Bracken unfurling. Snakeshead fritillaries. Chris arrived just before lunch on Saturday, announced by the crunch of his Mini’s wheels on the gravel drive. It was a blustery, rainy May morning, the sunshine, when it came, blindingly bright on the wet roads before the sky darkened and another shower blew in. ‘No thanks,’ said Howard, as he always did, pretending to shut the door on his son where he stood on the mat, only to open it again and usher him in with a grin and a mock bow. ‘Where’s Mum?’ ‘Oh, she’ll be down in a minute, I’m sure. She’s got a bit of a headache. Said she was going to have a nap.’ While Chris took his coat off and hung it on the newel post, Howard took his son’s bag to the study, where he would sleep. As always when the kids visited he would be back in the master bedroom, with Kitty, something he had mixed feelings about. ‘This for us?’ he said, returning from the study with a bottle of Malbec in one hand. ‘Shall we?’ ‘Oh, just a beer for me, Dad,’ said Chris.
