All That I Leave Behind by Alison Walsh Read Free Book Online Page A

pocket and shoving it under the catch, giving it a twist as he did so. The catch lifted with a sudden snap. He had to tug at it quite hard before the lid lifted with a groan. The smell of must and damp hit his nostrils, and he pinched his nose. He’d always hated that smell, which was ironic considering the state of the house. When the leaves fell in autumn, he’d have to wear a mask over his face to sweep them up, trying not to inhale the smell of decay.
    There’s no paint here anyway, he thought, pushing aside a set of black tails, obviously part of a morning suit, shiny with age and wear, and a battered-looking top hat. Where had all of this stuff come from, he wondered as he lifted up a fox-fur stole, the head of the fox looking as if something had been chewing on it, its eyes like little black marbles in its head. ‘You’re disgusting,do you know that?’ he addressed the dead fox. ‘Mammy would have a heart attack if she could see you. I saw her in action, you know, outside Sunday Mass. Headmaster’s wife, as I remember. Poor woman didn’t get over being asked if she’d wear her child’s skin to Mass. She still looks at me funny. But that was Mammy.’ He threw Mr Fox back into the trunk, feeling suddenly irritable and out of sorts. What the hell was he doing, talking to a dead fox? And where were those tins of paint? He reached up to close the lid of the trunk when something caught his eye, the corner of something hard and shiny. He pushed the dead fox aside and the lacquered top of a box appeared, black, with a pinky-white chrysanthemum painted on the front.
    He gave the box a little shake. It felt quite heavy, and whatever was inside it gave a little thud. It, too, had a catch, an ornate one in the shape of a Chinese symbol, and it only took a little push to open it. He placed it on the floor underneath the light to get a closer look, because he couldn’t see properly in anything but the brightest light these days, and he scanned the box’s contents.
    It took a while for him to understand. He could see what each item was, but his brain just didn’t register. It should have done, because he knew the writing so well, but he just couldn’t understand what it was doing, their names neatly printed on the brown card luggage labels with their string ties and carefully Sellotaped to the objects. Pius picked the book up first, the weight of it too heavy for one hand. The smell of old book hit his nostrils and it was all he could do not to retch as he opened it, the title engraved on the second of the mottled brown pages.
Gone with the Wind
, Margaret Mitchell. The name on the top read ‘June Spencer’. Must have been one of Mammy’s family. Pius shook his head and closed the book, pulling the luggage label into the light so that he could decipher the name on it. ‘June O’Connor’.
    He blinked for a few minutes then put the book down. His wrist ached from the weight of it. He looked at the label again, at Mammy’s handwriting. His mouth felt dry and he swallowed, pushing the lump in his throat back down a little bit and he could hear the blood pumping in his ears, a steady whump-whump. He only thought for a second about shoving the things back into the box: the desire to hold them, to examine them, to understand them was too strong. His hand shook as he picked up the scroll of rolled-up paper. It had his name on it. Hands shaking, he pulled at the little bit of Sellotape that held the scroll together and rolled it out, squinting in the light. ‘A French Potager’ read the title at the top, and beneath it, a map of rows of broad beans, cabbages, potatoes, nasturtiums, pansies. A miniature apple tree shaded rows of primula and a raised bed with ‘turnips’ marked on it.
    It was like a voice from the dead. As if she were standing beside him, showing him the map, pointing out the shady spots where the ferns would thrive and the well-drained soil that would be needed for the root veg. If he closed his eyes,