Free The Honours by Tim Clare Page B

half-full of clothes that would only fit a young boy?
    â€˜I show you something.’ A click. The squeal of hinges. The light in the hearth narrowed and flared as his shadow crossed it. ‘Eighteen years ago, in Kars, old woman sell me this book. You are artist. Look at pictures. Tell me what you think.’
    Delphine held her breath and listened. She could hear the crackle of pages turning.
    â€˜She was, uh, houselady? How to . . . She, uh, she rent rooms?’
    â€˜Landlady?’ said Daddy.
    Delphine let out a small involuntary yelp then slapped a hand over her mouth. That was his voice! It was him! Daddy was here!
    â€˜ Yes ,’ Propp purred, rolling the syllable, giving no indication he had heard her, ‘landlady. Thank you. She find book in room.’
    â€˜I, um . . . I’m afraid I can’t value it.’
    It was peculiar hearing Daddy’s voice again. The chimney’s acoustics gave it a dull, mechanical ring.
    â€˜I’m not an antiques expert,’ he said. ‘I’m a painter.’
    â€˜Ah!’ Propp’s cry was so loud she shrank back from the opening. ‘But this is why I ask you! Book is pffft. Paper. Leather. Worthless. What do you see ?’
    Delphine could hear the slight squeak in Daddy’s nostrils as he breathed. Mother said the war had ruined his sinuses. He was for ever getting nosebleeds. Daddy said the bleeding helped his headaches.
    â€˜Well . . . they’re perfectly nice woodcuts. Rather . . . conventional. I can’t read the text but I presume this is a book of fairytales?’
    â€˜Hmm.’ Propp’s shadow wavered in the fireplace. Delphine leant forward, waiting for him to speak. She ached to drop down into the hearth and surprise Daddy.
    But no. If she just waited until they left again, she could get a look under that sheet . . .
    â€˜Thank you, my dear friend,’ said Propp. ‘Interesting. Very interesting.’ His footsteps tramped back across the room. ‘It is just pastime of mine, collecting books. Now, I expect you curse my name – Ikeep you from food!’ Hinges shrieked. Something clicked. ‘Come, brother, let us go.’
    She heard Daddy’s lighter footsteps move towards the door and her chest near-burst with the need to follow him. She balled her hands into fists.
    â€˜Wait,’ said Daddy. ‘Mr Propp . . . I understand you are a, uh . . . physician , of sorts.’
    â€˜I am dance teacher.’
    â€˜But you . . . your methods . . . they can . . . ’ Daddy stopped. ‘Sir, if I may be candid, lately I find I am . . . less than master of myself.’
    â€˜Yet until he admits this, no man may be free.’
    Daddy was quiet for a time. ‘Do you think you can help me?’
    He had never sounded so frail.
    She chewed on a knuckle.
    Propp cleared his throat. ‘What do you fear, brother?’
    â€˜I, uh . . . I suppose I fear illness and old age, and uh . . . some misfortune befalling my family, I fear failing in my duty as a – ’
    â€˜NO!’ A great crash made Delphine bite down on her knuckle so hard she drew blood. ‘You lie!’ Propp was yelling. ‘You stand in my room and you lie!’ She listened to his heavy, angry breaths, the silence spreading behind them. When he spoke again, his voice was low, bristling with menace. ‘Do not ask me to shut your wounds if you cannot stand to be burned.’
    Propp took a few steps. She heard the rustle and rip of paper.
    â€˜Take. Write.’
    â€˜Write what?’
    â€˜That which you cannot bear to say.’
    â€˜I don’t . . . I don’t understand what you . . . ’
    â€˜When I clap hands, write. Not in usual, mechanical way. Do not think. Simply let pencil move. When I clap hands again, stop.’
    â€˜But I . . . ’
    A clap.
    What was Propp doing? Why