Living with Strangers Read Online Free PDF Page B

he’d grown a foot taller but otherwise had altered little. A wide grin broke as he waved and came towards us – our father Saul, with the wrong colour hair. We stood in the way, thrown into clumsy contact by the crowd and the trolley and the passage of time.
    ‘How was the flight?’
    ‘Fine, very short – no time to settle really. Chloé slept though.’
    ‘Well, that’s good.’
    ‘Thanks for coming to meet me.’
    ‘No problem. No one else drives now, since Dad…’
    Dad.
I remembered Paul and Sophie had favoured that – had refused the German
Papa
and stuck resolutely with Dad
.
Two families we had been, never quite a whole, separated even by the names we called our parents.
    ‘How is he?’
    ‘Not good. You need to see him – things have changed.’
    I could have said
I know, that’s why I’m here
. But in truth, I hadn’t really known, hadn’t been there to bear the news, to watch the changes. Did Paul blame me for that? ‘I’m sorry Paul, I came as soon as I heard.’
    ‘We knew he was ill, just not how ill. You remember what he’s like – shuts himself away. Sophie and I – we didn’t even guess, though I think Mum did.’
    ‘And Molly –
Mum
– how is she?’
    ‘Unreadable as ever, she just carries on.’ Paul picked up my case. ‘It’s good to see you, Maddie. Really good.’
    ‘You too. You’ve grown up.’
    He grinned again. ‘And that surprises you? Ok, let’s find the car – it’s over there I think.’ He set off at speed; the years had done little to dampen his energy.
    When we reached the car I climbed into the back and held Chloé on my knee. It was a different car, one I hadn’t seen – another change. So many details to piece together and stitch up into a new whole. My family, my homeland – but not. Even the landscape, as we crawled through the West London traffic, seemed to have shrunk – the perspective crushed. Roads were narrower, towns smaller and the fields, lying in late winter emptiness, a reduced, neat patchwork.
    Half-turned, Paul talked for most of the journey, Chloé looking puzzled between us. The language we spoke was not familiar, her background noise was French; she only ever heard English from me. Even for her, with no past, something was changing.
    Not until we reached our road – a wide avenue lined with trees, the houses set back at the end of long stony driveways – did familiarity begin to return. And with it, the old issues, old contempt.
    When we reached the house, Paul pulled up near the front door. ‘I leave it here now, Dad can’t walk too far.’
    I got out of the car and stood on the drive. This was the house we had moved to the summer I turned six. Looking up at the gable window, the top half of the house covered in tiles like gingerbread, I suddenly recalled a hot August day, chasing round the empty rooms with Adam and Josef, under everyone’s feet, until we were told to sit on boxes in the front garden while they finished unloading. Then Oma had come to sit with us, breathing heavily, dabbing at her cheeks and forehead with a handkerchief. She took my hand and patted it gently. ‘Do you like it, Liebling – your new house?’
    ‘It’s big,’ I said, ‘and different. It doesn’t smell right.’
    ‘It will soon, you’ll see. This is a happy house. Good things will happen here. Your Papa, he’s earned this. It’s time for him now.’
    I had little idea of what she meant, nor the extent to which her words would turn on themselves in the years to come, but at that time, she was right – and stayed right until long after her death. For a while at least the house had kept its promise.
    *
    Paul helped Chloé out of the car, setting her down on the drive, next to my case and the pushchair. She stood very close, hiding behind my legs. A moment later the front door opened and Molly stepped carefully out onto the gravel. She paused, then came towards us and finally smiled.
    ‘Madeleine.’ she said.
    I took Chloé’s hand.