The Sea House by Esther Freud

as if he were running over everything in his life, and then – maybe it seemed to him that he had told her – his face closed in and he stared down at his feet.
‘Well.’ Gertrude smiled. ‘I’ve been very busy, helping sort through the raffle prizes for the summer fête.’ There was nothing really there to interest him. A watercolour of the estuary, a bottle of whisky, another of rum. ‘We might,’ she said instead, ‘have a “Guess the currants in the cake” competition. Or we could hoodwink them, what do you think, and just put in one?’
Alf was staring into the garden, chewing his lip, watching two magpies pecking at the grass. One for sorrow, two for joy, Gertrude thought, but all the same she felt a quiver of misgiving when one of the birds flew off over the hedge. Gertrude waited fifteen minutes, and then, leaning towards him, she gave Alf the jacks. She’d made the bag out of a scrap of curtain, and plaited green ribbon to make a string. Alf drew it open.
‘Shall we play?’ Gertrude offered, and Alf slipped down off the sofa and tipped the jacks on to the parquet floor. He caught the ball which was skittering away from him, and waited while Gertrude pushed away her chair. Her knees cracked as she knelt down beside him, her heel stinging as it dented into wood. Alf flashed her a smile. His two front teeth were missing, and she hadn’t known. He bounced the ball and picked up the first jack. He bounced it higher and scooped up two. Three, he had to scrabble now and the ball hit the side of his knuckle. ‘Bad luck.’ It was Gertrude’s turn. She bounced the ball, not too high, not at an angle, but expertly giving herself time. Two, she swept them up and turned her wrist to catch it. Three, but the ball was thrown too high and it hit the link chain of her watch. ‘Ahhhh,’ she let out a sigh of frustration, but Alf had already started his turn. This time he was more careful. Measuring the bounces, not taking his eye from the ball. He scooped up three and let it fall neatly into his palm. Four. He’d done it. ‘Five,’ Gertrude whispered, and they smiled as the tension mounted, as slowly, carefully he aimed the ball. It bounced high. He scooped and swept the floor, but he had to take his eye away for one flick of a second to find that last fifth jack. Down the ball fell, skimming his palm. ‘Bad luck,’ Gertrude exhaled, and Alf laid his jacks down.
Gertrude was determined to do at least as well as him. Not all children appreciated it if you let them win. She arranged the jacks carefully, a bright cluster of kisses, with just the right amount of space in between. She stared at them, holding their formation, determined not to look down. But no, she misjudged it, picked three jacks instead of four, and, although she caught the ball, she had to relinquish her go. She could hear Alf’s breathing, feel his heat as he squatted on the floor. With quick flicks of his wrist he scooped and turned his hand. Six, Gertrude’s heart was beating, she wanted him to win, and then he was scooping up the seventh jack, cramming it into his hand. ‘Yes,’ the word escaped him, and he caught the ball.
‘Well done,’ she said, and Alf got up and very carefully stowed his treasure back into its bag.
Gertrude stood up and stretched her legs. One shoulder had locked as she’d pressed herself into the floor. ‘That wasn’t so bad?’ she said. ‘Run home now, and I’ll see you next week at the same time.’ Alf looked her over warily as if she might be mad, and then, tucking the bag into his pocket, he slipped through the door and sped off down the lane.

14
    Folded into the next letter was a plan of Lehmann’s room. He had his own notepaper now with his name and title – Architekt – printed large across the top. Under the window is a table, and on the right of this table are my drawing things. In the middle is my writing case, and on my left my inkpot and the silver box with your lock of hair. I shall have