As I lay in bed that night I heard low voices nearby. They belonged to a man and a woman, but without venturing out of my room I couldn’t identify them, let alone distinguish any words. I assumed I was hearing my parents, but I would never be sure. In any case I didn’t learn their decision until we were on our way home.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Farewells

“Say goodbye to your aunt, Patrick,” my mother said.

“Bye, and I’ll see you next time.”

“Goodbye, Patrick,” my aunt said, and to my parents “Goodbye. Goodbye.”

This sounded far more final than I hoped it would be. As the car left my aunt behind I looked back. She was resting both hands on the garden gate, and its metal bars put me in mind of a cage. Beyond her I could see through the front doorway into the house. Was the back door open, and the gate into Third Mile Wood as well? For an instant I seemed to see someone approaching down a corridor that consisted not just of the hall in the house but of an avenue that had opened at considerable length between the trees. The car turned a corner, and the sight vanished like the illusion I told myself it must have been. “Did you enjoy your stay, Patrick?” my father said.

“Yes.” I wanted to leave it at that on my aunt’s behalf, but his glance at me in the mirror expected more. “Most of it,” I admitted.

“Then make the most,” my mother said.

This sounded somehow worse than simply incomplete. I saw my father wait for more from either of his passengers, but eventually he said “What did you think of your aunt’s new friend?”

I sensed how tense this made my mother. “I liked him,” I risked saying.

Her retort posed as a question. “What did you like?”

“He was interesting.”

“Not like your parents, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that, mum. I meant more like Aunt Thelma.” At once I grasped how this might endorse my mother’s grievance. “Arty,” I said like my father.

“More so than Thelma,” he said.

“More and a lot worse.” My mother twisted in her seat to gaze at me. “How long have you known about him, Patrick?”

I had to remind myself how much I wasn’t supposed to have overheard, and it seemed best to ask “Known what, mum?”

“Anything.” This appeared to sum up issues she preferred to leave unvoiced, and she said “How long have you been aware of his existence?”

“The same as you and dad have.”

“She’s better at keeping her secrets than ever, then.” As if this provoked her my mother said “I don’t care for him at all.”

“Why not, mum?”

“I don’t like his look.”

“I shouldn’t think he can help that, Astrid. I saw nothing wrong with him on that front.”