Silver by Scott Cairns Read Free Book Online

recall vividly that first evening spent under my father’s roof after his death. I didn’t sleep at all but lay curled under the eiderdown upon my childhood bed. The room was chill from the January air seeping around the ill-fitting frames. With the draft behind them, the heavy curtains seemed to breathe on their own, like great velvet bellows moving in time with my own deep breathing.
            My face was dry; I was quite unable to call to mind any grief at my loss. The opposite was true as I could not lay claim on any one emotion for long. Confusion tried to wash over me but its cold fingers were at once met by the scorching edge of fury.  I lay stunned like a small bird who had flown, unknowingly, into a dazzling window. 
            John had stayed at the door for only a few moments. I imagine he was in a state of shock of his own and did not stay to try to talk me from my room. I had heard the muffled sounds of his voice and another man’s in the hall below. Heston’s? The Inspector’s? Then I heard the front door slam and the distant sound of those ghastly men outside rose to greet him and then the house fell silent.
            I stayed in the same position all night, my body seemingly frozen both by the cold and the shock of what had come to pass. My mind, however, was feverish. Images of my father loomed out of the black of night.
            … Christmas just gone, my father, the attentive grandparent; his hair, once dark, now silvery in the wintry light from the window. He was listening intently, the hint of a smile playing across his face as Sebastian questioned why the three wise men brought the baby Jesus Gold, Myrrh and Frank Insects…
            … Green Park, a picnic is laid out on the velvet grass. My mother seated on one corner of the blanket, a parasol shielding her pale skin from the summer sun. Her eyes were twinkling as she watched her husband with pride. I am smiling too as I follow her gaze. His summer suit is crisp and well fitting; his hair is well oiled and he is making a play of being a waiter as he un-packs the basket across the blanket. He is laughing…
            …I am in the nursery with one of my nannies; she is berating me for spilling my milk again. I am crestfallen and on the verge of tears when the door opens and my Father’s face appears. He is pulling a sullen face, as long as, I suppose, my own must have been.
    ‘What’s this?’ he enquires before kneeling down, his arms outstretched. Nanny Owen sighs and rolls her eyes as my indulgent father sweeps me up and dries my eyes…
            …I am waiting in the parlour with my mother; John is in my father’s study asking for my hand in marriage. They have both suspected for a while and Mother has been stitching the same row on the hem of an old skirt for the past half an hour. The door opens and my father has his hand upon John’s shoulder, ushering him in to the room. There is little between them in height and whenever I see them together, I marvel at the similarity in features. John’s own darkly oiled hair, the same set of the jaw and the tall, slim build even heir eyes are cast from the same mould: a steely grey, shot with blue. Only, John has a moustache in the new style and my father’s face, as always, is clean-shaven. They are both looking dour and my heart falls into my stomach like a cherry stone. Mother stands, her eyebrows raised.
                  “It seems we are to have a son at last.”
    My father’s face breaks into an almighty smile and he slaps John on the back. I am the happiest I have ever been…
            In all the scenes that play out, I am watching him, him and my mother with an enormous sense of pride. “That is my Father.” I seem to be saying, “That man is my Papa and he is my rock.”
            Tired and confused, I lay upon the bed trying to push out the image of my father’s dead body and the more I tried, the more it