The Song of Hartgrove Hall by Natasha Solomons Read Free Book Online Page B

wrappers.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜No to which, Robin? You need to be clear. No, you haven’t had breakfast or no, you aren’t hungry?’
    He studied me for a moment before screwing up his face.
    â€˜No.’
    I decided that whatever the little bugger thought, I wanted breakfast – I sensed already that I might need some sustenance for what lay ahead. He watched me, motionless, as I ate toast and drank tea. He stuck a finger up his nose. I offered him a hankie. He declined. He grabbed a glass of orange juice and tipped it down his front. I handed him a towel. He chucked it on the floor and proceeded to remove his damp shirt, and then also his shoes, followed by histrousers. I felt a creep of unease as I contemplated the hours before me.
    â€˜Aren’t you cold?’ I enquired, politely.
    â€˜No.’ He removed his socks. ‘Where’s Grandma?’
    I suddenly felt terribly tired. Surely Clara had explained it to him. I rifled through the appropriate vocabulary. ‘Grandma’s passed away.’
    â€˜Is she in heaven?’ asked Robin.
    â€˜I suppose so,’ I answered, anxious to have the conversation concluded, whether or not I believed it was true.
    Robin paused for a moment, considering.
    â€˜I hate heaven,’ he announced. ‘It’s full of dead people.’
    â€˜Have some toast and marmalade,’ I said.
    â€”
    Concerned for the fate of the kitchen cupboards, should I have left him alone while I showered and dressed, I persuaded him to come with me to the bathroom. He came along surprisingly meekly and watched with interest while I tried to pee.
    â€˜It takes you a long time to wee-wee, Grandpa.’
    â€˜Yes, but it’s not polite to make a comment.’
    I took off my spectacles and stepped into the shower, keeping up a veritable tirade of chit-chat. I was considering that perhaps company wasn’t such a bad thing, when I stepped out of the shower and onto the contents of an entire tube of toothpaste, coiled like a white turd on the bathmat. As I put on my spectacles, I saw that a packet of eight toilet rolls had been disembowelled and shoved down the loo. Robin stood before me in his underpants, wielding the ancient and foul toilet brush like a sword.
    I cleared up the mess as best I could and, failing entirely to persuade Robin back into his clothes, dressed myself sharpish. The boy followed me into the dressing room, chucked out all my shoes onto the carpet and then started totry on Edie’s high heels. As yet I hadn’t been able to face clearing out her things, and Robin took full advantage, yanking a sequinned gown from its hanger and careering around the dressing room with it wrapped around his neck like a spangled python. After one or two feeble attempts at objecting – the boy sensed right away that my heart wasn’t really in it – I watched him. The odd thing was that he didn’t seem to take any pleasure in his mischief. He wreaked havoc but, like a criminal meting out a perfunctory beating on the orders of his boss, his naughtiness had an habitual weariness to it.
    He careered along the corridor towards the open door to the music room, yelping and trailing Edie’s gown along with him. I followed, more curious than anxious as to what he might do, until I saw him rush straight for a photograph album. He pulled it off the chair where I’d left it and started to tear out photos. Pictures of Edie cascaded on the carpet, and I lunged to catch her, but the boy grabbed them out of my hand and with a shriek crumpled them. Desperate, I tried to stop him, but I was too slow and he dodged out of my grasp. I’d never felt such anger towards a child – I’m glad I hadn’t caught him, for if I had I surely would have struck him. Rage spooled inside me. Pure glorious rage. After weeks of nothing but vacant grief I was flooded with colour. I took a moment to revel in it and then looked again