by the sound of a loud bang. I came downstairs and found her dragging Dad’s old desk out into the hall.
I (stupidly) asked her what she was doing.
‘What I should’ve done ages ago,’ she replied without looking up. ‘I’m re-decorating and you can help.’
Of course I’d help. I didn’t like the idea of Mum sorting out Dad’s study on her own. I might have been through everything a zillion times already – I had so many of Dad’s files under my bed they were pushing up through the mattress – but even so, I had to be there in case Mum found something that I’d missed.
The first thing we did was clear out his remaining books and take them down to Guille-Aillez Library. Then we went through the last files and piles of letters. Some of them were shifted to the cupboard under the stairs, others were dumped into bin bags. After that came the hard work of moving the furniture. I don’t think we said a word to each other the whole time we were doing it, and I was sure Mum was angry at me. It was only when we were wrestling with Dad’s old filing cabinet that she spoke, and that was because of the bottle. It rolled out in front of us and came to rest at her big toe, a bit like a hand grenade. We both stood still and stared at it. I thought I’d found and drunk and therefore got rid of most of Dad’s whisky bottles, so I felt a bit guilty for missing this one, but I was also pleased Mum had to see it. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands.
‘Look at the dust on this,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘It looks like it’s been stuck back there for years.’
She turned away from me and took it into the kitchen, and a second later I heard running water as she rinsed it out. I don’t know why she had to wash the bottle straight away – perhaps it made her feel better, or perhaps she knew I’d want to drink it. I tried to shift the cabinet a bit further towards the door and that’s when I noticed the leather folder resting against the skirting board. It must’ve been jammed behind the cabinet as well. I heard the back door slam and guessed Mum was tramping down the garden path to the bins. I opened the folder quickly, hoping I’d find something else she wouldn’t like.
Grandma’s death certificate fluttered out. Underneath it was a tiny black prayer book with gold-edged pages. The name ‘Hubert E.W. Rozier’ was written inside. Grandpa had impossibly fancy handwriting, the way only old-fashioned people do, and I ran my fingers over its loops and curves. There were also some yellowed press cuttings folded up messily. Grandma had kept the notice in the press announcing Grandpa’s death, and there were cuttings of other death notices from her side of the family. I was a bit surprised by this, since I’d never had her down as a sentimental person. There was also a long thin envelope with pale green stamps that didn’t look as old. I remember thinking the stamps were worth keeping. But I was distracted by another discovery – seven A4 sheets folded up at the back, some in Dad’s handwriting.
I scanned the first page and felt a horrible prickling at my temples. Poor Dad. He’d never stopped trying to finish Uncle Charlie’s story, and he must’ve asked Grandma for help, because her name was scribbled in the margins. But there were so many crossings-out. Maybe Grandma was too old to remember by the time Dad got round to asking. Maybe that’s why Dad got meaner. Or maybe he got meaner because Grandma died. Or maybe he got meaner after he started drinking.
And maybe I was mean to Mr McCracken because Dad was mean to me. That’s what happens, hate or anger is passed down from one person to another, and you never hit the right target because you always aim too late. Mum used to promise me that Dad did love us, she said he just didn’t know how to show it. But he could have written it, couldn’t he? Why didn’t he write it?
I thought if I copied out Dad’s notes then I’d understand them better, for myself. So I left Mum rinsing out the filing cabinet on the patio and cycled up to Island Wide. I wanted to buy