Short story
MIRROR, SIGNAL
F
A short story by John Arnett
or several summers in succession, we used to rent a large detached house in Suffolk for a week or more. It was set back from a tiny, winding lane, away from any village, and surrounded by fields as far as you could see in any direction. It wasn’t too far from the coast – the lane was sandy at the edges – and that was part of its appeal. Any form of traffic was a rare occurrence. The house belonged to the headmaster of a nearby primary school, who used to go away to France for the whole of the summer holidays with his family. It was an ancient, rambling place with tall, ornate chimneys, flagstone floors and a huge, homely kitchen about the size of the entire London flat we lived in at the time. There was a beautiful music room downstairs – we called it the music room because it had a slightly out of tune walnut-cased piano and a zither with rusty strings. The acoustics were fabulous. We used to take various guitars, whistles, things to shake and blow. It was always full of sunlight and sound. There was also a little out of the way room we called “the den” which just had a TV, a big box full of games and piles of cushions. You could be pretty sure that was where the kids would be,
if you couldn’t find them. There was plenty to keep you happy, even if the weather wasn’t so good. The thing is, though, it invariably was. My recollection – and I have albums of photographs to prove it – is of a parade of glorious warm summer days, stretching from morning till late in the evening. The doors were always open. The house was surrounded on all sides by gardens, a profusion of wild flowers, brambles and fruit trees. There was a pond with an overhanging willow, a well-stocked vegetable garden and an orchard. Looking out of the kitchen window you would see a pleasingly ramshackle patio, and beyond it a large lawn which was in more or less constant use as a cricket and football pitch. We had some wonderful times there. Two of the holidays we had were with another family, close neighbours and friends of ours from London, who had two boys of exactly the same age as ours. The four boys had known each other all their lives, grown up together, been to the same schools, had similar interests – playing music most of all – and moved in similar circles. They were the best of friends. Another summer, we had invited some other close friends, a couple,
41
