Page 9

"Hain't yer over playin' yer 'and, Dr Parnell? Diggin' out yer pound 'er flesh? This hain't an'oriental markit. Seems ter me yer wants yer penny, yer bun and yer first bite."
"Damned right I do, Burr. It's cash on the nail for a house that pleases me, or you can sell elsewhere. I've seen as good in Surrey."
It had been a sticky afternoon and they were standing in front of a pile of unused bricks. In full view, a mangy cat was crapping on a delivery of clean sand. Parnell watched his man buckle.
"I'll give yer wot yer wants, sir. . . but don't come back wiv nuffink else cawse I won't be in a givin' mood."

Looking up at the house Parnell thought to justify himself.
"Son, my eleventh commandment is 'put thy trust in possessions'. It's a sham world. The Bard argued 'clothes maketh the man' - more wisdom to live by."
Parnell had pushed Burr to make the house five bricks longer and four bricks deeper than the biggest on the estate. As he studied the result he heard Burr's acrimony. But here was victory set in bricks and mortar, one to outlast the disputed testament of his life. Defeated Burr's face sagged like a glove puppet.
Both men understood. The rules of the rut demanded the tactical
display of bigger balls; Burr grunted and backed-off. Parnell claimed he'd not deal harshly with an honest man. Rory stood with him under the gables.
"Owning more bricks and better bathrooms than your neighbour isn't just domestic vanity, it's a matter of self-definition. My old dad, after a lifetime of your grandmother's spite, claimed Celts are more pig-headed than Saxons. Your Saxon mother nailed that fallacy. It's said the Holy Koran encourages true believers to taste the delights of paradise by fulfilling earthly desires. Wait till you see the bathrooms."

9

Before unlocking the massive iron studded oak front door Parnell stopped under the arched portico to finger its Portland stone.
"Stuff of prehistory - dinosaur bones."
Rory submitted to his father's enthusiasm and slipped under his arm into the gloom. Parnell thumped the door shut and the sound
resonated.
"House echoes; won't hold secrets, so beware."
He edged Rory forward.
As Rory's amazement grew, events from the past invaded his mind. He was again in Bristol standing with his mother in St Mary Redcliffe listening to the graceful pitch of her voice praising the glory of medieval windows in tones never heard within the family.
"The light in God's eye. I should have married Nathaniel and shared his life making music for God."
"Nathaniel"? Rory's curiosity had been blocked by a defensive silence.

Parnell hesitated, soaking up the ambience.
"Dad, does mother have any knowledge of this?"
"Never let the family become a committee if you want results."
He urged his son into shadowy spaces that overwhelmed him.
"Mother will say it's cursed."
His thoughts drew in wider family matters. Aunt Doris described by his father as a mixed blessing was a follower of the Russian noble woman Helena Blavatsky, high priestess of Theosophy.
"Aunty Doris believes in curses."
"Why bring her up?"

This is a page from Milk and Honey by Gerald Moore, available for purchase from Lazarus Press.

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