Dreaming of the Bones

of the contents of the fridge. Eggs, a few mushrooms—he could whip up omelettes, a green salad... there was half a loaf ot granary bread from the bakery in Cambridge ... a meager supper, but it would have to do. And for pudding he could use the trifle he’d bought at Tesco’s, though he’d hoped to save it for more festive circumstances.
    What on earth had possessed him to ask Adam round? Guilt, more than likely, he admitted with a grimace of disgust as he started for the house. He’d always felt a bit sorry for Adam, for reasons he found hard to articulate. Maybe it was that Adam seemed to try too hard at life, but his dedication to any number of good causes never produced much visible result. And the ironic thing, Nathan thought as he held on to the doorjamb and struggled out of his wellies, was that yesterday when Adam had rung him, he’d had the distinct impression that Adam was feeling sorry for him.

    Adam Lamb nursed his old Mini out the Grantchester Road , past the University Rugby Grounds, coasting downhill when he could to save petrol. Although he didn’t believe in owning automobiles, his parish work rendered some form of transport a necessity, so he salved his conscience by driving a car that passed its MOT each year only by the grace of God. His rationing of petrol had an economic as well as a moral impetus—a few carefully consolidated trips a week were all his meager budget would allow.
    A gust of wind rattled the car and Adam looked back at the overtaking bank of clouds. He should have walked tonight—it was less than two miles, after all, along the river path, and they’d done it without thinking when they were students—but the threat of rain had combined with a nagging cold to dampen his enthusiasm. He felt old, suddenly, and tired.
    Adam slowed almost to a walking pace as he came into the outskirts of Grantchester. As near as it was to Cambridge , he hadn’t been here in years. He’d certainly never expected Nathan to come back, at least not alone. When he’d heard through mutual friends that Nathan had inherited his parents’ house and meant to live in it, he’d felt a little frisson of unease.
    The Grantchester Road became Broadway, and as Adam inched round the last curve before the High Street junction, he blinked in surprise. Surely this couldn’t be it? The cottage of his memories had been shabby, with crumbling stucco, brambles in the garden, and sparrows nesting in the thatch. But a look at the houses either side assured him that he had indeed found the house, for they fit his dim recollection of the neighbors. He stopped the car against the left-hand curb and got out just as the first fine drops of rain began to fall, forgetting the parking brake in his bemusement. He stood, gaping at the cottage’s new bricked drive and circular walkway, putting-green lawn and immaculate perennial borders, pristine whitewash and thatch—someone had worked a miracle.
    The front door opened and Nathan came out, grinning. ”Leaves you speechless, doesn’t it?” he said as he met Adam and shook his hand. ”Good to see you.” He gestured back at the house. ”I know it’s embarrassingly quaint, but I have to admit I’m enjoying it. Come in.”
    Nathan looked surprisingly well. His hair had gone completely white since Jean’s death, but it suited him, setting off his dark eyes and naturally rosy complexion. Adam remembered how they’d teased Nathan when he started to gray in his twenties, but Nathan had met Jean by then and hadn’t cared a fig for what any of them thought, not even Lydia .
    Shying away from the thought of her, Adam made an effort to collect himself. ”But how did you... I mean, it must have... surely, your parents didn’t...” A big drop of rain splattered on his spectacles, momentarily blinding him.
    Nathan put a hand on his shoulder and propelled him towards the door. ”I’ll fix you a drink and tell you all about it, if you like.” Once inside, he shut the door against the rain and took Adam’s anorak, hanging it neatly from a pegged rack. ”Whisky suit you?”
    ”Um, yes. Fine.” Adam followed him into a sitting room as transformed as the exterior. Gone was the dark antimacassared furniture, the Victorian and Edwardian knickknacks that Nathan’s mother had loved. Now the accommodating-looking upholstered pieces sported a cheery red-and-blue William Morris print, a thick rug covered the floorboards, and the wood fire burning in the hearth winked from