“No, he stopped working when… Well, he hasn’t done anything for a long time, shame really. Anyway, I wanted to check on some measurements before I give you revised plans, that’s okay isn’t it?”
“Of course, how about I make some tea?” Dad said, as he headed to the door.
I wondered what Miller was going to say about his dad. I didn’t ask, instead I watched as he placed a pencil behind his ear. There was no high-tech laser measuring devices for Miller, just a good old-fashioned tape measure.
“You know, Dani, this is going to be an amazing house. It has such wonderful vibes, there’s history in these beams beyond our years. If it could only talk to us, imagine the secrets it could tell.”
I liked his enthusiasm; he stroked beams as if coaching those secrets out through his fingertips.
“It reminds me of you,” he said, not looking at me. “Everything has a story to tell, and sometimes we have to work around using conventional words. This beam here, it’s way over a hundred years old, I imagine, and most probably part of a ship in its former life. Imagine the seas this beam has sailed on, the countries it’s visited, yeah, everything has a story to tell.” He seemed to be talking to himself.
I picked up my pen and wrote.
What story do you have to tell?
I didn’t show him the page, though, in fact, I scribbled through the message. It seemed an intrusive question and I wondered why it had popped into my head. Miller measured, he wrote those down on a scrap of paper that he’d retrieved from his jean pocket. Eventually, he turned to face me.
“Did you think any more on an upside down house?”
I nodded. I’d loved the idea as soon as he’d proposed it.
I think that would be wonderful. I’ll still be able to have that picture window at one end, though, won’t I? I wrote and then showed him my pad.
“Of course. We’ll take down that whole back wall, insert a beam where the floor is going to be, and it will be glass top to bottom. I’m sort of jealous that you’ll get to sit there all the seasons and watch the sea.” He laughed when he spoke.
There was something about his voice that comforted me. It was low, baritone, and so smooth. The kind of voice that could lull me to sleep.
Do you like the sea?
“I used to. I have a small boat but I don’t use it that much nowadays. I guess I should get rid of it, it’s cluttering up the front garden.”
Dad returned with a tray and three teas. He handed me one and I wanted to laugh at the clichéd ‘builders’ mug with the strongest-looking tea I’d ever seen. I didn’t need to guess who was about to be presented with that one.
Miller took a sip from the ‘builders’ mug and I watched as he winced a little. Whether that was the taste or the heat, I wasn’t sure.
How long do you think this will take? I wrote.
“Planning could be up to three months, and that’s if it’s all straightforward. The conversion? I’d say about another four to five months. To be honest, I hate to put a firm timeframe on anything until we get going. I’ll need to do some testing to see what foundations we have, if any. Half the time, these old barns were just put straight on the ground.”
Miller placed his mug back on the tray; he pocketed his pencil and the piece of paper then rolled up his tape measure.
“Thank you for the tea. Hopefully, I’ll see you in a few days with some drawings,” he added.
Dad walked him out to his truck, and it was as he was driving away that I remembered his jacket. It was still sitting in my bedroom. I locked up the barn and walked to the warmth of the house.
Miller’s words swam around my head. He likened me to the barn, not able to speak words but having a story to tell. I wondered what he knew about me. Had someone in the village told him? It was a traditional small village, full of gossipy women and although they wouldn’t have been unkind, I guessed I would have been a source of entertainment for a little while.
As I entered the kitchen, I saw the familiar purple envelope on the mat beside the front door. Although I’d been inside the barn, I hadn’t heard anyone approach the house. Dad walked in carrying the tray as I pocketed the envelope. I indicated I was going upstairs. Being out in the cold, and a restless night, had me wanting to curl up in my chair, snuggle under the comforter, and nap. Not before I read the letter, of course.
Dani,
I don’t have plans for Christmas, I never make plans, for anything. To be honest, I like to spend the day alone. It’s not to wallow, just to be.
I’m glad you’ve found a builder and it seems, through your words, that a little excitement is entering your life, something to take the focus off your sadness. That’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it? Having something, a project, is a great thing to do. Just for a few moments, a couple of hours, to have something other than your grief is a blessing. Grief is so tiring sometimes. I’m pleased you’re able to find this to inject some energy into yourself.
I have moved, and it wasn’t easy. Every room has memories, and although I’m repainting each room, I struggled. I felt like I was erasing her and I didn’t want to. I’m a way on from where you are, Dani, but every now and again I’m pulled up short. I’m reminded that she shadows me, and I love and hate that in equal measure. She’d hate for me not to have moved on with my life. She’d hate for me to shed a tear at repainting a wall, removing her favourite colour. Daft isn’t it?
Like Trey, Anna would be upset with every down day I, or you, have. If she were here, she’d be kicking my backside, for sure.
I’m sorry for such a short letter today, Dani. I’ve decided there is something I need to do, a reconciliation of sorts, and without you even knowing, I need to thank you for that.
Lincoln.
For the first time I notice there was sadness within his words, and I pondered on the ‘reconciliation’ he talked about. I imagined moving back into the house he shared with his wife had caused him painful memories. In that moment, I wished that we’d met, that I knew him personally. I would have comforted him, and I felt in that moment he needed someone. Maybe I was being presumptuous. Perhaps he had a circle of friends to rely on. His comment about spending Christmas alone also bothered me. I wanted to reach out, invite him to join Dad and me. I didn’t want to picture him in his house all alone, even if he did have that imaginary dog by his side.
I found myself worrying for him and not for myself.
Chapter Eight
I didn’t get a chance to write back to Lincoln for a couple of days. Miller arrived with a structural engineer, and I let Dad deal with that, I had some paperwork from Christian to go through. It seemed all so formal; I signed to give permission for him to deal with the sale of my property on my behalf. I signed the estate agent’s contract and mailed them back to Chris. He had placed a note among the documents to inform me that he would organise a removal company to pack up all my furniture. I wondered why the need for the note and not a visit. Something seemed very off between us, I felt it. I was, like most twins, very much in tune with my brother. Although I didn’t want it to be true, I believed he couldn’t deal with my grief. He struggled to see how fragile life was, especially being a new father himself. It saddened me, but there was a part of me that understood. If Hannah had lived, and Christian’s baby had died, I thought I’d struggle, too.