The Last Summer at Home
I arrived on a Wednesday, just as the sun was climbing high and the heat on the slate roof made it snap and creak. The garden gate had long slipped from its hinges must have been three years or so now so I stepped over it and paused at the porch. Three steps led up, the bottom one half-rotted. I tested the second with my weight and moved carefully on.
Inside, the place smelled faintly of mice and stale air. Dust rested evenly along the windowsills, and in the corner of the lounge, a web stretched from the beam to the old sideboard. I shoved open the window; the frame groaned, but I managed it, and the warm scent of nettles and dry grass from the back garden flooded in. Walking round all four rooms, I started a mental list: scrub the floors, check the fireplace, sort out the plumbing in the summer kitchen, throw away anything thats gone foul. Then ring Andrew, Mum, the nieces and nephews. Tell them: come over for August, lets spend a month here, the lot of us, just like we used to.
Just like we used tothat was twenty-five years ago, when Dad was alive and every summer saw us all crowding round this house. I remembered making jam in the copper pan, my brothers hauling pails of water from the old well, Mum reading stories out loud on the veranda in the purple evenings. Then Dad died, and Mum moved into town with my younger brother, and the house was boarded up. Id come each year to check it was still standing, that no one had pinched anything, and then Id head back. But something shifted in me this spring: I wanted, needed, to try and bring that life back. Just once more.
The first week, it was just me. I swept the chimney, replaced two boards on the porch, washed the windows. Drove into the market town for paint and cement, sorted an electrician for the wiring. The parish chairman, spotting me outside the village shop, raised his eyebrows.
Whats the point, Will? he said. Sinking money into this heap? Youll sell it soon enough.
Not until autumn, I said, and walked on.
Andrew came up first, Saturday evening, with his wife and their two. He climbed out of the car, squinting around the garden.
Youre really planning to keep us here for a whole month?
Three weeks, I corrected him. The kids could use the air, and so could you.
There isnt even a shower.
Theres a proper bathhouse out back. Ill get it heated up tonight.
The children, a boy of eleven and a girl of eight, drifted towards the old swing Id hung on the oak tree the day before. Andrews wife, Emily, said little, just hauled the shopping bags through to the kitchen. I helped unload the rest, Andrew frowning but keeping his peace.
Mum arrived Monday, brought over by the neighbour in his car. She stopped in the lounge, glanced around and sighed.
It all looks so small, she murmured. I remembered it bigger.
Youve not set foot here in thirty years, Mum.
Thirty-two, she admitted, moving to the kitchen, touching the counter as if feeling for memories.
Always was cold in here, she said. Dad always promised hed get the central heating sorted, but never bothered in the end.
I could hear not nostalgia but a kind of tiredness in her voice. I made a pot of tea and settled her under the shade of the veranda. She sat gazing at the garden, telling me about the endless days lugging water, the ache in her back from laundry, the gossip in the village. I listened and finally realised: for her, this place wasnt a nest; it was an old scar.
That evening, with Mum asleep, Andrew and I sat by a small fire outside. The children were already in bed, Emily was reading by candlelightelectricity reached only one half of the house so far.
Why are you doing this? Andrew asked, staring at the flames.
I wanted a get-together.
We see each other at Christmas.
Its not the same.
He gave a wry smile. Youre a hopeless romantic, Will. Think three weeks out here will tie us all closer?
I dont know, I said honestly. I just wanted to try.
He was quiet for a bit, then softened. Im glad you did. Honestly. But dont expect a miracle.
I didnt. But hope clung on.
The days after that blurred with work. I patched the fence; Andrew helped redo the shed roof. The boy, Jack, sulked at first but then found a stash of old fishing rods and vanished off to the riverbank each morning. Alice helped Mum weed the vegetable beds Id hastily dug along the southern wall.
One day, as we painted the veranda together, Emily suddenly burst out laughing.
Were like a team of Scouts on camp or something!
At least they had a plan, Andrew grunted, but there was a hint of a grin on his face.
It seemed, at last, that the tension was easing. Evenings saw us clustered around the old veranda table, eating together. Mum made stews, Emily baked cheesecakes using cottage cheese from the nearby farm. The talk drifted from here to there: where to buy a new flyscreen, whether the grass needed cutting by the back hedge, if the pump was fixed yet.
But one night, after the children had gone up, Mum spoke.
Your father wanted to sell this place, you know. The year before he died.
The mug tightened in my hand. Andrew frowned.
Why?
He was worn out. Said the house was like an anchor holding him down. Wanted a flat in town, closer to the surgery. I argued. Said this was ours, our familys. We had a row and he never did sell, then he was gone a year later.
I set my cup down gently.
Do you blame yourself?
I dont know. I just I am tired of this place. Everything here reminds me how stubborn I was, how he never got that quiet life in the end.
Andrew leant back.
You never told us, Mum.
You never asked.
Looking at her thenher hands worn, her back bowedI finally saw it: this house was no treasure for her. It was just heavy.
Maybe it should have been sold, I said quietly.
Perhaps, she answered. But you all grew up here. That must count for something.
Counts for what, exactly?
She looked up at me, something softer in her gaze.
Counts for remembering who you were. Before life sent you all off in different directions.
It took a while for me to believe her. But the next day, after we wandered down to the riverAndrew, Jack and Iand Jack landed his very first perch, I saw my brothers face as he hugged his son, and for once he laughed easily, not strained. Later that night, Mum told Alice how she used to teach their dad to read out on this very veranda, and I heard in her voice not regret but something almost peaceful. Maybe, at last, letting go.
We planned to leave Sunday. The night before, I fired up the bathhouse. We all steamed ourselves silly, then drank tea outside on the veranda. Jack looked up, asked if wed come back next year. Andrew glanced at me, but said nothing.
The following morning I helped load the last things into the car. Mum hugged me tight.
Thank you, William, for bringing me back.
I thoughthopeditd be better, Mum.
It was good, in its own way.
Andrew clapped my back.
If you decide to sell, its fine by me.
Well see.
When the cars dust had finally settled, I wandered the house one last time. Collected the odd bowls, cleared the rubbish. Closed the freshly painted windows, locked the doors. Then I took the old rusty padlockfound it in the shed that first nightand clicked it shut on the gate. Heavy, battered, but it held.
I stood at the gate and looked back at the house. The roof was straight, the porch sound, the windows shiny and clear. It looked almost alive. But I knew it was an illusion. A house only lives while there are people in it. For three weeks, it truly lived. Maybe, I thought, maybe thats enough.
Starting the car, I saw the roof glint in the rear-view mirror, then the trees swallowed it. The road home was slow and rough, but my mind was filled not with endings but with a kind of gratitudememories of us laughing round the table, Mum giggling at Andrews jokes, Jack waving his fish for all to see.
The house had served its purpose. It had brought us together. That, I suppose, was enough to finally set it free.
