It was seven eleven when I threw open the curtains on the day, after another dreamless night. The frog was quiet. Mist hung thickly down by the river, thinning on the upper flank of the saddle. The sun shone through low thin cloud a brilliant silvery light. Patches of Philip’s zigzag path gleamed, fallen leaves dazzling like stars on the pavers. The pencil pines to either side of the gate cast long fingers of shadow. I opened the window to a sough of wind. It was uncommonly warm.
Philip had risen before dawn to clear a backlog of small jobs before Christmas. I revelled in the solitude. With the whole day ahead of me, I had ample time to find a way into our parents’ bedroom. For today I determined I would do it. Eight years was a long time to keep a room shut up and it was time to brush fr
