At about five o’clock in the morning, Flora gave up trying to get back to sleep. Nan was breathing steadily and deeply as Flora crept out of their bedroom. She took a towel from the bathroom, put her mother’s dress over her head, and went to the beach. The morning was fresh, mist lying low in the hollows, and the rising sun was obscured by a haze that forecasted a beautiful day to come. The beach was empty when she swam to the buoy; the water as cold as ever, until it was time to come out and it became miraculously warmer than the air. As she strode onto the beach, a dog walker, a man she didn’t recognise, stopped to stare.
“The nudist beach is that way,” he said, pointing along the coast.
Flora glared, picked up the dress and her towel, and slipped her feet into her flip-flops. Only when she was at the top of the chine did she put the dress back on.
She’d expected everyone to still be asleep, but when she went into the house Flora heard voices in the front bedroom. The bed was empty and Nan was crouching beside one of the carved legs, while Richard was lying on his back with his head under the frame, like a mechanic under the chassis of an old car.
“Shall I get a torch?” Nan said.
“Where’s Daddy?” Flora said.
“He’s in your bed, sleeping,” she replied without looking up, and to Richard, “It might be screwed together.”
“What’s going on?” Flora said.
“Richard’s taking the bed apart.”
“Well, trying to.” His voice was muffled.
“You can’t do that,” Flora said. “Why would you want to do that?” She gripped one of the posts. Her fingers remembered the pathway of every vine as they spiralled up towards the pineapple finials, every curled leaf and closed bud. The oak was an oily black in the middle sections where centuries of fingers had grabbed, stroked, and clung on. Hidden in the foliage on each post was a tiny animal: mouse, minnow, viper, and wren. Flora liked to speculate about how the minnow, out of water, could have survived all this time. The tiny fish’s mouth gaped, tilted upwards as if gulping for air, and when, as a child, she had dared to put her little finger in between the minnow’s lips, the cavity was deeper than its full length. On the 2nd of July 1993—a year after her mother was lost—Flora had marked the anniversary alone by dropping one of Annie’s teeth into the yawning hole.
Nan took a deep breath. “If the bed came in, we must be able to get it out.”
“You can’t do this,” Flora said to Richard’s legs and the back of Nan’s head.
“I don’t think it’s that simple.” Richard moved farther under the bed. “A carpenter must have put it together in the room. There aren’t any screws—it’s proper dovetail joints.” He came out from underneath, coughing. “There’s a lot of stuff under there—suitcases, more books.”
“Oh Lord,” Nan said. “I’d forgotten about all of that.”
“Wait!” Flora shouted now to get their attention. “This is Daddy’s bed. You can’t just take it apart. I’m going to talk to him.” She went to leave.
Nan caught hold of her sister’s arm. “Flora,” she said. “There’s a new bed coming, an adjustable hospital one.”
“Why would he need one of those? Have you asked him if that’s what he wants?”
“Let him sleep.” Nan’s grip tightened.
“Not if you’re going to pull his belongings apart as soon as he’s out of the room.” She yanked her arm free, wheeling it above her head. “I’m sure he’ll have something to say about this.”
Nan tried again to catch Flora’s arm—as if that alone would pin her down, keep her silent. Flora turned sideways.
“Be quiet,” Nan hissed. “You’ll wake him.”
“What are you going to take next?” Flora yelled. “The sofas? Or how about the paintings? Would you like one of the paintings, too?” She marched to the windows, which overlooked the sea. “I’m sure they’re here somewhere.” She pushed at the top half of a pile of books stacked against the wall, hardbacks and paperbacks scattering. Behind them was a small seascape in a deep frame. “Here you are.” She yanked at the painting, but it was attached to the wall with mirror plates and didn’t move. “Sorry, Nan, it seems you can’t have a painting unless Richard wants to take it off with his fucking trusty screwdriver.”
“Flora,” Nan said, and came across the room. “Stop this. Please.”
“Stop what? Stop what?” Flora was screaming.
“I’ve been trying to tell you for days. This isn’t just about a sprained wrist and a black eye,” Nan shouted over her. Flora saw Richard’s face, his mouth a thin straight line. “You do realise that, don’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“He’s dying.” Nan held her hands out as if ready to catch her sister. There was something inside Flora that refused to budge, a boulder that wouldn’t roll.