Idiopathy

excellent condition due to the fact that the ex-schoolmaster had taken to living entirely off Birds Eye meals for one which he prepared in the microwave, was quickly replaced, to much fanfare by Nathan’s mother, by an all-black electric hob with touch-sensitive controls. The original brick floors, which Nathan’s father found were cold enough to breach even the luxurious integrity of his slippers, were covered in a thick cream shag. Exposed beams were boxed in (‘so much neater’); soft pink Farrow and Ball walls were redone in an infinitely less dated Dulux magnolia; and the iron bath was replaced with something deeper, wider, and entirely more modern from B&Q. In the garden, which, much to Nathan’s parents’ consternation, turned out to be riddled with things that needed looking after, they ripped up, with the aid of a one-eyed man and his JCB, three apple trees, a greengage tree, a magnolia, and a rather complicated herb garden that was far too untidy to be saved. Appalled at the mess an untamed wisteria had made of the front of the house, Nathan’s father set about it with loppers and a hacksaw until all that remained were the stubborn shadowy prints where it had clung to the plaster, which mercifully was going to be redone anyway.
    At the end of it all, they were happier than they had ever been, and even invited old Mr Rudge, the ex-schoolmaster, round for high tea so he could see, as Nathan’s mother put it, the potential that had been right under his nose all that time, but sadly Mr Rudge was off his food – an early warning as it transpired – and was dead less than a week later.
    ‘At least he lived to see it,’ said Nathan’s father, nodding sagely.
    Such was the work that had gone into the final abode that Nathan’s mother was unable to enter it without a degree of show. She swept in, shedding her coat in a single, florid movement, hanging it on the peg Nathan’s father had screwed to the wall at a slightly improbable angle and, consciously or unconsciously, trailing her hand alongside her as if running her fingers through the eddies of a refreshing stream.
    ‘Tea,’ she said with grandeur, and threw the switch on the kettle.
    The dining table, Nathan observed, was fractionally too large for the kitchen, meaning it functioned more as something that needed to be negotiated than something at which one might be inclined to sit. It seated six, despite Nathan’s mother’s strongly held belief that for an informal gathering four was the optimum. Formal gatherings no doubt went by different rules. The table was pine, but had been varnished with a heat-resistant treatment so thick that it had the appearance of being synthetic. Despite the treatment, cups, plates and most certainly pans were not under any circumstances to be placed directly on the table, even if, as had happened to Nathan, you were foolish enough to have picked up a hot pan and needed to put it down before it burned you.
    Nathan’s mother didn’t know how he took his tea. He noted that he was affronted by this yet not particularly surprised.
    ‘Milk two sugars,’ he said.
    ‘I’ll give you one,’ she said, as if this were the very definition of kindness.
    The chairs matched the dining table but, due to concerns about the linoleum (an off-white affair with a very pale yellow mosaic), had been outfitted with felt pads on their feet in such a way as to ensure that not a single chair in the room sat level, leading to a situation where Nathan was unable to stop gently rocking his chair from side to side.
    ‘Stop that,’ said his mother.
    He stopped it, then started it, then concentrated very hard on stopping it and keeping it stopped.
    ‘You know,’ said Nathan’s mother, turning from the fridge with a pint of milk aloft. ‘You can freeze milk and it comes out just fine. It’s worth remembering.’
    Nathan nodded.
    ‘And cheese,’ she said. ‘Cheese freezes ever so well.’
    His father entered through the back door and began to struggle gamely with the zip of his coat, first wrenching it, then pausing as if to lull it into a false sense of security, then suddenly attempting to force it downwards with all his strength, as if surprise might have been the vital element missing from the battle.
    ‘Arms up,’ said Nathan’s mother, motioning with her hands.
    Nathan’s father raised his arms and frowned as his wife yanked his jacket over his head.
    ‘Now, Nathan,’ said Nathan’s mother, returning to the kettle and