The house had done its job. It had brought them back together. And, for now, that was enough to let it go gently.
