Excerpt from The Sea Gate by Jane Johnson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

James reappears with a roll of black bin bags, a long length of which he tears off and passes to me. 'Here you go. Evie, bless her, is going through Mum's clothes.'

I feel suddenly hot with outrage. 'Don't you think you should have asked me to do that?'

'Calm down! We thought it'd be too much for you, so Evie volunteered. You should be grateful: you know what a good eye she has. She'll be able to tell at a glance if there's anything worth selling on, though she said right away she thinks most of it will have to go into recycling or to charity shops—'

'It's not Mum's fault she didn't dress the way Evie thinks she should. Dad left with all the money and then fucked off and died after spending the lot on his mistress!'

James shuffles his feet. 'No need to swear, not very ladylike.'

Not very ladylike, I mouth at his back. When did my brother become such a prig? Probably ever since Evie started campaigning.

Gathering the post into my arms, I take it into the lounge and dump it on the coffee table, knocking a framed photograph to the floor in the process. James picks it up and stares at it, hands it to me. The photo is faded into the ochre and pale blue of old Kodak stock. It shows the four of us, Mum and Dad with James and me, standing in front of a hedge and old gate, and beyond us a shining expanse of sea stretching into flared-out infinity. James and I look about eight or so. You'd never know we were twins. We don't look alike, have never even had much in common. As soon as we'd developed our own little personalities the family had fractured along gender lines: me and Mum, with our fine, fair hair and introversion, our love of books and plants; James and Dad, dark and confident and loud, disappearing to take part in manly pursuits. It's a window into a lost age.

'I wonder who took it?' I muse. 'It obviously meant a lot to her but I can't remember where or when it was taken.'

James shrugs, uninterested. 'May as well chuck it. The frame's just plastic.'

'I'm going to keep it.' I pick at the black metal clips on the back so that I can remove the precious print, but James has already moved on and is opening cupboards and exclaiming at the crammed contents.

Mum moved into this flat when she and Dad divorced, declaring that she loved that it was bijou – like a jewel – and so much easier to look after than their big old four-bedroomed house. Which I took at face value, never looking past the fresh paint, the bright curtains and rugs, to see that the underlying carpets were worn, that mould was encroaching in the bathroom and beneath the bedroom window, that its peeling, unloved state mirrored her own. Looking past James, I see damp has brought down a sizable chunk of cornicing. It must have fallen recently, since it has not been cleared away, as if it was holding on all this time and as soon as Mum was gone, simply let go.

'If you go through the post I'll check her bureau for the documents we need for probate. Just chuck all the crap and keep the official stuff and bills.' And off he goes to the spare room. Beyond, I can hear the clack of clothes hangers and the efficient rustle of discarded garments being thrust into bin bags.

Boy jobs and girl jobs.

I turn my attention to the pile of post. Bills. Bank statements. Credit card demands. More bills. Catalogues, flyers for local reading groups, adverts for mobility scooters, circulation improvers, novelty garden ornaments, solar panels. I sigh. It's tragic how little a life can be reduced to, how much of it is transient and disposable.

Evie appears carrying a bulging bin bag in each rubber-gloved hand. Did she bring the Marigolds with her? I wonder. Does she have a full hazmat suit tucked away in her Prada handbag? 'Sooo much to go through!' she trills. 'It's like the aftermath of a jumble sale in there.' She manoeuvres the stuffed bags through the doorway and out into the hall, reappears empty-handed. 'We should have hired a skip!'

Excerpted from The Sea Gate by Steven Johnson. Copyright © 2021 by Steven Johnson. Excerpted by permission of Simon & Schuster. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.