The House of Memories Read Online Free PDF

in my mind; the ending is the same. And no amount of physical work helps: outside pruning grapevines, rod tying, picking grapes, or the work I did once I moved into the winery complex itself—washing floors, doing dishes, waitressing, being a kitchen assistant, working any shift on offer, doing overtime uncomplainingly, working the longest hours I could and spending any free time I had walking to tire myself out, to try to exhaust my body so my brain would have no choice but to sleep as well. . . . Nothing works.
    “You look well,” Lucas said.
    He was being kind. I knew I looked exhausted. I probably had mascara all over my face now too. I tried to smile. “You too. Have you been working out?”
    It was an old joke between us—Lucas would sooner fly to the moon than go to a gym. He grinned, running his fingers through his curls, ruffling them more than usual. He always did that when attention turned to him. I imagined he was like that at the university too, tousling his hair during his lectures, getting closer to the image of a mad history professor with every sentence.
    “I like the jumper,” I said. It was a jumper I’d knitted—tried to knit for him—twenty-one years ago, when I was thirteen.
    I’d found the pattern in an old magazine and got our next-door neighbor to teach me how to make it. It was supposed to have a design of a fox—of course—on the front. I made a mess of it, unpicking and reknitting it so many times that each strand of wool was covered in grime from my increasingly sweaty fingers. I had trouble with the sleeves and the turndown collar, and as for the fox design . . . By the time I finished, the creature on the front looked more like E.T. than a fox. But I proudly sent it off, wrapped in Christmas paper. In return, Lucas sent me not only a fax telling me how much he loved it and how warm it was, but also a photo of him wearing it. Charlie had taken a great interest in the photo. He kindly said nothing about the jumper’s design, but focused on Lucas. It was the first time he’d seen a photo of him. “Does he look like your dad? Like your dad would if he was alive, I mean.”
    Lucas and my dad had been very alike. Charlie was right, I realized. I now had an idea of what my dad would have looked like if he hadn’t gone off to Canada and got killed.
    I noticed Mum picking up the photo too, but she didn’t say anything to me about Lucas’s similarity to Dad. She did say something to me about the fox resembling an alien, though.
    “Never mind. Practice makes perfect,” Walter said. “You could try to do a jumper for Jess next.”
    “No thanks,” I’d said. My knitting days were over.
    “I get offers for it every day,” Lucas said now. “It’s a work of art.”
    “Art? That’s one word for it.”
    I followed Lucas into his withdrawing room off the hallway. It was messier than ever.
    “Drink?” he asked. “It’s nighttime for you and your body clock, isn’t it?”
    I shook my head. I’d stopped drinking alcohol. “But tea would be great, thanks.”
    We went into the kitchen. It was filthy, every surface covered in dirty dishes, saucepans and plates. I tried not to react, or wince, when he pulled out two grubby cups from the crowded sink. When he reached for a milk jug that I could see had something like gravy on the side, I couldn’t stop myself.
    “Sorry, Lucas.” I took the cups from him and washed them out, followed by the jug, followed by the kettle, and then, for good measure, I washed out the sink too. Lucas watched it all with a half smile. He’d never taken offense when I expressed disgust or astonishment at the squalor he and his students lived in. He just took a seat at the cluttered, dirty kitchen table—my fingers itched to clean it as well—watching me with his usual amused, affectionate expression.
    “It’s lovely to see you, Ella. I did miss having a maid.”
    “This house needs a bulldozer, not a maid.”
    “Speaking of which, how is your