He came at half seven with everything in two crates, because that is how much of it there was.
The estate ledgers, 2019 to date. The co-operative statements in a lever-arch file with the tabs cut by hand. The bank folder. His own bank book, which is an actual book, because he has had the same account at the post office since he was nineteen and has never seen a reason to change it. A bundle of invoices from Domaso held with a bulldog clip. And the notebook out of his back pocket, which he put on the table last and squared with the edge, the way he sets everything down.
I had cleared the table and put two coffees on it and turned my father’s chair round so that we were on the same side, which I had thought about for some time.
“Before you start,” he said.
“No.”…
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