‘June’

The time came for my brother, sister and me to clear our late parent’s bungalow, the attic. It was the hottest June on record and by noon we were surrounded by cardboard boxes, fish-knives, napkin-rings, seven different tea-sets, a cake slice laid out in blue sateen, and the brittled pages of an ancient Sunday Post. Outside in the cul-de-sac not even a blackbird moved and actually, I think it was the weird heat, the metallic sky, as much as the recent crematorium, the wake and all, ‘cause in truth we were slightly hysterical. So: coffee, sweltering out the back with the usual cheapskate mugs, World’s Best Dad etc. Then they two lit cigarettes and checked their phones. I’d long quit, so I howked a few parched weeds already sprouted on the gravel. Then we were ready for the last box, which yielded - Doulton figurines! Lasses trigged out in velvet gowns, poke-bonnets, ermine muffs and - ermine muffs?! - which set us off again, giggling as we passed round ‘June’ with her lovely posy and the handle of her parasol snapped off, then bonny in ruffles and pinks, out came ‘Summer’s Day’ herself, but wildfires were raging, incinerating birds’ nests, torching toads and snakes -

and suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. Suddenly we were greetin for everything we’d known as bairns,

all of it, everyone, dear god even our summer days.

This extract is taken from Cairn published by Sort Of Books (2024).

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