The Buried

Chapter 4

He awoke early the next morning to a chill that had frozen the tips of his knees and nose. Thoughts of the night before hung drunkenly before his mind—it was a blissful second before the strings were cut and he came plummeting back to reality. 'Buggar,' he murmured, closing his eyes. He thought about what he had done to Rosie, and then about spending the rest of the day under the spare duvet. 

Audrey's voice shattered that hope: 'Delwyn! Breakfast is ready!'

He sighed. 'Just a second!'

The covers were flung away. All his clothes were creased from being squashed down in a travel bag. He tried stretching out a wrinkled t-shirt, only to discover a stain on its stomach; gone were the days of the rigid collars and hissing irons. Now it was plain shirts, unwashed trousers and cheap trainers Mam had bought from the market. 

White light shot through the curtains like a guillotine as he made his bed. It reminded him of stepping into Afghanistan for the first time, of the boiled air rippling up from the tarmac. The heat had made him ache, so different from the days in Wales when the sun would show its paled, ephemeral face and drag children into the streets to enjoy ice cream and water balloons before it sulked behind the clouds again. After straightening his sister's duvet, he flung the clammy curtains open with such gusto that a snow globe toppled from the sill. The clatter and curses caused Rosie to rush in, hair half-brushed.

His heart seemed to halt when he saw her. 'Sorry,' he said, failing to squeeze enough weight out of the word. Rosie glanced at the globe, which he'd managed to catch between the wall. It was only when he looked at it that he realised its significance—a christening gift from Gethin—and was hit with another wave of mortification.

Rosie had been of toddling age when her father died. The fact that she didn't remember him was something she never admitted, not even to herself, so the snow globe was a stubborn treasure. Now the ceramic daffodils of its base were chipped, and after Delwyn's clumsiness, the pink infant inside was snared in a snowstorm. 

She scowled at him and left. Slamming the snow-globe back with defeat, he looked out at the frosty garden. Twigs danced before the window, heavy with frozen raindrops. A red and tawny robin flitted over and fled before Delwyn could notice. 

*

They met in the kitchen five minutes later. Luckily, Celia and Audrey were cooing farewells between them, Audrey thanking Celia for coming and Celia thanking Audrey for having them, as though they didn't live a ten-minute drive from each other's front doors. After mopping up Bo's sleepy-eyed tantrum, Celia called goodbye and left the family in silence. Delwyn sat down on one of the tall-backed chairs and took a slice of toast from the pile. The kitchen was Audrey's pride and glory. It had been in its infancy when Delwyn left, but now it dazzled with the dark oak and copper she had wanted to complete her rustic vision. Her children's achievements—20 metre swimming, art projects, school certificates—sullied the cabinets, staining blu-tack grease and torn from age. Her real children were acting similarly; their sullenness was an anomaly she wished to scrub out, like a stubborn mark on one of her copper pans. 

'Everything alright?' she asked, rooting in the fridge. 

Rosie's head was bowed, stabbing her spoon into her cornflakes. Delwyn kept chewing and said nothing. Rattling the dregs in a moribund milk carton, Audrey frowned. She could piece together fragments of what had happened last night, and after Rosie had ended up in her bed, guessed that the room sharing was not a success. 

'I need you to go into the village and get some milk,' she announced, and glanced pointedly towards Delwyn. 'Both of you.'

The two of them seemed to groan without making a sound. 'Do we really need milk, Mam?' Rosie asked, sounding as though Audrey had just asked her to pull teeth.