I hate you. You bastard, I wish you were dead. I hate you.

Even what I'd written was better than that.

For weeks after that I waited for a reply, half hoping, half dreading it. Dad hadn't answered my other letters but this one was different. He had to answer this one, surely. But I'd come down to breakfast every morning and there'd be nothing, or just a postcard from Auntie Jo in America, or a bank statement addressed to Granddad that he'd left for me because the money was invested in my name. But there wasn't anything from Dad. He didn't care enough to answer. And by the time Granddad went on his book tour I'd almost forgotten I'd sent it.

Granddad left a couple of weeks before the end of term, just before our exams started. He'd been excited all week like a kid about to go on holiday rushing around leaving piles of things everywhere (books, socks, and teabags, for some reason) and making copious notes for Rosina (in Spanish, por supuesto) every time he thought of something else I'd need while he was away.

But the morning when he left was different. It was ridiculously early about four in the morning but I hadn't slept well and in the end I got up to see him off. He was sitting in the kitchen waiting for the taxi, with a big cafetiere of coffee and what looked like his tenth cigarette. I gave him a kind of salute and went over to open the window. It was already light-ish, but rainy, and water spattered in over the windowsill.

I said, 'Morning.'

Granddad didn't smile. He ground the end of his cigarette into the ashtray and immediately lit another. 'You're up early. Revision?'

I rolled my eyes, like, Yeah, right, revision at four in the morning. 'No, Granddad, I got up to see you off. You're going to America, remember?'

'How kind.'

I shot a look at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but he was just staring blank-faced at the wall. 'Well, I thought so.'

A silence.

Eventually, against my better judgement, I said, 'Are you OK?'

'I'm not sure . . . yes, yes, of course, Olly. I'm perfectly indeed. I was simply would you like some coffee?' His voice was slack, skating over the consonants. For a horrible second I thought he was drunk.

'Thanks.' It was all I could think of to say. I poured myself a cup of coffee, staring at him sideways. Jesus, was he ill? 'Is it I mean, how long's the flight?'

'Eight hours or so.'

I knew it wasn't that, anyway; Granddad loved flying. I swallowed and coughed: the coffee was so strong I could hardly drink it. I said, 'What's up?'

He looked at me then. 'I . . .' He tailed off. For a moment I was sure he was going to say more; then he shrugged and carried on smoking his cigarette as if that was his highest priority.

'Is it about leaving me? I'll be fine. You can't just I'll be fine. I don't ' I stopped. 'Seriously, what's the matter, Granddad?'

'Oh nightmare,' he said, and gave a little laugh. 'Absurd, at my age. Nothing of any import.' But his eyes slid away from mine.

'About going to America?'

'About leaving you on your own.' A beat, then he tapped his ash into the ashtray. 'But, as you say, Olly, you will be fine. As, I hope, will I. So there is no need to discuss it further.'

'Are you scared I'll make Rosina let me live on chips and ice cream?'

Granddad shook his head. 'I can't say that was my main preoccupation.'

'Ah well,' I said, 'maybe you should be scared. Of that, I mean.'

'Believe me, young Oliver, you couldn't stand up to Rosina any more than I can. That woman is formidable. In fact I have a sneaking suspicion that she's descended from the Borgias an illegitimate branch, of course.' It wasn't quite as casual as it should have been; but it stopped me saying anything else.

By the time the taxi came he looked better: less grey, less drawn. He stubbed his cigarette out carefully in the ashtray on the hall table, gave me a brisk kiss on my forehead, and picked up his case. 'Goodbye then, Olly. Look after yourself.'

'Yep.'

'Any problems, contact me or Robin at Reid Hartley '

'At Reid Hartley. Yes, I know, Granddad, the number's in the black book '

'And ' He stopped suddenly, and the pause got longer and longer. I'd never seen him at such a loss for words: as if he'd suddenly been transplanted into a foreign country, where he didn't speak the language. It was strange to watch.

'Granddad.' I tried to laugh. 'Get into the taxi. I'll be fine.'

He put his bag down.

'Granddad. The taxi's waiting.' More silence. 'Call me from New York, OK?' Just go, I thought. Just go. 'I thought you said you were perfectly '

'So I did.' Granddad nodded. 'Very well.' He ruffled my hair, then turned away. 'See you in July, then. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye,' I said. He glanced back at me as the taxi driver slung his case into the boot of the car, then beamed, unexpectedly, like a light coming on. It made everything all right. I grinned back, waved, thumbed my nose, and then waved with both hands, widely, as the taxi went down the street. Granddad waved back, flapping his travelling hat at me through the back window. He was still smiling his wide, warming, unfakeable smile.

That wasn't the last time I saw Granddad. But I wish it had been.

'All right, ladies and gentlemen,' Mr Fletcher said, 'put down your pens now. You know the drill: papers on your desks '

Possibly he carried on speaking, but the noise of twenty chairs being pushed noisily away from twenty desks drowned him out. I got up and fought my way to the door, through clusters of people, then stood outside in the corridor, waiting for Adeel. I heard him say, 'What do you mean, the Allies won the Second World War? Oh my God, Eithne, you're joking, right?' before he sauntered over to me, still laughing. 'Hey, Olly, how was it for you?'

'Fine.'

'Looking forward to the partay?'

'Yeah. Gotta go home and change first.'

'Yeah.' Adeel grinned at me. 'Good idea. And bring some decent drink, OK? I'm really skint, and '

'I'll see what I can do.'

'No, really, something decent. Hey, Sarah's smiling at me, see you later.'

When I got home I was so tired I could have gone to sleep on my bed. After I'd showered I pulled on jeans and an old T-shirt no point in changing into my nice shirt until later and had lunch, fighting to keep my eyes open as I forked my way through the olive-and-anchovy pasta Rosina had left for me. It was about a quarter past one, which meant I could have a nap before I went to the party. Then I'd be fresh and alert, ready to drink heavily and stay up all night. I thought, I'll go and look in the cellar first, work out which wine to take.

But the cellar door was locked. I tried the door twice, incredulous, then rummaged through the drawer in the dresser for the key. It was never kept locked. And where the hell was the key? It was supposed to be in here, with the string and brown paper and packs of playing cards. Where ?

I thought, Rosina. She'd obviously decided I wasn't allowed free run of Granddad's wine. Who did she think she was, for God's sake? I pounded on the cellar door with my fists, but it was too sturdy to give way. Damn. I didn't have any fake ID, and it was the last day of exams, they'd ask everyone. And I couldn't turn up without anything, because Adeel was relying on me.

Wait I stopped hitting the cellar door and stood still for a second. Granddad had a decanter in his study. And it was proper Scottish malt, I knew something decent if ever I saw it. I wasn't allowed to go in there while he was away the penalty would be death, or possibly something worse, if he found out but the study key definitely was in the dresser drawer, for Rosina, in case of emergencies.

It didn't even occur to me to feel guilty. Not even once I'd opened the door and gone in. It felt well, pretty normal, really. As if I'd gone in to ask Granddad a question, and he'd just popped out for a moment.

I should have gone straight to the decanter, picked it up and walked out. I should have taken it into the kitchen, poured the whisky into a bottle, come back, put the decanter down, left, closed the door behind me, locked it again. But I didn't.

Of course I didn't.

I was curious, I suppose. I could look at all Granddad's stuff properly, without him breathing down my neck, making suggestions about which books I might like. I had time to stare at the pictures on the wall, go through the drawers in the sideboard. I could get out the old photo album from Granddad's desk, the one with all the photos of Mum and Dad from before I was born, before Dad left. There was even the long row of Granddad's diaries in the glass-fronted cabinet.

Jesus, no. What was I thinking? I'd half sunk into the nearest chair, one hand already reaching for the handle of the cabinet. No way, Olly, that would be seriously out of order. Definitely not. I stood up again and picked up the decanter. It was half full.

One of the cupboard doors in the sideboard was ajar. The key wasn't in the lock, but you could see it'd been turned like someone had tried to lock it in a hurry, pocketing the key and walking off without realising the door wasn't properly closed. But I didn't notice that until a few seconds later, when I was kneeling in front of it. What I noticed first of all was the gleam of glass through the gap. Bottles.

Wow. Who would have thought he'd have so much? I rocked back on my heels, and then started to get the bottles out one by one, lining them up on the Turkish rug. And all nearly full. Rum and brandy and cassis, and something with a label in German, and something in Russian, which had to be vodka. For a nasty dizzying moment I thought, Oh, Christ, he's an alcoholic. Then I thought, No. It's just because he doesn't want me to get at them. No wonder he never kept any spirits in the cellar. So he didn't trust me after all.

I leant forward. There was another bottle right at the back of the cupboard, lurking in the shadows, shining dark green. I reached for it, my forehead pressed against the wood above the cupboard door, my fingers touching cardboard or paper or something before they found the neck of the bottle. I grabbed it and brought it out into the daylight. Absinthe.

I couldn't. Could I? I put it at the head of the little squadron of bottles and narrowed my eyes at it. Absinthe could kill you. I really, really shouldn't. Oh, but I could imagine Adeel's face. It would be a night to remember.

I shook my head, feeling the dust from the cupboard in my nose, and slid down on to the rug, propping myself on one elbow. Granddad would know I'd taken it and he'd kill me. It would be worse than when I'd borrowed his lighter without asking, or when Adeel and I had been suspended, but . . .

I was staring right into the cupboard. There was an old shoebox at the back, giving at the corners, held together with an elastic band. It was too small to hold any more bottles, of course, but I pulled it out and took the lid off idly. I was still thinking, Absinthe. Granddad's not due back for a week or so . . .

Then I glanced down at the papers in the box.

Dear Olly, Good to meet you too. I have lived in Australia so long it is always nice to come back to old England, as they say. I am sorry that your grandfather and I had a fight, it was not to do with you, I mean it was not your fault and I am sorry.

Oh God. Oh my God.

Dear Olly, Thank you, I had a very nice Christmas, of course here it is summer, it is a bit hard to get used to when you're English. I do not 'do' presents very much but I am pleased that your grandfather gave you something nice. I have got a girlfriend now, her name is Kathleen, and she says I should have sent you something from Oz. But I thought you probably would not like a boomerang or a surfboard, I thought you are not that sort of boy! I mean you're very English, like your granddad . . .

Dear Olly, I had a very nice Easter, it is autumn here. Kathleen and me went to Adelaide, which was very nice, it is a long way though.

Dear Olly, Yes, this is the right address, are you not getting my letters? I am sorry to here about your girlfriend, it is a pity she had to change schools.

I was going to write to you anyway because I wanted to tell you that me and Kathleen are getting married next year. She is in the family way so I will be in Australia for good now. We are both very pleased, I hope you will be happy for us. Kathleen would love to meet you, she is very interested and says you sound very English! But at the moment we are very busy doing up a new house and making arangements for the wedding. We would love to invite you but we cannot really 'put you up' because the house is quite small. The baby is due in May.

We have just got a computer so if you would like to email me my address is keithandkath@hotmail.com. It will be good not to have to write letters any more!

I hope you are well and so is your grandfather.

Yours sincerely .

Yours sincerely? Yours sincerely?

The baby was due in May. Now it was July. So, I thought my father's baby Then I wasn't thinking any more.

IV.

I have no idea how long I sat there. It could have been forty seconds; it could have been forty minutes. The sun moved round until it was shining straight into my eyes. That was the first thing that made me remember where I was. I put my hands over my face. Suddenly I started to shake. The thoughts all kicked back in at once.

My father was getting married again. He had another kid. He was staying in Australia. And my grandfather Granddad had kept Dad's letters. He hadn't even told me about them.

I folded my arms across my chest to try and stop them trembling, but it made my whole body shudder. I forced myself to take deep breaths. Why would he do that? Lying to me, making sure he was the first to get to the letterbox in the morning. Yes, my mind added, and why keep them? He should have burnt them while he had the chance. Because now I've found them, and now . . .

I scrabbled for the letters and started to stuff them back into the box, not caring whether I crumpled them up or tore them by mistake. My hands were still trembling. I put the lid shakily back on the box, hearing my heart pounding in my ears. The elastic band was just next to my foot, where I'd flicked it aside. I picked it up and started to pull it over the top of the box, but my fingers wouldn't work properly. The box slid out of my hands and fell on to the floor, spilling bits of paper everywhere old photos, an exercise book or something, envelopes . . . I looked at the mess, knelt back down, started to gather it in my hands and drop it untidily back into the shoebox. Then, in spite of myself, I started to cry.

I kept sniffing and wiping my face on my arm, still scooping up bits of paper and dropping them into the shoebox, not giving myself time to think. I grabbed the old exercise book without looking at it, the tiny black-and-white photos, the flimsy yellow newspaper clippings. A couple of spots of water appeared on the topmost bit of paper an envelope, O. Gardner Esq., Sidney Sussex and I pulled back, scrubbing at my eyes. Stop crying, I thought. Stop it. Stop it now. It didn't work. I leant over to one side so I wouldn't drip on anything else, and dabbed at the envelope with the edge of my T-shirt. I didn't know why I was bothering I didn't care if Granddad saw, I didn't give a damn about him any more but I did it anyway. It left a smudge: O. Gardner . . . I looked at it for a moment. It must be important, if Granddad had kept it. He was always throwing stuff away and then regretting it. If he'd kept this since he was at Cambridge . . . I ran my thumb over the name, obliterating it. Now it wasn't addressed to anyone. It gave me a nauseous, triumphant feeling.

I reached for the lighter on the mantelpiece, the spare one he kept there to light the fire. I put the shoebox in the hearth, picked up the last few papers in handfuls and piled them on top. They quivered slightly in the draught.

Wait. Wait What if there were more letters from Dad? What if there was one to say, Don't worry, Kathleen wasn't really pregnant, we're not getting married after all? What if there was one saying, Sorry about the misunderstanding, why don't you come and live with us in the new house? And what if I burnt it along with everything else?

I pulled the box out of the hearth again and started to rummage through it.

Olly Gardner, Sidney Sussex. OK, not that one. Olly Gardner, The Old Vicarage, Church Street, Peltenshall. No, not that one either. Oliver Gardner, Sidney Sussex no. Oliver Gardner . . .

It took a long time. And there wasn't anything else for me. Or at least . . .

Just one lumpy envelope, right at the bottom of the box. A heavy, yellowing envelope, with a key-shaped bulge that I could feel with my fingers. It said: Oliver. Not my father's writing, but I'd seen it before somewhere. Or I was almost sure I'd seen it before, as if it was someone I'd known when I was too young to remember, or I shook my head, trying to get rid of the feeling.

Tyme's End, May 1936 My dear Oliver, Splendid news so glad you can come! You can take a direct train to Falconhurst from Charing Cross via Tunbridge Wells Central, or change at Tunbridge Wells West from Victoria. Once you're at the station, Tyme's End is a ten or twenty-minute walk. Simply follow the road, turning right out of the station, and walk for about half a mile along the High Street until you see a pair of wrought-iron gates on your left. This is the entrance to Tyme's End. Go through the gates and follow the drive: the house is another quarter of a mile or so from the road. I have drawn a small map for you see below. (I hope your knowledge of hieroglyphics is sufficient to decipher it.) I do hope your exams go well, and I'm sorry that I didn't have a chance to see you last week. I'm very much looking forward to your visit there'll be a couple of other people here, whom I'm sure you'll like.