A Summer to Die. Lois Lowry

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ he asked, coming over and shaking my hand, or at least my mitten, leaving a smear of grease on it. “Forgive me. My hands are very dirty. My battery dies in this cold weather.”

      “How did you know?”

      “How did I know Meg for Margaret? Because Margaret was my wife’s name; therefore, one of my favourite names, of course. And I called her Meg at times, though no one else did.”

      “They call me Nutmeg at school. I bet no one ever called your wife Nutmeg.”

      He laughed. He had beautiful blue eyes, and his face moved into a new pattern of wrinkles when he laughed. “No,” he admitted, “they didn’t. But she wouldn’t have minded. Nutmeg was one of her favourite spices. She wouldn’t have made an apple pie without it.”

      “What I meant, though, when I said, ‘How did you know?’ was how did you know my name was Chalmers?”

      He wiped his hands on a greasy rag that was hanging from the door handle of the truck. “My dear, I apologize. I have not even introduced myself. My name is Will Banks. And it’s much too cold to stand out here. Your toes must be numb, even in those boots. Come inside, and I’ll make us each a cup of tea. And I’ll tell you how I know your name.”

      I briefly envisioned myself telling my mother, “So then I went into his house,” and I briefly envisioned my mother saying, “You went into his house?”

      He saw me hesitate, and smiled. “Meg,” he said, “I’m seventy years old. Thoroughly harmless, even to a beautiful young girl like you. Come on in and keep me company for a bit, and get warm.”

      I laughed, because he knew what I was thinking, and very few people ever know what I’m thinking. Then I went into his house.

      What a surprise. It was a tiny house, and very old, and looked on the outside as if it might fall down any minute. For that matter, his truck was also very old, and looked as if it might fall down any minute. And Mr Banks himself was old, although he didn’t appear to be falling apart.

      But inside, the house was beautiful. Everything was perfect, as if it were a house I’d imagined, or dreamed up with a set of paints. There were only two rooms on the ground floor. On one side of the little front hall was the living room: the walls were painted white, and there was an oriental rug on the floor, all shades of blues and reds. A big fireplace, with a painting that was a real painting, not a print, hanging over the mantelpiece. A pewter pitcher standing on a polished table. A large chest of drawers with bright brass handles. A wing chair that was all done in needlepoint – all done by hand, I could tell, because my mother does needlepoint sometimes. Sunlight was pouring in the little windows, through the white curtains, making patterns on the carpet and chairs.

      On the other side of the hall was the kitchen. That’s where Mr Banks and I went, after he had shown me the living room. A wood stove was burning in the kitchen, and a copper kettle sat on top of it, steaming. A round pine table was laid with woven blue mats, and in the centre of it a blue and white bowl held three apples like a still life. Everything was scrubbed and shiny and in the right place.

      It made me think of a song that we sang in kindergarten, when we sat at our desks and folded our hands. “We’re all in our places with bright shiny faces,” we used to sing. I could hear the words in my mind, the little voices of all those five-year-olds, and it was a good memory; Mr Banks’ house was like that, a house warm with memories, of things in their places, and smiling.

      He took my jacket and hung it up with his, and poured tea into two thick pottery mugs. We sat at the table, in pine chairs that gleamed almost yellow from a combination of old wood, polish, and sunlight.

      “Is yours the little room at the top of the stairs?” he asked me.

      How did he know about the little room? “No,” I explained. “I wanted it to be. It’s so perfect. You can see the other house across the field, you know” – he nodded; he knew “ – but my father needed that room. He’s writing a book. So my sister and I have the big room together.”

      “The little room was mine,” he said, “when I was a small boy. Sometime when your father isn’t working there, go in and look in the cupboard. On the cupboard floor you’ll find my name carved, if no one’s refinished the floor. My mother spanked me for doing it. I was eight years old at the time, and I’d been shut in my room for being rude to my older sister.”

      “You lived in my house?” I asked in surprise.

      He laughed again. “My dear Meg,” he said, “you live in my house.

      “My grandfather built that house. Actually, he built the one across the field, first. Then he built the other one, where you five. In those days families stuck together, of course, and he built the second house for his sister, who never married. Later he gave it to his oldest son – my father – and my sister and I were both born there.

      “It became my house when I married Margaret. I took her there to live when she was a bride, eighteen years old. My sister had married and moved to Boston. She’s dead now. My parents, of course, are gone. And Margaret and I never had children. So there’s no one left but me. Well, that’s not entirely true – there’s my sister’s son, but that’s another story.

      “Anyway, there’s no one left here on the land but me. There were times, when I was young, when Margaret was with me, when I was tempted to leave, to take a job in a city, to make a lot of money, but—” He lit his pipe, was quiet for a minute, looking into the past.

      “Well, it was my grandfather’s land, and my father’s, before it was mine. Not many people understand that today, what that means. But I know this land. I know every rock, every tree. I couldn’t leave them behind.

      “This house used to be the hired man’s cottage. I’ve fixed it up a bit, and it’s a good little house. But the other two houses are still mine. When the taxes went up, I just couldn’t afford to keep them going. I moved here after Margaret died, and I’ve rented the family houses whenever I come across someone who has reason to want to live in this wilderness.

      “When I heard your parents were looking for a place, I offered the little house to them. It’s a perfect place for a writer – the solitude stimulates imagination, I think.

      “Other people come now and then, thinking it might be a cheap place to live, but I won’t rent to just anyone. That’s why the big house is empty now – the right family hasn’t come along.”

      “Do you get lonely here?”

      He finished his tea and set the mug down on the table. “No. I’ve been here all my life. I miss my Margaret, of course. But I have Tip” – the dog looked up at his name, and thumped his tail against the floor – “and I do some carpentry in the village now and then, when people need me. I have books. That’s all I need, really.

      “Of course,” he smiled, “it’s nice to have a new friend, like you.”

      “Mr Banks?”

      “Oh please, please. Call me Will, the way all my friends do.”

      “Will, then. Would you mind if I took your picture?”

      “My dear,” he said, straightening his shoulders and buttoning the top button of his tartan shirt. “I would be honoured.”

      The СКАЧАТЬ