Last Summer at Home
William arrives on a Wednesday, when the midday sun is already warming the slate roof until it crackles with heat. The garden gate fell off its hinges three years ago. He steps over it and pauses in front of the porch. Three steps lead upone is rotted right through. He carefully tests his weight on the second, then moves on.
Inside, the air is heavy and stalea faint scent of mice lingers. Dust lies thick on the windowsills, and a cobweb stretches from one beam to the old dresser in the corner of the sitting room. William forces open the window, its frame stiff and swollen, flooding the room with the sharp freshness of nettles and dry grass from outside. He walks through all four rooms, ticking off a mental list: mop the floors, check the fireplace, fix the leaky pipe in the summer kitchen, throw away anything thats mouldy. Then call Andrew, Mum, the nieces and nephews. Tell them: come down in August, lets spend a month here as we used to.
Once, that was what summers meanttwenty-five years ago, when Dad was alive and every summer the house was filled with family. William remembers making jam in the copper pot, his brothers lugging buckets from the well, his mother reading stories aloud on the veranda in the long evenings. When Dad died, Mum moved to town to live with the youngest, and the house was boarded up. William returned once a year to check it hadnt been looted, then left again. But this spring, something clicked inside him: he had to try to bring it all back, just once.
He works alone for the first week. He clears out the chimney, replaces two planks on the porch, scrubs the windows. Drives into the village to buy paint and cement, arranges for an electrician to come by and look at the wiring. The parish council chair, spotting him at the shop, shakes his head.
Why put money into this old heap, Will? Youll sell it in the end.
William shrugs.
Not before autumn, he replies, and walks on.
Andrew is first to turn up, Saturday evening, wife and two kids in tow. He climbs out of the car, takes in the garden, and grimaces.
You seriously think well stay here a whole month?
Three weeks, William corrects him. The kids could use the fresh air. You too.
Theres not even a shower.
Theres a proper English bathhouse, William offers. Ill fire it up tonight.
The childrena boy of eleven and a girl of eightamble off to the swing William strung yesterday from the old oak. Andrews wife, Catherine, hauls a shopping bag of groceries indoors in silence. William helps carry luggage. His brother is still frowning, but says nothing.
Mum arrives on Monday, brought by a friendly neighbour. She steps into the house, pauses in the sitting room, and sighs.
Everythings so small, she murmurs. I remember it bigger.
You havent been here for thirty years, Mum.
Thirty-two.
She goes into the kitchen, running a hand over the countertop.
It was always cold in here. Dad promised to put in proper heatingnever got around to it.
Theres no nostalgia in her voice, just tiredness. William brews her a cup of tea and seats her on the veranda. Mum sits gazing into the orchard, talking about how hard it was lugging water, how her back ached after laundry day, how the neighbours would gossip. William listens and realises: for her, this house is not a nest, but an old wound.
That night, when Mum has gone to bed, William and Andrew sit by the fire in the garden. The children are asleep and Catherine is reading by candlelightthe electricians have only rewired half the house so far.
Why are you doing all this? Andrew asks, watching the flames.
I wanted to get us all together.
We see each other at Christmas and Easter.
Its not the same.
Andrew smirks.
Youre a dreamer, Will. You think three weeks here will make us all close again?
I dont know, William admits. I just wanted to try.
Andrew is silent for a while, then his tone softens:
Im glad you did this, actually. Really. But dont expect a miracle.
Williams not expecting one. But he can hope.
The next days are filled with chores. William mends the fence, Andrew helps patch the shed roof. The boy, Harry, is bored at first, but finds old fishing tackle in the shed and disappears to the river for hours. The girl, Daisy, helps Gran weed the little patch William hurriedly dug by the south wall.
One afternoon, as they all paint the veranda together, Catherine bursts out laughing.
We look like something out of an old storybookplaying at country folk.
Country folk at least had a plan, grumbles Andrew, but the corners of his mouth twitch.
William sees everyone slowly relaxing. In the evenings, they gather round the long veranda table for supper, Mum makes soup, Catherine bakes pies with cottage cheese bought from Mrs West at the end of the lane. Conversation is always about the little things: where to buy a decent mosquito net, should they cut back the grass under the windows, has the pump been fixed yet.
Then one evening, with the children in bed, Mum says:
Your Dad wanted to sell this house. Year before he died.
William freezes with his mug halfway to his lips. Andrew scowls.
Why?
He was tired. Kept saying the house was a millstone. He wanted a flat closer to the surgery. I said no. Thought this was our family home. We argued. It never sold, and then he was gone.
William puts down his cup.
Do you blame yourself?
I dont know. Im justtired of this place. Everything here reminds me I got my way, and he missed his peace.
Andrew leans back.
Mum, you never said.
You never asked.
William looks at heran old woman, hands rough from a lifetimes work, shoulders slumped, and sees it clearly: she never saw the house as treasure, only as a burden.
Maybe we should have sold, he says quietly.
Maybe, Mum replies. But you grew up here. That must count for something.
What, exactly?
She looks up at him.
That you remember how you once werebefore you all went your separate ways.
William doesnt know what to make of these words right away. But next day, when he, Andrew and Harry walk to the river and the boy catches his first perch, he sees Andrew throw his arm round his sons shoulders and laughreally laugh, the tiredness gone. That evening, when Mum tells Daisy how she once taught her father to read on this very veranda, William hears not sadness, butsomething else. Perhaps acceptance.
They decide to leave on Sunday. The night before, William heats up the bathhouse, and everyone steams together before sipping tea under the awning. Harry asks if theyll come back next year. Andrew glances at William, but says nothing.
Next morning, William helps pack up. Mum hugs him tightly.
Thank you for bringing me here.
I thought it might be better than it was.
It was good. In its own way.
Andrew claps him on the back.
Do what you like, Will. Sell the place if you wantI wont object.
Well see.
The car pulls away, dust settling in its wake. William wanders back to the house. He gathers the last dishes, tosses out rubbish, checks each window, bolts each door. He digs out the old padlock he found in the shed, rusty but solid, and hangs it on the gate.
He stands at the gate, looking at the housethe new paint, the solid porch, the bright clean windows. The house looks alive. But William knows its just an illusion. A house is alive only when filled with people. For three weeks it had life. Maybe thats enough.
He gets in his car and drives away. The roof flashes in the rear-view mirror for a moment, then the trees close in. William bumps down the rutted lane, thinking that come autumn, hell ring the estate agent. But for nowfor now hell remember how they all sat laughing together at the table, how Mum chuckled at Andrews jokes, how Harry grinned with his catch of the day.
The house did its job. It brought them all together. Maybe thats enough to let go without regret.
