Settling in. Daily chores - washing-up after meals, sweeping a different couple of floors each day, polishing the furniture in one of the large halls or rooms. Lots of other, less regular jobs - taking out the garbage, cleaning windows, running errands in the village.
I enjoy the work. It keeps me busy. Not much else to do here apart from play chess with Dervish, watch TV - Dervish has a massive 55 inch widescreen set, which he hardly ever uses! - and read. Chess doesn't thrill me - Dervish is like Mum and Dad, a chess fanatic, and beats me easily each time we play. I'd as soon not play at all, but he gently presses me to work on my game. I don't get my family's obsession with chess, but I guess I'll just have to bear it here like I did at home.
I read more than I normally do - I'm not big on 'litrachoor' - but Dervish doesn't have a great collection of modern fiction. I pick up a few new books in the Vale, and order some more over the Internet, but I'm not spoilt for choice. I try some of the thousands of occult books littering the shelves, figuring they've got to be better than watching the moon all night, but they're too complicated or densely written to be of interest.
So that leaves me with the TV - an endless stream of soap operas, chat shows, movies, sitcoms, sports programmes. And while I never thought I'd admit such a thing, TV does get a bit boring after a while, if it's all you have to keep yourself amused.
But, hey, it's a million times better than the institute!
A week passes. At ease with the house. Getting to know Dervish, though he's a hard one to figure. Kind, thoughtful, caring - but aloof, with a warped sense of humour. He came in one day while I was watching the news. Caught a report about a serial killer who'd chopped off and collected his victims' heads. Commented drily, "There's a man determined to get ahead in life." Spent the next five minutes doubled over with laughter, while I gazed at him, astonished, and the TV broadcast pictures of bloodbaths and weeping relatives.
His thirst for chess is at least equal to that of Dad and Mum, if not more so. He went easy on me to begin with, gently encouraging me to play, treating the games as fun. Now he's showing his true colours. Insists that I play with him every night and gets irritated when I play badly.
"You've got to love the game," he told me last night, tossing a captured rook at me with unexpected force. "Chess is life. You have to love it as you love living. If you don't..."
He said no more, just stormed out of the room, leaving me at a loss for words, rubbing my cheek where the rook struck. Later, when I'd recovered and was passing him in the hall on my way to bed, I muttered, "Get a life, you freak!" The perfect comeback - just an hour too late.
He's got no time for music. I find a grand total of three CDs in the house, all old albums by some group called Led Zeppelin. Doesn't read fiction. Watches only the occasional documentary on TV. Spends a lot of time on the web, from what I've seen when I've visited him in his study. But he doesn't seem to surf or play games - he mostly exchanges e-mails with contacts around the globe, or visits dull-looking encyclopaedic sites.
Apart from his books and antiques, chess and jogging, and his e-mail mates, he doesn't seem to have any hobbies, or any apparent interest in the world beyond this house.
