The Restoration of Otto Laird (36 page)

There was a falling-out, and for almost three years we didn't speak a word. But recently, things have greatly improved between us. Thanks to a letter (posted), a mishap and an unplanned reunion, he and I have become rather good friends. Furthermore, I've learned a great deal about the changing nature of parenthood. With the passing of time, there's a levelling-out in father–son relations. Not a reversal of roles, exactly, but a gaining of equilibrium – a balance between one's waxing and the other's waning. Strange as it sounds, I have only just grasped this, only just begun to treat my son as an equal. I am thankful for his patience in this matter. He is certainly a better parent than me, and probably a better architect, so it is time for me to abandon my sorry attempts to play the patriarch.

Daniel and the family visit us regularly now in Switzerland. The grandchildren love the views of the lake and the flowers in the garden. I wish you could have known Gillian and Michael. You would all have had such fun together. They have the same boundless curiosity and love of life as their Grandma. Michael's a very practical boy, a dab hand at Meccano and always making something new. He's quite a sportsman, too, something clearly not inherited from our side of the family. He tells me he wants to open the batting for England, or maybe become a famous architect. He hasn't yet decided between the two. Daniel, I am sure, will not discourage him in either ambition.

Gillian is more studious – top of the class at just about everything and with a boundless sense of fun. She started at her new school a short while ago, and already she has made lots of friends. She has a particular flair for languages, her command of German is exceptional, and she plans one day to teach herself Ancient Greek. When she told me this, I immediately thought of someone who might have helped her.

Both Gillian and Michael are always asking questions about you. Daniel recently made them an album of old photographs. They brought it over to show me, the last time they visited, and we spent a couple of pleasant hours leafing through it. A most affecting experience, as you can imagine. Some of those pictures I hadn't seen in years. There was one in particular, taken on our honeymoon, which seemed to be a favourite of Gillian's. I wonder if you remember it. You are wearing a pale-blue trouser suit, perched on the edge of a broken stump of column. You've just removed your sunglasses and your eyes are filled with laughter. Gillian thinks you look like Audrey Hepburn!

You left another message, as you lay upon your sickbed, and this is something else we should discuss.

‘Find someone,' you told me. ‘Don't waste what time you have. Try, if you can, to live happily and well.'

In this regard I've been very fortunate, in the decades since you left us. Anika, my wife, is a wonderful woman. I'll forever be grateful that she coveted my binoculars. She gets on well with the grandchildren, and she and Daniel are perfectly friendly, these days. That's something I never thought I'd be able to say. What is more, Anika has struck up a bond with Suzie, Daniel's wife. The two of them are always talking on the phone. You would like Suzie, a serene sort of presence, a perfect foil for Daniel's nervous energy. They have, it is clear, such a stable, loving marriage. I wish you could have lived to see him settled.

By the way, while I remember, there's another piece of news I should tell you. A building we once designed together has been condemned to the wrecking ball. Marlowe House, our one-time ‘home of the future', is at this very moment being demolished. We did our best to save it, but our efforts proved to be in vain. Time, I'm afraid, has been unkind to so much that you and I held dear.

How strange it was to wander the empty corridors, to inhabit those spaces we created together. Rediscovering the spatial logic of the structure was like unearthing the thought patterns of our younger selves. I was constantly reminded of those discussions we all had, round a table in our office in Fitzrovia.

At a personal level, it has all been rather painful, seeing the demise and destruction of something we cared for. But the experience has also restored my sense of resolve. They can knock down people's homes, you see, but they cannot so easily break their spirit. The residents I met were proof of that. These days, as a consequence, I try to write more useful letters: to politicians, newspapers and the like. Who knows if anyone has the patience to read them? I'm not very good at sticking to the point. But it's important, I think, even when one's mental powers are in decline, to try to stay engaged with the outside world.

Well, Cyn, it looks as though our time together is drawing to a close. I must leave you now, for Anika is coming. I see her ride her bicycle past my study window. Soon I will hear the creak of the back door and the sound of her tyres upon the flagstones. She will be weary, after her journey to town, and I must restore her with a lunch of scrambled eggs. Cooking a meal for Anika has become my greatest joy.

We will meet again soon, no doubt, in the memories I hold of you, though I'm glad to say these no longer overwhelm me. They emerge, rather, only when summoned, or when I'm of a mind to set them free. When I'm walking alone in the forest, and the feeling comes upon me, I release those memories like birds into the air. They nestle in the treetops, they sing to me their song, but it's a song of celebration, not a lament. Your memory, these days, inspires and uplifts me – inviting life, where once it seemed to obscure it.

I'm at peace now, Cynthia. I am reconciled with our son. Knowing this, I sense that you, too, are finally at rest.

Sleep well, dear Cynthia. Sleep well, dear Cyn.

Otto

Thirty-Five

She was waiting for him outside the apartment that day. No beret, the auburn hair shining, the lips full and smiling – her dress a simple print of pale orange. As Otto pulled up alongside her, the sunlight glinted on the rich cream paintwork of the open-topped car he had hired for the trip. Cynthia laughed and made fun a little. She didn't even know that he could drive.

‘Where did you find this? It must have cost you a fortune!'

He could tell that she was delighted.

‘It's just for the weekend. I couldn't resist. And since we're going somewhere that is special to you, I thought we needed a special form of transport to get us there.'

‘It's beautiful … thank you. It's beautiful.'

She kissed him on the mouth. Her smile was radiant as she turned towards him.

‘If it rains we can always put the roof up, of course, but I thought it might be nicer to drive with it down, if you don't mind the breeze.'

‘The breeze is perfect,' she said, fastening her seatbelt.

‘And there's a hamper in the back, for when we get hungry.'

She kissed him again with vigour.

‘You look nice,' he told her.

‘So do you. I love the jacket – very elegant indeed.'

‘And you've brought the camera?'

‘I've brought two, just in case. The light is fantastic so I hope we can find lots to photograph.'

In the mid-1950s, the drive out through north-west London became pleasant more quickly. The ribbon development encircling the city was less pronounced; the countryside, or something approximating to it, arrived earlier. By the time they reached rural Buckinghamshire, it had become a day bathed in near-perfect sunlight: soft and diffuse, without sacrificing any clarity of line or colour.

The car dipped and rose through the softly rounded landscape, hugging its contours as naturally as the hedgerows. Cynthia reclined in the passenger seat, her eyes closed, her arms stretched out and her face upturned to the warmth, as though absorbing secret messages from the sun. Otto and she were talking and laughing; basking in each other's presence. Their relationship, still in its early stages, was deepening in a way that seemed almost miraculous.

‘Very green,' he shouted.

‘Mm?'

Cynthia opened her eyes.

‘The countryside … here in England. Everyone told me that it would be.
Very
green.'

‘You like it?'

‘Yes, the tones are exceptionally rich. And the grass seems to glisten, even though the weather is dry today. It's as if the memory of the rain lives on inside it.'

She smiled.

‘How poetic. But then I suppose that's England for you. Rather on the damp side, I'm afraid.'

Otto nodded.

‘I only wish I had visited the countryside earlier.'

‘I can't believe this is your first trip outside London. You've been here several years.'

‘I was busy with all those books. The crazy man in the attic, remember?'

She leaned across to kiss him and then pointed off suddenly to the side of the car.

‘Look. A Cabbage White. The first I've seen this year.'

Otto was trying to keep his eye on the road.

‘Where?'

‘There. A few of them, in fact. Flying alongside us. Can't you see?'

‘Flying cabbages, you say?'

Cynthia laughed.

‘Cabbage White. It's a type of butterfly. Over there … look, in the hedgerow.'

At a quiet spot on a hill, with a view in the distance of Henley-on-Thames, its outline accommodating the silver flow of the river, they parked the car and removed the picnic hamper from the boot. They had lunch – ham and cheese sandwiches, apples and a flask of tea – on a blanket at the summit. The breeze flapped at Otto's fringe and the orange folds of Cynthia's dress. Afterwards, in a hidden crease of the hill, with no one else around that day, they made love slowly to the rhythms of the breeze and the birdsong, as soporific and timeless as the sunshine on their skin. Back in the car, they glanced over the map and decided to head further into the Oxfordshire Chilterns. The lanes were close and narrow here, the hedgerows thick with white spring flowers, which Cynthia could almost touch as she trailed her hand out over the side of the car.

‘There's one. Let's pull over and take a look.'

Otto drew up the car before a ruined cottage, which he estimated must date back to the early nineteenth century. It was steadily being reclaimed by the foliage coiling up its walls. The roof sagged badly in the middle, but just about held aloft. There was a sense of melancholy about the building, picturesque though it was. And then, higher up, a few hundred yards beyond it, lay the remains of an old outhouse, totally collapsed. Once a barn for keeping cows, it was now a pile of rubble on the crest of a slope.

Cynthia made her way up the hill, camera in hand, while Otto peered inside the broken windows of the cottage. No furniture was visible in the gloom, just bare walls and a few loose beams. Some broken glass was strewn across the floor. Wading through the tall grass at the side of the house, he gave a little wave to Cynthia, who was nearing the top of the hill. The retaining wall on this side had fallen down entirely. The empty rooms gave no clues about the lives of their former occupants. Otto snapped some pictures of the crumbling wall and exposed interior, kneeling down to get a satisfactory frame. Dusting the thick spores from the knees of his corduroy trousers, he rose to his feet and followed Cynthia up the hill.

‘The view is magnificent, come and see.'

She was standing at the top of the pile of rubble, reaching behind her to Otto with an outstretched hand. She smiled as he stumbled upwards to join her, losing his footing on the loose stones, but never halting. Sensing her broadening smile, he exaggerated his movements to please her; arms out sideways, swaying from side to side with each new step. Unable to control herself, Cynthia laughed, her head thrown back, delighting in the moment. A halo of sunlight burst between the trees.

Ever since his childhood, people had laughed at Otto: at his great height, his clumsiness, his eccentric demeanour and the impenetrable flow of his ideas. But this laugh was different. It told him it was all okay. No, more than that: that he was loved. Otto was laughing too, now, as his hand reached out towards hers.

‘Shall we get married?' he asked her late that afternoon, as they sat in the car and watched the shadows lengthen on the hills. The question seemed to come naturally from him, without awkwardness or nerves. Otto himself could hardly believe how relaxed he sounded. To the casual observer, he might easily have been commenting on the view. Cynthia's reply sounded equally unruffled. She was unhurried and at ease, allowing his words to play across her like the sunlight.

‘Yes,' she said, matter-of-factly, leaning across to kiss him on the cheek. ‘Of course.'

About the Author

NIGEL PACKER
is a former journalist, whose eclectic writing career spanned from music reviews for the BBC to a reporting officer at the International Committee for the Red Cross. He received his BA in Archaeology from the University of York and an MA from Leiden University. Nigel lives in London and The Restoration of Otto Laird is his first novel. You can sign up for email updates
here
.