Page 112 of Paper Roses

“That’s nice.”

He falls silent until I say in a provoked voice, “Nothing to say, then?”

“Nothing at all,” he says serenely. “It’s nice that you’re still friends.”

“Yes, friends areverygood,” I say too forcefully.

He grabs the old fence panel and, swearing, we manage to manoeuvre it out of its slot before sliding the new panel in. I step back, sweating as the wind jostles me.

“It needs painting,” I say.

“I’ll do it when we’ve got a clear day. You know she’s going to want to pay a trip to Homebase and pick a new colour.”

I look at the current purple panels. “Hope it’s better than this. It looks like Prince’s bedroom.”

I grab the old panel, take it down the garden to add to the bonfire pile, and then pause to look at the house. The windows are golden jewels in the dark afternoon and a Christmas tree twinkles merrily in the lounge window. It’s funny, but no matter how many years go by, you never stop seeing your parents’ house as home. This old place has witnessed many sad moments in our family history, but for every one of them, there are a thousandmore good memories too. I suppose that’s what Artie was trying to tell me about Mick.

I push the thought of him away with difficulty and after a few moments, I walk back to where Adam’s opened the shed. He gestures at me furtively.

I stare at him. “Why do you look like an old man who’s about to offer me a Werther’s Original if I sit on his lap?”

“Gross,” he says, grimacing. “I’d have at least sprung for a Ferraro Rocher.”

“Well, I am worth it.”

“Thank you, Mister L’Oréal. Come inside the shed. I’ve got some whisky.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

We edge into the shed and grab the camp chairs from the corner. It’s warm and dry in here and smells faintly of creosote. I chuckle as we bang into each other. “We’re a lot bigger than when this was our den.”

“Yours,” he says, retrieving a bottle of whisky from the old cupboard under the sink. “I was only there on sufferance to stop me reporting you to Ma. It was mainly you and Ellis Read.”

“I wonder what happened to him?”

“Prison for fraud.”

“Good grief.” I consider that. “He always thought he was better at maths than reality suggested.”

He starts to laugh and after a second, I join him. When we calm down, I hold out my hand, and he gives me the whisky. I take a sip from the bottle, feeling it burn down to my chest. “God, that’s good.”

“No need to sound surprised. I’m very much a connoisseur when it comes to hiding alcohol from Ma.”

We pass the bottle back and forth, taking turns sipping it and watching as rain starts to fall. It’s light at first, but withinminutes, it becomes a deluge, obscuring our view of the house like a watercolour painting. In the shed, it’s warm and cosy.

Eventually, my brother stirs. “I saw Samantha the other day.”

“Really? Where?”

“Mei dragged me to Harvey Nicks, and she was there. She’s so lovely.”

I smile at the thought of Mick’s mum. “She is. I haven’t been down to Sussex for a while. It would have been too complicated to talk about Artie.”

“Would she be cross you’d got remarried?”

“God, no,” I say, startled. “She always said I should. Said I was meant for marriage.”

“Well, she’s not wrong.”

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