Staying over

"Push your hair back," Dominique said to Freddie, "so I can see your face when I'm talking to you."
Freddie and I were doing the dishes when his uncle, Dominique, came into the kitchen to say good night and explain his morning-ritual so that we wouldn't get in his way the next day.
It was the first time I met his uncle. He didn't seem like a bad guy, though he had been a bit grumpy most of the evening. Or, as Freddie put it, 'he just needs a shag'.
"Good night," Dominique said. And then: "why do I have to stand on my toes to kiss my little nephew good night?"
I smiled. "Because otherwise you would be kissing his nipples."

Back to Bath (Part 1 of 3)

“I don't care about her will,” Iris said as soon as the solicitor left the mansion. “This house belongs to you as much as it does to me.”
“I don't know.” Ian leaned against the front door and rubbed his scalp. Tiny flakes of skin floated onto his black polo neck. Iris studied her brother's posture, a mix of nonchalance and solemnity. He had aged since the last time she saw him, almost two years ago. He had lost weight in a healthy way; she could tell he took care of himself. But he wasn't her little brother any more, the shabby student who only took off his jogging bottoms to shit, shag or have a shower. None of which she ever witnessed, to her great relief.
“Believe me,” she said and gently pushed him into the corridor. “She only sold me the house for a symbolic price to avoid death duties.”
“I just... I can't believe I didn't even know about this. It's not like I didn't visit her every other week.”
“I know,” said Iris. Every other week, she thought. She tried to remember the last time she saw her mother, and realised it must have been Christmas. But then again, Ian had a car. “Mom told me on the phone. So how are you and... Are you still seeing Caithlin?”
“Yes, we're fine.” Ian rested his hand on the copper doorknob of their mother's bedroom. “More than fine, actually. We're thinking about getting married.”
“You've proposed?” Iris' eyes widened. She never liked Caithlin. They went to university together and got to know each other when Caithlin ran off with Iris' boyfriend, Alessandro. At first, Iris blamed his Italian nature and swore to never date a foreigner again. But her next boyfriend, Billy, was as British as the Royal Mail and he too left her for Caithlin. After she graduated, Iris met Gareth, her current partner, and she made sure he never met her rival. When Ian told her he had started dating Caithlin, Iris said he was lucky their father was dead. “That woman is literally trying to take over every man in my life. She would ditch you for dad, if he were still around!” That was the last time they saw each other, until the message of their mother's death called them both back to Bath.
“Sort of. I know it doesn't really make a great story, but we've kind of discussed the advantages of marriage.”
“So things are really serious then. Well, I'm happy for you. And,” Iris nudged him, “if you're really thinking about starting a family, you might need the house. Or your share of what it's worth, if we're selling it.” Together they walked into the bedroom. The summer afternoon tumbled in through the sash window. They could hear children play hide and seek and hopscotch. Same place, same games, same sounds; it was almost like, outside of this house, the world hadn't changed since their childhood, and they could hear themselves playing. A soft breeze stirred the sheer curtains; the fluttering voile filtered the sunlight and spread a soft glow through the Victorian bedroom. This is where the neighbours found her, Iris thought, when they went looking for her because they hadn't seen her for days.
“This is where we used to have breakfast in bed,” Ian said, “on Sunday mornings, when we were still kids.” He sat down in the rocking chair next to the window. The last months, his mother could sit in it and look at the sky for hours, just rocking back and forth, back and forth. “Like the Lord giving and taking,” she'd once said, “resistance is futile.” Her faith grew with her forgetfulness. When she called driving “the nearest thing to heaven”, Ian had asked her to sell the car. Too often he'd had to pick her up after she just went along with the flow of traffic, trusting the road and the Lord, until she'd ran out of fuel. “All roads lead to Rome,” she'd muttered when the highest bidder drove off in her Rover. And that was it, she'd never mentioned driving again.
Ian caressed the walnut arm and leaned back. The high ceiling was recently redecorated and painted in a peaceful white. He smiled. “I would love to move back in. But Caithlin would never leave London. She would wither like a poppy.”
“Just think about it.” Iris put her iPhone on top of the secretaire and flicked through the documents she had laid out earlier.
“Take a look at this,” she said after a while, and waved with a contract. Her brother got up from the rocker and looked at it, posing like Michelangelo's David. He had never been particularly interested in legal business and really couldn't focus on it right now. Mindlessly he stroked the sideboard of the writing desk. His fingers lingered at scratches on the surface.
“Do you remember these?” he asked. Iris read their names on the side of the heirloom. The three jagged letters of her brother's name were carved with great force, her own name was written more elegantly, a little above it.
“You were six and had just taught me how to write my name,” Ian said. “And then you told me I had to engrave it in mom's desk, so that I would never forget.”
“It worked, didn't it?” They both giggled. “I can't remember she ever got angry over it, though.”
“She didn't. She once told me, when I asked her about it, that she loved the future more than she loved the past.”
“She was a very special woman,” Iris said. “This desk could have been worth four to eight grand, if we hadn't ruined it.”
“She was a very special woman, indeed.” Ian put down the contract he had been pretending to read and walked to the cupboard with the stereo in it. “I'm gonna miss her like hell.” He switched on the device and pressed play. While he walked back to the rocking chair, tender violin strokes filled the room. The last music his mother had heard was the divine Air of Bach.
The rest of the afternoon they spent packing clothing for Oxfam. They ordered a large Pizza Diavolo and tipped the delivery guy fifty per cent. For old times' sake, because Ian had once worked for the same pizzeria. At nine thirty they locked the front door behind them and ambled to Ian's van on the opposite side of Longfellow Avenue.
“I'll give you a ride, sis,” said Ian.
They stood still and gazed at the roof pediment. The clear sky behind it coloured pink. An occasional far-off plane drew a line of clouds on it, which slowly evaporated. Apart from the screaming seagulls, Bath was completely quiet. The silence stirred memories of their childhood, welling up like blood from a skinned knee.
“I think she knew,” Iris said.
“Knew what?”
“Knew her death would bring us back together.” Iris stared at the arched portico and the leaded glass in the front door. She didn't want to go. More than anything, she longed to go back in, find her mother still alive, spend another night and have one more Sunday morning breakfast on the Victorian bed.
“I reckon that's why she gave the house to you. She knew you'd do the right thing.”
Side by side they watched the sky go orange.
“It's okay to cry,” Iris said.
“I know. But I was hoping you would cry first.”
“Tough.” They laughed until they had to hide their tears on each other’s shoulders. And then they hugged and wept without shame.
“You're so thin,” Ian remarked when the street lights flicked on.
“And you've been working out.”
“I know I have. Now get in the car and I'll drive you back to London.”
“I'll give Gareth a call,” she said, “I'll ask him if he can pick me up at your place.”

So far for growing up

The latest post of Mr. Gorilla Bananas sent me right back to reminiscing my 20th birthday. It was the nineteenth of May, the year 2004, when the great Richard Dawkins came down to the Netherlands to give the first Tinbergen Memorial Lecture at the Pieterskerk in my home town Leiden. My joy was great, for as a student in Philosophy I could not imagine a better way to celebrate my growing up than by attending this reading.
The irony, that such a reading should be held in a church! The first thing he remarked, was a praise for priests, who had learned how to give sermons under the current acoustic circumstances. I'll spare you all the details of the rest of his lecture, for I assume you've already read all the important books in life, and if not, I urge you to get to work without further ado.
After the reading, Mr. Dawkins sold and signed copies of The Blind Watchmaker, but being the poor student I was (and still am) I could not afford to line up. Instead, I waited with my tattered copy of The Selfish Gene until he was about to leave the cathedral. When I finally dared to approach him, I stumbled over the inscriptions of the graves we were walking on. Still blushing and trembling, I asked the surprised scientist if he would be so kind as to put his autograph in my book.
“Of course,” he said. “What's your name?”
“Deborah,” I said. And then, out of the blue: “Could you tell me, what's your favourite passage?”
He leafed through the book and saw how much I had underlined and read some of my notes.
“That would be the bit about the lumbering robots,” he said, “because that's the most creative part.”
“Could you write in front which page that is?” I asked. I had never thought of asking these questions, but standing there at that moment, I felt like I had to ask him just a little bit more than his autograph. And unfortunately, I couldn't think of anything intelligent to say.
“Certainly.” He took his pen and started to write. He had no table, so he just held the book in his other hand, and wrote sort of in the air. I stood by and felt very awkward.
“Today's a very special day for me,” I said. “It's my birthday.”
“Congratulations,” he said, “I hope you enjoyed the lecture. Have a good evening.” He gave me back my book, shook my hand and left the church. And left me trembling, blushing, contemplating what a fool I had made out of myself in front of my idol. I felt like a bloody Backstreet Boys fan. So far for growing up!