From: LifeBlood The weather is warming. Soon I will be able to eat at the table under the apple tree. Our son and daughter already are. I watch them from the shelter of the pantry and regret in mime-play that its window does not open. ‘What?’ they ask, coming through the kitchen for more toast. ‘It’s a pity the window doesn’t open. Though what we really need here is a patio door.’ Our son inspects the pantry window as he munches. ‘You could replace it with a window which opens,’ he tells me, ‘but not with a patio door. The window is sitting on a metre of solid stone.’ The idea of a patio door makes me regret the metre of solid stone in louder tones. ‘You’re stuck with it, mum,’ laughs our son. ‘Unless we take a sledgehammer to it. Come and sit in the loft if you want fresh air.’ They take their toast to its ladder. I follow with my coffee. The joiner’s ladder holds no fears for us now. We scramble up and down its rungs, using the missing fourth to tell us when to twist and brace ourselves against the wall, to lift whatever we are carrying through the hatch. When the first thunderous blow is struck, I don’t even spill my coffee. ‘What was that?’ asks our daughter. She is standing wide-eyed next to our son’s bed. Our daughter has free run of the loft, because she is not yet tall enough to bang her head against a rafter. She uses the advantage to dive past us in the rush to the Velux window. ‘It’s Dad,’ she confirms, leaning in again to let our son lean out. He leans out, then leaps out, onto the kitchen roof. WHAM! ‘Dad!’ he yells. WHAM! ‘He’s knocking it out,’ reports our son. ‘What? What’s he knocking out?’ ‘The metre of solid stone. He’s knocking it out.’ WHAM! This time the thunderous blow is quickly followed by a thunderous shattering of glass. Stop! Stop! I am yelling, as I scramble back down the ladder and out the kitchen door. ‘Stop! What are you doing?’ It is too late. The pantry window lies in shards on a tumble of broken stone. Beyond, the gingham curtains have begun to flutter in synchrony with the wisteria against the bathroom wall. My husband drops his sledgehammer and wipes his forearm along his brow. I am practically speechless. ‘Wh—what have you done? Don’t we need planning permission for that? What if it’s not safe?’ ‘They ask me what’s safe.’ ‘But – but – surely we should have waited, for a Letter of Comfort at least?’ He picks up the sledgehammer again. ‘A Letter of Comfort?’ he howls. ‘You’ve just signed away your medical rights! What’s comfortable about that?’ WHAM! ‘You haven’t time to wait for a Letter of Comfort!’ he howls again. ‘You might only have this summer!’ WHAM! ‘Stop!’ I yell above the din. ‘Stop!’ WHAM! ‘All right! Stop! You can stop now –’ I am almost as breathless as he is. ‘– stop, stop. It’s – it’ll be great. It’s just that – we haven’t got a door.’ He leans on the sledgehammer for a minute, then lets it topple onto the grass. ‘Well, I’ll find one. I’ll ring the joiner’s yard on Monday. They’re bound to have an old door—’ The children appear in the pantry, and stick their heads round the hole in the wall. ‘Good effort,’ grins our son. My husband surveys the hole with pride.
‘But what about this evening?’ I say. ‘What about this evening?’ ‘The farm are expecting us for supper.’ There is a pause. The children hold their breath. ‘Ah,’ says my husband. Their laughter explodes around him.