Page 98 of Pyg

“Yeah, can’t imagine it’ll take long. There probably isn’t much worth keeping.”

“No, you’re not wrong. The old witch was such a tight-arse you could’ve used her shit for shoelaces.”

“Bernard!” Grimacing, I glanced around.

Bernard snickered. “It’s not like she can hear us.”

A scuttling scratched above us. Bernard squealed and leapt behind me. “What the fuck was that?”

“And you’re supposed to be the brave one.” I laughed. “Probably just mice.”

I threw the curtains open wide in the drawing room and sunlight filtered through the dirty windows. I tried to open one, but the wooden frames were as swollen as the front door.

“Do you reckon this place is even worth anything?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t buy it. Someone might if they fancy a project.”

All the drawing room contained was a filthy hearthrug and an eclectic array of sagging old furniture.

Bernard shrugged. “Nothing worth keeping in here.”

In the kitchen, he opened the back door and stepped outside to smoke a thin roll-up he pulled out of a tin. “You want one, Georgie?”

“No, thanks. It makes me lightheaded.” I rinsed and filled the kettle. After clicking the ignitor a few times, the hob flamed to life. “Bingo! Fancy a cuppa before we venture upstairs?” I looked over my shoulder. Bernard was no longer leaning by the back door. “Bernard?”

I peered through the grimy window and watched as he strode up the overgrown garden path, kicking at the weeds as they pulled at his ankles. He stood at the blackened entrance of the studio, and with a hand pressed on either side of the doorway, he poked his head inside.

I couldn’t bear it. Ever since the day we thought we’d lost Pyg, I’d kept away. Nothing good could come of venturing in there to see the charred remains of our childhood skulking in shadows of the past.

Bernard was back at the door. He pulled the last drag from his roll-up and crushed the butt under his shoe. “I still can’t believe the old witch burned down the studio. If it wasn’t worth something, I’d take great pleasure in burning this fucking house down.”

“Do you want tea?”

“Yeah, go on. Is there any sugar?”

I scoffed. “What do you think? I thought to get milk and biscuits, though.”

Bernard opened and banged shut the cupboard doors. “Nothing in here but mouse shit. Ooh, what about this?” He held up a dusty decorative glass vase.

I shrugged. “I don’t want it.”

“I’ll have it then. And these too,” he said, opening a box of tarnished fish knives.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Dinner parties, darling,” he said.

We took our mugs of tea upstairs. Mum’s room was devoid of everything but a stripped bed, dressing table and wardrobe with empty hangers swinging on the rail. For the longest time, it had been Ruth’s room, anyway. The only trace of its former occupant was a cardboard box, unceremoniously shoved at the back of the wardrobe. It contained the few items Mum had left behind. I pulled it out and rifled through the contents: a cracked handheld mirror, an old pair of stockings, and some tatty paperbacks, including a dog-earned copy ofPygmalionby George Bernard Shaw. Nothing of any value, sentimental or monetary, but I shoved the play in my satchel anyway.

“Oi, oi! What’s this?” Bernard pulled a chain-link belt from a drawer.

I grimaced. “I’d put that down if I were you.”

Bernard whipped the belt around in the air. “Why? What is it?”

“I dunno, but I saw Ruth putting it on once.”

“Oh, did you now?”

---