Free The Legacy by Katherine Webb Page A

forget?” Mum sighed.
    “Well, they are your children . . .”
    “Yes, they are.”
    “But if you want them to live under my roof, and in my care, then they will have to abide by my rules,” Meredith snapped.
    Mum took a deep breath. “If I hear that they have been locked up inside again, then they won’t come here at all any more, and neither will David and I,” she said quietly, but I could hear the tension. Nearly a tremor. Meredith did not reply. I heard her footsteps coming toward me and I bolted out of sight. With the coast clear I went in to my mother, found her washing up with a quiet intensity, eyes bright. I put my arms around her legs, squeezed her tight. Meredith was never any less averse to us playing with Dinny, but we were never shut in our room again. Mum won on that point, at least.
    M onday morning is leaden and wet. The tips of my fingers and toes were chilled when I woke up, and have stayed that way; and now the end of my nose too. I can’t remember when I was last this cold. In London it just doesn’t happen. There’s the clammy warmth of the underground, the buffeting heat of shops and cafés. A hundred and one places to hide from any dip in the outside temperature. I’m in the orangery, on the south side of the house, overlooking a small lawn ringed with gnarled fruit trees. When we were playing too loudly, when we were trying Meredith’s patience , we would be sent here, to the small lawn, while the grown-ups sat on the west-facing terrace at a white iron table, drinking iced tea and vodka. My companions in here are the skeletal remains of some tomato plants and a toad, sitting plump by the tap that drips verdigris water onto a bright green swathe of duckweed. I had forgotten the quiet of the countryside, and it unnerves me.
    It’s earthy and damp in here; a fecund smell, in spite of the season. One of my earliest memories of Henry, who would have been eight or nine: on the small lawn when I was five or so; a hot August day during one of those summers that seemed to last for ever; the grass baked blonde, crisping under the onslaught; the terrace stones too hot for bare feet; the dogs too fagged to play; my nose peeling and freckles on Beth’s arms. They set up one of those giant paddling pools for us on the small lawn. So big that there were steps to climb over the side and an expanse of blue plastic sheet inside, so enticing even before the water went in. I can still smell that hot plastic. It was set up, smoothed out; an illicit hosepipe threaded over to it. The water from the hose came straight from the mains and it was icy on our toasted skin. Deliciously numbing. I fidgeted about in my red swimsuit, desperate for it to fill faster.
    Henry climbed in straight away, with grass on his feet that floated away. He picked up the hosepipe and waved it at us, now that the grown-ups had retreated. He sprayed us and would not let us come near. I remember being so desperate to get in, to get my feet wet. But on my terms. I did not want to be splashed. Feet first, then the rest, gradually. Every time I got near, he sprayed me. The water was at his anklebones, his feet white and rippling. His body was white too, soft looking, nipples pouting slightly, turned down. Then he stopped, and he swore to me—he promised. He swore an oath that I could enter safely, that he had finished spraying. I made him put the hose down before I climbed in carefully. A second of ecstatic cold on my feet then Henry grabbed me, put my head under his arm, pushed the hose right into my face. Water up my nose, in my eyes, freezing, choking; Beth shouting at him from ringside. I coughed and howled until Mum came looking.
    I wish Beth would come out of the house. I read somewhere that the great outdoors is just the thing for depression. A bracing walk, a communion with nature. As if depression is like a bout of indigestion, to be worked out of the system. I am not sure if it will work at this time of year, when the wind can