Coming Home. Annabel Kantaria

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      It was the most I’d ever said to her about Dad. What I didn’t tell her was about the other, unexpected conversation I’d had with Dad out in the garden last summer.

      ‘I still blame myself,’ he’d said, apropos of nothing, but I’d known at once what he meant.

      ‘Well, you shouldn’t. It wasn’t your fault,’ I’d said. ‘The car jumped the lights. No one could have stopped that, not even Mum. It was a quirk of fate that it was you with Graham, not her.’

      Dad had looked so grateful then that I’d had to look away.

      ‘You really don’t blame me?’ he’d asked.

      ‘Of course not. I never did.’

      He’d reached out and touched my hand. It was the most contact we’d had in over two decades.

      Now, in the living room, Mum didn’t say anything. I rubbed my temples, trying to smooth away the giddiness from the alcohol. ‘Well, too late now, isn’t it?’ I said.

      Mum flattened her lips into a line. ‘Your father loved you very much, Evie. He just didn’t know how show it. He was ever so proud of you going off to Dubai on your own.’ She shifted in her chair and pulled at her skirt, smoothing it down over her thighs.

      I raised my eyebrows. Apart from last summer, I’d not seen any evidence of Dad being proud of me.

      ‘He never stopped blaming himself, you know,’ she said.

      ‘But it wasn’t his fault, was it?’

      ‘No, of course not. It was a terrible tragedy. But Graham was under his care. He couldn’t forgive himself.’

      ‘I never blamed him.’ I needed her to see that, to understand it.

      Mum was quiet.

      ‘Last summer we spoke about it,’ I said. ‘I told him I didn’t blame him.’

      Mum stood up, yawned and stretched her arms out behind her.

      ‘Well, he never stopped blaming himself. That much I know. Goodnight.’

      The white elephant in the room practically headbutted me: Dad had never stopped blaming himself because Mum had never stopped blaming him.

      ‘Goodnight,’ I said.

      I may have intended to sleep that night, but the gin had other plans for me. As soon as I lay down, the matter of the mysterious debits slithered snake-like into my mind and flicked its forked tongue at my consciousness, keeping me awake. I’d bet my last Rolo that Mum knew neither about the lump sum nor the regular debits and, if the money wasn’t for the house, what was it for? I tossed about in my bed, turning this way and that, then flipping the pillow and finally lying on my back staring at the ceiling. What on earth would my parents have spent £22,000 on? They were hardly known for their extravagant purchases.

      Lying in the dark, I ran through possibilities. Could Dad have been putting money aside for a surprise for Mum? A new car, maybe—but it would have to be a really nice one. An exotic holiday? A Caribbean cruise? Maybe it was more practical: an advance payment to a retirement home? Or had he really fallen victim to a financial scam?

      Giving up any pretence of sleep, I grabbed my knitting bag and sat up in bed. Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one … the ribbed base of the hat I was knitting took shape in the light of the bedside lamp as my mind whirled. What could it be?

      As my needles clicked, I tried to convince myself Dad must have spent the money on something so obvious I’d completely overlooked it. I finished off the hat’s ribbing and packed my needles away, resolving to go through the receipts with a toothcomb as soon as I could. I plumped the pillows one more time and settled into my favourite sleeping position, but still I couldn’t sleep.

      After fumbling for the torch I kept on the bedside table, I padded into the bathroom and opened the medicine cupboard. I was hoping Mum might have an old box of herbal sleeping tablets somewhere in there, but what I actually saw, as the torch lit up the contents, was a shock: the entire right-hand side of the cabinet was given over to sleep remedies ranging in strength from Night Rescue Remedy to boxes of prescription tablets. I checked the dates on the prescription labels—all were under six months old. I’d had no idea. Had things really got that bad?

      When I finally got to sleep, I dreamed about moving house. Mum and I watched the movers put the last boxes into the lorry, slam the door shut and drive off with a cheery wave. The driver was Dad. Mum and I followed in the car, but we weren’t able to catch up. The faster we drove, the further from us the lorry drew, as we span along dark, wet roads, trying to find shortcuts and straining always for a glimpse of the van that contained my father and the memories of my childhood.

      I woke in a tangle of sheets.

       CHAPTER 22

      ‘Are things improving with your mum now?’ Miss Dawson asked. We were sitting in her living room—each of us in a big armchair. It was the school holidays but my sessions didn’t stop for holidays. Dad was waiting in the dining room. Miss Dawson had bought me a KitKat.

      I bit my lip. ‘Not really,’ I said.

       ‘What makes you say that, Evie?’

      The truth was, Mum wasn’t coping at all. I hadn’t told anyone about what had really happened with Dingbat: all I said was, ‘He got out; he died.’ Then, last week Mum had gone to the supermarket in her pyjamas. They were red-and-white checked and Mum had matched them with red high heels and a pillar-box red lipstick. She’d stood in the hall, finalising her shopping list with her basket over her arm and I’d thought she was doing it for a joke; trying to be funny; trying to cheer me up. My heart had filled with love and I’d laughed.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ she’d snapped.

      I should have spotted the warning tone in her voice, but I was still laughing. I’d thought the joke was still going.

      ‘You’re going to the shops in your pyjamas!’ I’d giggled. Already I was imagining telling my friends about it. My mum was the funny one!

       ‘They are NOT my pyjamas!’

      I froze.

       ‘This is my suit! I am wearing a SUIT!’ she’d shouted. She’d jabbed at her lips, kicked a foot out at me. ‘See? I am wearing lipstick! I am wearing RED SHOES! Don’t you know what a SUIT looks like?’

      She’d kicked hard at the stair I was sitting on and left, slamming the front door so hard behind her that the hall had seemed to reverberate for minutes.

      I was upstairs when she’d come back with the shopping. I heard her put it away in the kitchen then go into her bedroom. When I went down for lunch she was wearing a dress and her lipstick had gone.

      ‘What would you like for lunch?’ she’d asked, smiling at me as if nothing was wrong.

      ‘She СКАЧАТЬ