Tyme's End Read Online Free

To the biographer, I mean. Oliver Gardner is one of my heroes, you know. A great writer. He inspired me to be a historian. We’ve got all his books.’
    â€˜Oh. Yes. He was –’ Oliver reaches for the wine, and takes a sip, licking his lips before he starts to speak again. ‘Yes, he was my grandfather. I was named after him.’
    â€˜Goodness. How wonderful.’
    â€˜He was a –’ He takes another gulp of wine and frowns into the glass as if he can see something at the bottom. ‘Yes. Wonderful.’
    â€˜Such a pity he didn’t come to live at Tyme’s End . . . I always hoped to run into him at the supermarket or something –’ She laughs, for no reason. She’s trying so hard to make him feel at ease that it’s embarrassing. ‘Of course he must have needed to live somewhere a bit more metropolitan – for his research, and – well . . .’
    There’s a silence. I sit down at the table and try not to look at Oliver, in case he looks back. I’m suddenly very conscious of my manky sweatshirt and messy hair.
    â€˜Well.’ Mum pours herself a drink and then, as the pause lengthens, she leans over to adjust the angles of the knives and forks on the table, aligning them exactly. ‘So, you must know Falconhurst quite well, then?’
    â€˜No. Actually . . . no.’ He swirls his wine round in the glass, making a tiny red whirlpool. He doesn’t look up.
    â€˜Oh.’ Mum catches my eye and gives me a tiny, unexpected smile.
    Sam says, ‘So are you on holiday?’
    â€˜No.’ He keeps rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers, until the wine sloshes up and on to his hand. Then he seems to see it for the first time and puts it down on the table with a determined click. He looks round at us. ‘Sorry, I’m still a bit jet-lagged. No, I’m here to – on business, I suppose. I own – I inherited Tyme’s End. When my grandfather died. I – I couldn’t face coming back, before now.’ He pauses and grins, without amusement, mocking himself. ‘It’s taken me ten years to screw up the courage.’
    Mum blinks and fumbles quickly at the tablecloth. ‘Oh – yes, of course – I mean, we never knew exactly who – but I should have –’ She’s gone red round her ears. ‘Oh dear, I hope I wasn’t being tactless. I . . . we were so sorry to hear about his death. It was in all the local papers, you know.’ She stops.
    Oliver nods and shrugs. It looks like he’s trying to smile. ‘It was a long time ago.’
    â€˜It must be –’ she says, in a spurt, and for a nasty moment I think she’s going to say wonderful again. ‘A great responsibility. Tyme’s End, I mean. A house with so much history.’
    He makes a kind of quiet choking noise. ‘Yes.’
    Dad says, from the kitchen doorway, ‘All the tourists would love to see it open to the public, you know. And the historians.’ He smiles at Mum. ‘All the rabid academics, like Meg here. Still a lot of stuff being written about H. J. Martin. They’re desperate to have a proper look round, get it restored. Any thoughts in that direction?’
    Mum says, ‘Christopher!’
    â€˜Only asking, darling.’ He’s drying his hands on a tea towel, and he flaps it jocularly in Oliver’s direction. ‘No offence. It’s your house, naturally. I’m only giving you an idea of local feeling.’
    â€˜I’m going to sell it.’
    I swallow. For a split second, I can see Tyme’s End in front of me. I can smell damp, and things growing, and freedom.
    â€˜Right.’ Dad drapes the tea towel over his shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean you should donate it, necessarily, only that –’
    Oliver looks up, straight into his eyes. ‘I don’t give a damn who I sell it to. I’d raze the whole house to the