Artificial Nest

The gravel complained under the wheels like frosted paper, and the sound sent deep waves across his head. The tall, wide archway spread the same shadow over his head; rotting beams, ancestral cobwebs and sparrow’s nests sailed over the roof of the car. For a moment, Peter was in the back seat again, returning from the drive to town with shopping or library books.

The cobblestones shuddered him back into the driver’s seat as he parked in the garage. Leaving the car, the smell that seeped from the garage – petrol, upholstery, hand cream – almost made him wretch; the smell that had lived inside that Astra was apparently still alive and well. He walked back through the archway, looking upwards at the wide purple tray of the artificial swallow's nest. How it got there he’d never know, but it was older than him. Older than anyone seemed to know. Outside, he listened to the stillness of it. The snow and lateness of the afternoon covered everything in a cool blue coma. Charlie, once Gonzo’s kitten, padded lightly through the white; slowing and lowering herself into a stalk, watching the hedge for signs of life. Even under layers of snow and years, the trees were the same as they ever were; the hedge identical, though overgrown now without him to cut it back.

He turned to the door and it opened for him. “Here you are then,” said his father pointedly. Peter stepped into the doorway and they embraced, before his father shut the door: dark red outside with brass knob and HMS Victory knocker, inside whitewashed wood and new metal.

The fire was burning dimly against the bricks his father had placed years ago, throwing shadows against the ancient ivy, still clinging defiantly to the wall; it had now reached almost all the way round the room. Peter sat as his father went into the kitchen to make tea.

“I’ve missed this place.”

“We’ve missed you too,” his father said, returning not with tea but with two glasses of vermouth and tonic. Peter sipped his and stared into the fire, which spat tiny angry sparks onto the handmade Indian rug, now frayed and burnt. “You know about your mother?”

“Yes.”

“You know they want to take her away.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.”

“Why?”

Peter explained his plan: the safehouse, how he could make it seem like a robbery.

“How long would she be gone for?”

“A few weeks; once they think she’s been stolen they’ll stop caring.”

“I don’t know if I can part with her for that long.”

“Where is she?” Peter asked. His father pointed.

“In there.”

“In the broom cupboard?” Peter stood up. “But that’s the first place they’ll look!”

“Well, where else?”

“What about the cellar?” His father thought for a few seconds, then stood up and picked up some cushions.

“We’ll have to make it comfy for her.” Peter sighed and went into the kitchen to retrieve the stuffed body as his father went to get a duvet.