Days Without Number by Robert Goddard Read Free Book Online

was also original, and looked it, despite re-roofing. It shared what had once been the farmyard with a large and unattractive garage. There was a flower garden at the front, divided by a path that led straight to the door from a pedestrian gate on to the lane. Once it had passed Trennor, this lane dwindled into a track - a muddy one at that, thanks to the proximity of a stream that trickled down from the hill above into a creek several fields to the south.
    Before reaching the house, the lane ran past the long, Cornish-hedged lawn that old Godfrey had fashioned out of a weed-choked paddock. From an approaching car this was the first part of the property that came into sight round a kink in the lane to the west. It led, like a broad green carpet, towards the house itself.
    Many years' worth of memories were compressed into the moment when Irene steered out of the bend late on Sunday morning and Nick saw the lawn, and then the house, ahead of
    48
    them. Every arrival of his childhood - Easter, summer and Christmas - was simultaneously conjured in his mind. In early years, his mother had driven Irene, Anna and him down in the Mini, while his father had taken Andrew and Basil in the Rover. Later, about the age of eleven, Nick had been elevated to the boys' car. He smiled at the recollection of how proud that had made him, seeming to smell again as he did so the exact scents of the worn leather seats and his father's pipe smoke.
    'I'm glad you're in a good mood,' said Irene, glancing round at him. 'Let's hope it lasts.'
    Irene's apprehensiveness had been apparent all morning. She had blamed it on worries about whether Moira and Robbie, her bar assistants, would be able to cope with the Sunday lunchtime trade at the Old Ferry. Nick had not even tried to reassure her on the point. He knew her state of mind had nothing to do with Moira and Robbie. And he strongly suspected that she knew he knew. 'What do you think Mum would say about all this?' he asked as Irene slowed for the turn into the yard.
    'She'd see it as a heaven-sent opportunity to move somewhere smaller and more manageable.'
    Yes, Nick silently agreed, she probably would, being even less sentimental than their father. And she would know how to manipulate the old man into agreeing with her. It remained to be seen whether her children would prove equal to the task.
    'Good. The others are already here.'
    Since Nick was supposed to be the surprise package of the day, it had been agreed that they should arrive last. Andrew's Land Rover and Anna's Micra were standing next to each other in the lee of the barn. Irene pulled in behind them and stopped.
    'Here we go, then.' She lowered the sun-visor and squinted into the mirror, primping her hair and checking her makeup. 'Over the bloody top.'
    'We're not going into battle, Irene.'
    49
    'Go on thinking that and you could end up as the first casualty.'
    'There don't need to be any casualties.'
    'OK.' Irene took a deep breath. 'I'll be calm and positive. And the soul of diplomacy. Will that do?'
    'If you can keep it up.'
    'Think I can't?'
    'I'm not saying that. I just--'
    'Come on,' she cut him short, opening the door and turning to climb out. 'Let's get on with it.'
    Michael Paleologus at home among his children was as rare a spectacle as it was deceptive. He looked every inch the fond and doting parent, smiling and joking as they gathered round. He appeared both surprised and pleased when Nick came in with Irene and emphasized how it did his heart good to see them all together.
    Only the addition of the words 'here at Trennor', accompanied by a knowing twitch of his smile, hinted at the argument they had come to present.
    Nick's first impression was that Irene and Anna had exaggerated their father's frailty. True, he was rounder shouldered and thinner than ever, but no more so than the general ageing process could account for. This was a man, after all, born in the summer the Battle of the Somme had been waged, whose first memory of