He must be going soon. He was sad though. This room held many memories.
He didn’t want to leave, but he must.
Apart from the rent, there was what he owed on his credit cards.
The chair was the culprit, not him.
Circa 1905. His Bugatti. Worth every penny.
He caressed its walnut frame, complete with finials. It was quite something. Across its back, a velum frieze inscribed with Arabic writing. Some kind of ancient curse, so Sotheby’s had said. Who cared? It made it all the more interesting.
He had a penchant for extravagant things. His father was an avid collector of antiques. He had an excuse for it. He wasn’t to blame. It was in his blood.
He planned to leave at midnight. She would be asleep by then, his landlady. Salt of the earth she was. That’s why he couldn’t do it. Stay on, owing so much rent.
She was warm-hearted, generous to a fault and he thought too much of her to take advantage of the situation. Especially as she reminded him, in more ways than one, of his mother, god rest her soul.
He’d never accepted her death … murder more like.
The man who’d knocked her down was four times over the limit and she’d only nipped out to buy a newspaper.
She, who always said, “One can pay back the loans of gold, but one dies forever in debt to those who are kind.”
He was going to miss this place. Attics were so romantic, in a Bohemian sort of way.
These four walls, if they could talk, could tell a few stories – girlfriends and such. He’d been quite fond of a few and yet no one could hold a candle to his mother.
From downstairs, he could hear the familiar Westminster chime of his landlady’s clock, telling him it was fast approaching tomorrow.
It reminded him of his childhood. On the stroke of eight, it was always, “Come along, David. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire.”
Now, he was ready to go. It was time.
“Happy birthday, Mum,” he said, stepping off the chair.
