Excerpt from Midwinter Break by Bernard MacLaverty, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Gerry was in the bedroom inspecting the glass telltale affixed to a crack in the wall. It was claimed the building was subsiding because of old mining works. There were normal settlement cracks where inner walls had moved relative to outer ones over a century. At such junctions the wallpaper had been pulled into sags and wrinkles. 'A bit like ourselves,' Stella had said. 'It's not only dogs that get to look like their masters.' Occasionally in the night there was a trickle of mortar, between the wall and the window boards. Chimney debris and soot sometimes appeared on the tiled hearths in the mornings.

'Well?' Stella came into the bedroom. 'Any sign?'

'No movement. Look for yourself.' He pointed to the telltale.

'I meant – of the taxi. I wouldn't know from that thing if there'd been an earthquake or not,' said Stella.

'Do you have the passports or do I?'

'Everything's in your shoulder bag,' she said. 'Where you put it.'

The taxi was now six minutes late.

'If I was going to some boring architects' meeting it'd be five minutes early.'

'Calm yourself, Gerry.'

He pulled everything out of the shoulder bag and set it on the bed while she looked on. His mobile, passports, tickets, both his and hers, cheque cards, medication. She checked in her leather handbag for her washbag, purse, eye drops, artificial tears, a half-packet of Werther's Original, the wallet of family photographs, her Filofax, her mobile.

'Jesus – the Filofax?' Gerry rolled his eyes.

'For phone numbers,' she said.

'Who do we know in the Netherlands?' She ignored him and went on stirring the depths of her handbag.

'We know people here but not their phone numbers.

Emergencies happen. Did you remember your shampoo?'

'And conditioner. All measured. Twenty-five ml of each Dandruff-free terrorism.'

'What's the limit?'

'You can take a hundred.'

He was wearing a red angora wool scarf knotted at his throat. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror.

'Somebody said I was flamboyant wearing this.'

'Who?'

'I don't like flamboyant.'

He went to the cloakroom and found a navy scarf. Back in the bedroom he looked at himself.

'Midway between flamboyant and dreary,' he said. Stella held him at arm's length.

'You could try another knot. An Oxford, maybe.' 'Do knots have names?'

'The splice. The hitch?'

'That's the language of the building site.' She undid the knot and began to tie another, more elaborate one.

'I can't do it on you – only on myself.' She turned him around to face the mirror, stood behind him on tiptoe.

'Down a bit,' she said and pressed on his shoulders. He bent at the knees and remained that way until the knot was tied.

'You know all there is to know about the language of the building site, Gerry.'

'It's my fucking profession.' He began to fiddle with the scarf, pulled the longest leg and the knot fell apart. He tied it as he always did.

'Suit yourself,' she said and walked away.

'I'm going to phone that taxi.' He went into the study and picked up the receiver.

He heard the sound of hoovering. He looked out into the hallway. Stella was pushing the upright vacuum cleaner to and fro across the carpet. She saw his head poke out.

'It's on its way, sir,' Stella shouted.

The voice on the phone said, 'It's on its way, sir.'

Excerpted from Midwinter Breakby Bernard MacLaverty. Copyright © 2017 Bernard MacLaverty. With permission of the publisher, W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved.