Ladder , livre ebook

Distributed by eBookpartnership - Michael Waterhouse

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136 pages

English

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Can there ever be a clear-cut, unambiguous moment when life is so unbearable that helping someone to die is not only right, but an act of loving kindness? 'The Ladder' begins on a remote Scottish island where Gary, a recent widower, is living under an assumed name. Wracked with doubts and fears, and a grief that often overwhelms him, he decides to design a lasting tribute to his lost wife, a celebration of her life and her love of colour. But will the memorial he creates arouse suspicions amongst the islanders and make them ask questions Gary would rather not answer? Michael Waterhouse's first novel, 'Prodigal', was recommended in 'The Times' by Joan Bakewell as 'a first novel of enormous power. Inspirational.'

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Publié par	Distributed by eBookpartnership
Date de parution	16 janvier 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781839785955
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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‘I really think it’s a fine piece of sustained writing. The narrative drive is so very powerful I read it at one sitting. I think the subject is really powerful and powerfully expressed.’

Joan Bakewell

The Ladder

Michael Waterhouse

The Ladder P9blished by The Conrad Press Ltd. in the United Kingdom 2022 Tel: +44(0)1227 472 874 www.theconradpress.com info@theconradpress.com

ISBN 78-1-83785-5-5 Copyright © Michael Waterho9se, 2022 All rights reserved. Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mo9ncey,www.bookstyle.co.9k The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley. Printed and bo9nd in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A

In memory of Margaret Elinor Waterhouse (1927-1993)

PART ONE

GARY October 2018

looked in the mirror this morning and saw only blood. bIathroom, above the basin and next to a print of Dali, which isn’t mine. The mirror is a small, square sheet of glass framed in pale blue wood. It hangs on the wall of my How long do we ever look at ourselves in a mirror? A few seconds before leaving the house? Longer when shaving, except that, even then, I don’t examine my whole face, just that part of my cheek or chin the razor grazes across. Then I look down to rinse the blade in soapy water. This was different. I must have stood there for a full five minutes. I saw blood, suffusing my face. Is that the phrase? It mottled and purpled my cheeks. It threaded the veins of my nose. There was an easy explanation, of course. Drink. Too much of it. But that wouldn’t do. It wasn’t a satisfactory answer. This face was more like evidence. What I saw had an irresistible truth about it. Here, reflected in the mirror, was my record. And there was another, equally telling truth. Although I didn’t like what I saw, I felt scarcely noguilt, nor even blame. So, what was it that I did feel, scrutinising this face I scarcely recognized as my own? Was I unsettled by him, embarrassed for him? I susp ect that working inside me was some deep, ancestral canon, a universal conscience struggling to remind me that there are acceptable deeds and deeds that go beyond the pale. Does it have a voice, this canon, a voice in the mirror, saying ‘You have transgressed’? Possibly.

I spent the morning, or a couple of hours of it, lazing on a warm rock overlooking the ocean. High, white clouds were skittering across the bay. Between them, clear of cloud, when light splashed on the rock, I felt the sun’s warmth land gently on my face and hands. It was like a blessing, a sanctifying touch, welcome in October, welcome after the last two years. The rock rises in a steep cliff behind my house. I rented this place for its position. From the window seat in the sitting room, I have a commanding view across the bay and down the track that leads to the village. The track is the only way you can approach in a vehicle. On foot, you could climb up above the house and descend to it from the rock, but it’s precipitous and you’d have to take it carefully and I’d have a good chance of seeing you from the kitchen o r the bathroom. All in all, I’d be unlucky not to spot visitors. I’ve been here for seven weeks now. In that time, there might have been half a dozen cyclists who have passed through, a few more hikers perhaps. I greet them in a friendly manner and show them where the old footpath continues beyond the rock. They seem appreciative, take me for a local. The only regular I see is Angus. He runs the stores in the village and brings the post. He knows me as Greg. Greg Montrose. There’s never any mail for me by name. Most of the stuff Angus pushes through my door is either for the owner of the house, or fliers. I haven’t met the owner yet. He doesn’t live on the island and we arranged my tenancy by email. Angus seems to think he keeps his distance. That suits me. The fewer people who know me, the better. The island isn’t large, maybe two hundred square miles. Those of us who live here are scattered about. I’ll run into people if I’m in the village, but I quite often don’t see anyone for days at a time. I suppose I’m used to remote places. When we were married, Kim and I would take short B&B holidays in the Highlands, her idea. She loved to be on the hill, trampling heather and dragging her boots through oily bogs. I did too, the tough climbs, the tart winds, but back then I also enjoyed the pub in the evenings, for thecraicyou understand, the company of others. If I turn to face the sun, I can feel the warmth of it on my eyelids. Now, of course, remoteness is what’s required. I crave it. On a clear day, I can see right across the bay to the Isles. I’m told whales visit this part of the co ast in summer. God knows whether I’ll be around then. It would be exciting. We’ll see.

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