Michael
We make our way through undergrowth. The rampant rhododendrons have killed off any brambles and nettles, but completely unkempt and uncared for, they find ways to stab the unwary passer-by with the blunt ends of broken boughs, or to snag low-hanging branches, whippy and limp, around ankles. One jabs into Klempner’s calf and he curses, tearing his trousers as he pulls free. Another lashes back across my face with a sting that makes my eyes water.
As we emerge to the edge and thin sunshine, the house hoves into view. It’s a vast place, or was, a memory from the days when wealth meant a country estate, thousands of acres of land and a tribe of servants. Now, neglected and dismal, it’s home for not much more than a colony of starlings which rises and wheels and shrieks into the morni
