Free Gull Island by Grace Thompson Page B

stairs. To his initial delight, he saw his father standing near the fireplace – tall, well dressed but withsuch a look of hatred in his eyes that the smile of welcome froze on Luke’s face and the contents of his stomach curdled.
    ‘Father? Good to see you. Sorry I was still in bed. I’ll soon have the fire lit and some tea made.’
    ‘Get out.’
    ‘What?’ Luke staggered as if the man had hit him. ‘What d’you mean?’
    ‘Get out of this house and do not come back. This cottage belongs to the family and you do not.’
    ‘But I come here at weekends to get away from town and what harm can I do, just living here for a few days a week?’
    ‘It’s a family property and you are trespassing. Your sister told me you were living here and I won’t allow it, d’you hear?’
    ‘You can’t mean it, Father.’ Luke was trembling. He hadn’t realized just how much he had hoped that once he and his father met and talked, things would have come right between them. But, as usual, in his father’s presence, he couldn’t muster his thoughts to even begin. ‘I’m your son,’ he stuttered painfully. ‘I love you and you must love me. How can that not be so?’
    ‘Don’t say that word! Coming from your mouth it’s unclean. I’ll wait outside while you gather your things then the door will be locked and you will give me your key.’
    In a daze, Luke went upstairs and returned with his clothes and few possessions in a leather bag. His father refused to take the key from his hand but told him to place it on the table in a cigar box presumably brought for the purpose. Didn’t he even want to touch something I’ve handled? Luke wailed inwardly at the insult. Foolishly, in that moment of anguish, he thought of the mouse.
    ‘I have a pet mouse – he depends on me for food,’ he said, stuttering madly.
    ‘No more he doesn’t.’ His father kicked the carcase of the mouse towards the centre of the room, the mouse crushed with his heel as it came trustingly to greet him. Luke stumbled from the house and didn’t see his father leave.
     
    He was absent from the bookshop all that week, having broken the lock and slept in the cottage, guessing his father wouldn’t bother to check that he had indeed left. He had to see Barbara and Rosita before he returned to Cardiff, give them an address where they could find him. They at least wouldn’t abandon him. But he wondered if even Barbara would turn away from him if she knew how much his father hated him for saying he loved his friend Roy. He knew he mustn’t ever mention Roy again, but just hold the happy childhood memories of the Thomas family close to his heart.
    He had to wait until Sunday. That seemed the most likely day for Barbara and the children to come. To occupy himself while he waited, he began repairing the porch of the house in which Richard had taken such interest. There were a few tools in the cottage and the remains of the porch were scattered but mostly still sound. He went into town to order wood and cement, which was delivered immediately, Luke himself riding with it on the back of the firm’s horse and cart.
    Stones for renewing the walls were easy to find and by the time Sunday had come, the porch was as good as new. It was surprising how much the place improved with a good brushing and scrubbing. He even whitewashed some of the walls, taking pleasure in the transformation and enjoying the physical hard work, using it to blot out the expression of hatred on his father’s face.
    The third bedroom still needed a lot of work but he knew a bag of plaster, strips of skirting board and a few pots of paint would work a small miracle. It was tempting to take another week away from the shop and continue with the tasks he had set himself, but he had to get back. The bookshop was his sheet anchor and without that reason to rise each morning, he would soon succumb to misery and despair.
    He bought potatoes from a local farmer on that Sunday morning and put them