Saturday Weather

Dad's new doorbell played a tune.

I disliked it immediately, which was unreasonable. The doorbell hadn't left our house or rented another one or bought a sofa without asking whether I would ever want to sit on it. It was simply a button with too much confidence.

Ollie pressed it three times.

“Stop,” I said.

“I'm comparing the endings.”

Tess opened the door holding Pip against her hip. My half-sister was nine months old and looked astonished by the continued existence of other people.

“Come in,” Tess said. “Your dad's arguing with charcoal.”

Ollie went directly to the garden. I took Pip while Tess rescued a bowl from the edge of the kitchen counter. Pip grabbed my hair with the purpose of someone who had been given a difficult climbing task.

“That's attached,” I told her.

She laughed.

“Good. We understand each other.”

Tess handed me a muslin cloth. She was kind in a way that made it inconvenient to resent her. It would have been simpler if she said things designed to hurt me. Mostly she asked whether I wanted tea and remembered which biscuits Ollie liked.

The kitchen cupboards were cream. At home they were blue. I opened the wrong one for a glass and found containers with matching lids, which made me feel that even the storage had improved since Dad left.

“Left of the sink,” Tess said.

“I know.”

I didn't. She didn't correct me.

In the garden, Dad waved tongs at the barbecue. A cloud of smoke passed over his head and continued towards the neighbours with an independence I admired.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi.”

He kissed the top of my head while taking Pip. She immediately tried to eat his shirt.

“Everything all right at the shop?”

“We've got it contained.”

“Your gran feels awful.”

“She didn't sew the lining.”

“No, but she thinks she should have read everything in the trunk before sending it.”

We had apparently distributed responsibility across three generations without making the coat any less damp.

I told him about the photograph and Mae. He remembered the singer before remembering the girl. He had met Mum when Agnes was already running most of the shop's daily work, and the family stories he knew were organised around that version of everybody.

“I've brought the other tin,” he said. “Some notebooks. A few bits I didn't recognise.”

“Thanks.”

“And I hear you've got an interview.”

I looked at him.

“Agnes?”

“Mum, actually. She was pleased.”

I was pleased too. The feeling had become buried beneath how much work I thought I needed to do before I could safely admit it.

“It's in Beckford.”

“That's great.”

“You could come and see what I'm making.”

The words surprised me by arriving without a joke attached.

Dad shifted Pip to his other arm. “Of course. Bring it on your next visit.”

“I meant you could come to the shop.”

“Oh.”

For a moment I regretted asking. The garden seemed full of objects that had more straightforward purposes than mine: chairs for sitting, plates for food, a baby who could demand attention simply by dropping her face into his shoulder.

“Yes,” he said. “I'd like that.”

“Not when you're already coming to bring something. Just to look.”

Tess, standing in the doorway, pretended to concentrate on the salad bowl.

“Absolutely,” Dad said. “Tell me a day.”

The barbecue failed in a modest way. The charcoal produced an impressive amount of smoke and almost no useful heat. Tess put the food in the oven. We ate it outdoors anyway, beneath a sky that seemed perfectly happy not to participate in the plan.

Ollie described his recycling centre. Dad asked about the weapons. Mum would have asked about the recycling. I liked that I could predict them both and disliked that predicting them no longer meant they would be in the same room.

After lunch, Dad brought out a baby blanket with one loose edge.

“Would this be a quick job?” he asked.

Before I answered, Tess took it from him.

“Nick. She's visiting.”

“I just thought—”

“She's still visiting.”

There was no sharpness in it. That made it harder for him to laugh off.

I reached for the blanket, then stopped halfway.

“Bring it to the shop,” I said. “I'll put it with the repairs.”

“Family rate?”

“Special surcharge for babies who eat staff.”

Pip, as though understanding the accusation, put her entire fist in her mouth.

Dad laughed. So did I. The afternoon became easier after that, not because I had decided to be happy about every part of our family, but because nobody required me to prove I was happy by fixing something.

When we left, he hugged me without holding Pip between us.

“Wednesday?” he asked. “After work. To see the frame.”

I nodded.

The doorbell played its tune as Ollie tested it one final time on the way out. I still hated it. For once, that was only a thought about a doorbell.