Free Night Music by Jojo Moyes

tin tub on the landing.
    Piling in together had seemed the best way to keep warm. At least, that was what they had told each other. Isabel, with the sleeping figures of her children at either side of her, had known they needed basic maternal comfort, one of the few things she could capably offer just by existing. What have I done she asked herself? She listened to the panes rattle in the windows, the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the house, the noisy scurryings of unidentified creatures in the roof. Outside it was unnaturally quiet, without the reassuring punctuation of cars passing, or footsteps on the pavement. The expanse of water and the trees muffled any sound. The dark was oppressive, unrelieved by any neighbouring buildings or sodium light. It felt primeval, and she was glad that her children were close. Tenderly she stroked their faces, conscious of the extra liberty that their sleep afforded her. Then reached over Thierry’s head to check that her violin case was beside her.
    ‘What have I done?’ she whispered. Her voice sounded unnatural, disembodied. She tried to picture Laurent, to hear his words of reassurance, and when he refused to come she cursed herself for moving here, and wept.
    Just as she had been told, in the morning things seemed better. She woke to find herself alone in the bed. The day was bright, with the kind of early-spring light that induces beauty even in the most jaded scenery, and outside sparrows squabbled noisily in the hedgerows, occasionally breaking off to fly above the window, then settling again. Downstairs, she could hear the radio, and a buzzing, which told her that Thierry was racing a remote-control vehicle around the echoing floors. Her first lucid thought was, This house is like us. It has been bereft, abandoned. Now it will look after us, and we will bring it back to life.
    The idea propelled her out of bed, through the trials of a cold-water wash because neither she nor Kitty had mastered the antique and labyrinthine hot-water system, and back into the same clothes as she had worn that night and the previous day – she had been unable to locate which cardboard box contained her wardrobe. She walked slowly down the stairs, observing the countless problems of their new home, which she had failed to notice the previous evening: cracked plaster, rotting window frames, the occasional missing floorboard . . . On it went. One thing at a time, she told herself, when it threatened to overwhelm her. We are here, and we are together. That is what is important. A few bars of music had crept into her head: Dvorřák’s opening from the New World Symphony. It seemed appropriate, a good sign.
    The music stopped when she reached the kitchen. ‘Kitty!’ she exclaimed.
    Her daughter had been at work for some time. The shelves were cleared, and while the surfaces were still cracked and tired, they gleamed, free of dust and detritus. The floor was several shades lighter than it had been, and the garden was visible through translucent windows. In the sink, full of hot suds, a large pile of cooking implements was soaking, while a pan of water was coming to the boil on the electric stove. Kitty was putting what food they had on the shelves. The radio muttered on the work surface, and a mug of tea stood on the table. Isabel was filled with pleasure at the sight of the renewed room, yet appalled and guilty that her daughter had had to be responsible for it.
    ‘This room is for cold storage,’ Kitty said, pointing to a side door. ‘I thought we could keep the stuff that needs refrigerating there until we can get a power point put in for the fridge.’
    ‘Shouldn’t it just plug in?’
    ‘Of course, but there isn’t a socket – as I said. I’ve looked everywhere. Oh, and I’ve put a mousetrap down there. It won’t kill them, and once we’ve caught a few we have to take them for a drive.’
    Isabel shuddered.
    ‘Unless Thierry wants to keep them as pets,’ Kitty offered.
    Her