Page 65 of Van Cort
“Where are you going?” he calls after me.
“Tidying away. And then maybe to bed. It’s been a funny day.”
“Pouting? It doesn’t suit you.” He calls after me. The crack of the china plates hitting the worksurface echoes in the kitchen, and I roll my eyes before walking back into the lounge. “Stop it. Just… stop. Tell me something real. Something true, or whatever this was for will be a waste of time.” I hold his eyes, hoping he sees that I’m being brave and serious. There’ve been too many hoops, too many conditions, and that was okay when I thought I was getting something in return, but…
He stands from his seat on the sofa and walks over to me, lifts my hand and wraps it in his to lead us out of the room.
“My father was a cruel and bitter man. That was one of his rooms. He’d stay locked away in his study or in there, keeping me out. Alone. He acted like any shred of kindness was a form of weakness and challenged anything close to it with ruthless barbarity. The fire in the lounge was a nice gesture, but if you want me to be open with you, it’s not going to happen in there, no matter how warm you try to make it.”
“Oh, okay.” I give his hand a small squeeze, pleased he’s given me something. And I’m not surprised he leads us back into the music room.
He drops my hand and makes short work of uncovering the furniture hidden beneath several of the dust sheets. An olderstyle two-seater sofa that looks worn and used is revealed, as well as a small fireplace that the seat is positioned in front of.
He repeats the process I did earlier of setting the wood and logs and lighting the fire.
“There. Much better.”
I look around, my eyes lingering on the dark piano and what he did to me, and what he told me to do earlier.
The final sheet reveals an old drinks cart with cut glass decanters, still with amber and golden liquid inside.
I gawk at him. “You have a bar in your childhood music room?”
“The teacher was fond of a tipple. And, when we got older, what can I say.” He winks at me as he takes one of the tumblers on the cart and gives it a blow, as if that will clean it of dust, and pours himself a good measure of the darker liquid.
“Who’s we?” I ask, joining him.
He hands me the glass, and I eye it suspiciously. “What?”
“Who’s we? You said when we got older,” I repeat, taking a sniff of the potent-smelling alcohol.
“I was known to have a friend or two. Despite Father’s best efforts. It was… hard. Being here, no motherly comfort or compassion. You learn to rely on only yourself.” He sloshes an even bigger measure into his glass and knocks it back, as I widen my eyes in shock. He’s always been so controlled about drinking, yet here…
“This room was the place where I could be myself. The only place I found any sort of connection to anything and anyone. Because living here, you were left to fend for yourself. The weak don’t survive.”
He pours another drink and goes back to the fire, adding more wood and stoking the bed to encourage the flames. A distraction, perhaps, as he avoids any eye contact with me, but I take the time to digest the words he’s shared. It certainly paintsthis home in a bleak light, and my first impressions of this place start to shift.
“When did she die?” I ask, and his eyes whip to mine and look stunned at my question. “Your mother.” I add softly, but the sickened look on his face makes me regret voicing the obvious I’ve deduced.
“About thirty minutes after I was born. I don’t remember her. Father dearest did nothing to preserve any kind memory of her that he might have kept.” His eyes turn cold when he says that, and another pang of hurt hits my chest. And I realise that while I might have grown up in relative poverty, second-hand clothes and handouts, there was never a lack of love in our house. “What was it like having a mother?” My eyes widen, throat constricting.
“Everett, that’s a hard question to answer when…”
“It isn’t. Talk. I wonder sometimes if everything I am and everything I’ve done would have been different if she’d lived. Did you get smothered in love, held, told you were precious?”
“Yes.” He asked for honesty, and a part of me wants to share my experience, as if it might help. My eyes sting at the thought of never having my mom in my life. Never having her read to me before bed, telling me she loved me every day, every chance she got. His loss takes my breath away. My eyes blink rapidly to stop the misty tears from gathering. Everett wouldn’t want my emotion. “She didn’t smother me, though.” I clear my throat. “She and my father believed in me and gave me courage to want for the things I couldn’t afford. Material possessions aren’t what matter to me, because of their values, their love.” Emotion rises, and I can hear my voice straining, so I stop.
He just stands, no move to push for more, and I hope that glimpse is enough.
My view of everything he’s done, how he’s acted, the walls around him, suddenly shifts in my mind now I have this fragment of information. A fragment that answers many riddles.
The quiet stretches, and I want to break it, afraid of what might be running through his mind.
“Why do you still keep this place? If the bad outweighs any good memories.” His lip curves at the question, not the response I would have thought.
“We’ll need the good stuff if you’re going to keep asking questions. So, before I go ransack the cellar for a proper bottle, do you want to keep asking questions?” He gives me a pointed glare, weighted with promise.
“I didn’t realise I could?” I perch on the edge of the sofa, ignoring the creaking springs and upholstery. Considering the rest of the place, this could be a relic from his grandfather’s time.
