‘It’s not a good idea,’ Patrick stated with a growl.
‘You’re really thinking of selling the farm?’ She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d grown up here. Everything had happened at Trevellin Farm. The enormity of her mother’s decision swooped through her.
Someone must always be here…
They’d made a promise.
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’ Claire was instantly on her father’s side. And what did she mean, We’ve talked about this already?
‘Your mother’s lost her bloody mind,’ her father said. He rose and went to the old dresser, reaching into the bottom cupboard. He pulled out a bottle of red wine, uncorked it and poured himself a large glass. The kitchen was swollen with silence. Claire felt her mother’s stare, but she couldn’t return the look. It was a relief to see her father so opinionated rather than vague and confused, but what he’d just said cut deep, even though he didn’t realise it.
‘Patrick, have some fruit juice instead.’ Shona tried to remove the glass from her husband’s hands, but he clung on to it, downing a large mouthful. ‘Be sensible, darling. You know what the doctor said about your blood pressure.’
In the days before his diagnosis, Patrick had always enjoyed a glass or two while Shona prepared dinner. They would chat, reminisce, laugh and bind themselves up in the safety of over forty years of marriage. Now, though, alcohol was strictly off limits, and usually he complied. They’d been told that raised blood pressure could worsen his Alzheimer’s, and Shona wanted to do everything she could to slow the disease.
‘Are you certain about selling, Mum?’ Claire ran her fingers over the perfect seam her mother had stitched on the dress.
‘Yes, love.’ Shona looked at her husband, a knot of concern tied between her brows. ‘We won’t leave the area, of course. We still want to be near you, Callum and the children.’
The subtext of this told Claire that her mother needed to be close, that she wouldn’t be able to cope with Patrick alone wherever they lived.
‘You know how much time and energy this place takes up.’
Claire heard her mother speaking but couldn’t take it in. Her words blended into one big truth that she didn’t want to hear – that her parents weren’t the immortal beings she’d always believed them to be.
Her father was already ill, deteriorating, and that had been shock enough earlier in the year. But accepting that they would grow older still and one day both need taking care of was unthinkable. Why had she never considered this before? Why had she thought that her mother, whippet-like and capable, elegant and stoic, would remain fixed inside an unchanging body, as if Claire herself would catch up and die first?
‘Pat, where are you going, love?’ Shona called out.
‘To the bloody toilet, if that’s all right with you.’ He banged the hallway door behind him.
‘He’s had a bad week,’ Shona confided in a low voice. They both knew there was nothing wrong with Patrick’s hearing. ‘It’s so very worrying. If we sell, then I can focus more on caring for Dad. Please try to understand, darling. It’s not easy for me.’
At that moment, Claire felt both desperately sorry for her mother and like she wanted to lash out, scream at her for even contemplating selling the farm. She closed her eyes. Apart from the obvious – that someone would always be here, just in case – she couldn’t begin to imagine not visiting her parents here. They were her closest neighbours, literally at the end of the long, shared drive, and she couldn’t imagine her father ever getting used to living anywhere else. The farm had always been the family’s home.
‘He’s been doing… odd things,’ Shona said quietly. ‘It’s very upsetting.’
‘What kind of odd things?’ Claire wasn’t sure she could stand to hear. Over the last eighteen months they’d all noticed changes in Patrick, and between them had discussed what it might be – stress, age, plain forgetfulness. In the end, they’d coaxed him to the doctor and a diagnosis wasn’t far behind.
‘He’s been in Lenni’s room a lot. Talking to her as if she’s really there.’
Claire hung her head and sighed. The clear-minded man of her youth, the capable father who’d taken control when Lenni disappeared, searching tirelessly, organising and never giving up, seemed a million miles away from the man now being eaten up by this wretched disease. She hated how he sometimes believed she had never disappeared, that his youngest daughter might walk into the room at any moment.
‘And yesterday he told me he saw her skipping down the street,’ Shona continued.
‘What was he doing out alone?’
‘Love, keeping your father indoors would be the end for him. You know how stubborn he is. He might have Alzheimer’s, but I refuse to let the disease have him. We do things our way.’
Claire folded the dress and placed it on her knee. She didn’t like hearing any of this. Until recently, she hadn’t wanted to accept her father as anything but the man she remembered when she was five. A kind-hearted, gentle giant, yet stoked with a reserve of seriousness if need be, Patrick was always up for a make-believe adventure with her and her friends out on the farm or ready to tell a good story. Hard-working, yet soft as butter in the sun, Patrick adored his family.
And Claire had taken delight in sharing him with her friends when growing up. He’d become a kind of surrogate father to them all, forming a special bond with her close-knit group. Her friends would be envious of the indomitable man as he gave them piggybacks up and down the beach, played cricket with them on the sand – how they wished their fathers were like him – yet occasionally they’d scamper home a touch frightened when he’d overreacted about inconsequential things. Sand in the porch, the fire not laid right, running through the house – any trigger that worked him into a mini rage, which would usually burn itself out after carting some bales or an afternoon’s fishing.
‘And what if she comes back?’ Patrick’s voice boomed. He was braced in the doorway, as if holding up the house.
‘Pat, she’s not coming back. You know that.’ Shona’s voice was as soft as she could make it. ‘Come and sit down.’
Only Mum would ever dare say that, Claire thought. She began to fidget with the dress again but stopped herself from ruining it.
‘Claire, I’d like someone from your office to come out and give us an opinion,’ Shona said. ‘I don’t suppose it’s fair to ask you to value the place personally, but we’d like to give your agency the business. You have such a good reputation round here.’
Claire had been working at Greene & Galloway for nearly a decade. Chris Greene and Jeff Galloway were away from the office more and more now they were approaching retirement. She virtually ran the place single-handedly.
‘Take more time to decide, Mum,’ Claire said, glancing at her father. ‘It’s Dad’s decision too.’ She watched her mother’s eyes crystallise and harden. Claire put a hand on her arm. ‘Thanks for doing this.’ She held up the dress. ‘I’ll bring the kids down to see you at the weekend.’
She kissed both of her parents and went out to her car. The sea breeze smelt like a salty soup bubbling on the stove. The tide would be out, she guessed, remembering how, as a child, she would scamper over the rocks and sandy patches between the crystal-clear pools, marvelling at the intricate gifts left behind. If the tide was out, the sea-smell was in, her father used to say, excited as a kid himself at the prospect of an afternoon beachcombing with his daughter and her friends.
Her friends. How would they feel when she told them that Patrick had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s? So far, they’d kept the news amongst close family, and besides, she didn’t get to see any of them as often as she’d have liked. And how would they react to the house sale? Patrick and the farm had been as much a part of their childhoods as it had hers. It was all heartbreaking.
Claire drove back down the long driveway, past the Old Stables where she lived, spotting that Callum wasn’t home yet, and on into the village. It was time to fetch A
my from the childminder.
‘Oh, Dad,’ she said to herself as she parked the car on the quiet lane, her head tilted back against the seat. She couldn’t bear to see her father deteriorate in such a short period of time and, since his diagnosis, she’d been desperate to do something helpful for him. Until now, she had no idea what that could be.
Behind all the worry and concern, Claire felt the first glimmer of a plan hatching. She smiled to herself as she locked the car. She’d read up on how this sort of thing could help, and she reckoned it would do him the world of good. Her mind was made up.
Chapter Three
Callum knew Marcus must already be home as he unlocked the front door to the Old Stables. He felt the resonant thud-thud of the bass beat in the floor, the walls, even the air, before he actually heard his son’s music.
The breakfast remains were still on the kitchen table – exactly how Claire had left it as she’d dashed out for the school run and then on to work, except now the cat had dragged a piece of toast onto the floor and licked off the butter. The ginger tom wound between Callum’s feet as he poured a glass of water.
‘Anyone else home?’ he called out, swigging and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Claire?’
Nothing. He supposed she would be fetching Amy.
He went back to the hall and picked up the newspaper from the mat, settling down in his favourite armchair to have half-an-hour’s read before the evening chaos began. But for some reason, he couldn’t concentrate.
There was nothing specific worrying him. Work was interesting and challenging as ever – though it could not escape the usual NHS managerial stranglehold, he was grateful his department had avoided yet more funding cutbacks. The health scare he’d had earlier in the year had proved nothing more than a minor infection mimicking something more serious, and even his new secretary had surpassed all his expectations. He couldn’t suppress the small smile at the thought of her as he skimmed the day’s news.
Agitated, he rested his head back on the chair. Claire seemed happy enough, he supposed, and the kids were doing well at school even if Marcus’s form tutor had found it necessary to telephone twice this term already about missed coursework. But that was Claire’s department. She’d sort it out.
Why, then, these feelings – a sense of dissatisfaction, of fear almost? Why the aggravating peck-peck at the back of his mind that something wasn’t right, that something was missing? He wondered if it was his age – he was approaching fifty, after all. Was it some kind of mid-life shift that, while it wasn’t a full-blown crisis, made him feel that surely there must be more to life than work-sleep, work-sleep?
No, he thought, as he heard the front door unlock. It wasn’t any of that. It was a far bigger thing, burning at the very core of him as it always had done, and he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
‘We’re home,’ Claire announced.
Then he heard the shrill voice of his six-year-old daughter telling off the cat for licking the toast and Claire’s long sigh followed by the clatter of plates as she began clearing up.
‘How are my two favourite ladies?’ he asked, standing in the kitchen doorway. He flicked on the light. There was an eerie orange-pink glow outside, making it seem more like a nine o’clock summer sunset than the three hours earlier it really was. The red bricks of the barn across the yard looked on fire.
‘Looks as though there’s a thunderstorm on the way,’ he said, reaching down to hug Amy. He paused, wondering if it was prophetic. ‘How was school, little one?’
‘One of the chicks died. Mrs Henry told us it would get better, but she lied.’ Amy pouted.
‘That’s sad.’ Callum gratefully took the glass of wine Claire offered. Judging by the ingredients she was unpacking, she was going to cook curry. A Friday night tradition in the Rodway household. Another regular occurrence in the steady beat of his life.
‘It had been pecked to death,’ Amy went on. ‘It had blood and beaky marks all over its head.’
‘That’s called pecking order,’ he explained, glancing at his wife.
Claire raised her eyebrows. He thought her hair looked stunning in the strange light. It didn’t normally look quite so red, but tonight it was as if every strand had been dipped in a different shade of liquid copper.
‘Why did Mrs Henry lie, then? Why didn’t the mummy chicken look after the baby?’
Amy twirled the tassel on her cardigan around her finger. Callum knew it meant she was tired, that she’d had enough of school, the childminder, and wanted nothing more than supper, a warm bath, a story and bed. Claire would see to all that.
Callum sighed. What was he to do – tell her it was OK for adults to lie to children but not the other way around? Explain survival of the fittest in language a six-year-old wouldn’t question?
He was too tired for all that right now. Instead, large hands dragged down his face and when he reappeared he offered up a playful boo! sending Amy squealing off and hurling herself onto the beanbag in the snug.
‘Nicely avoided,’ Claire said, pulling a face. He wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic.
‘You want me to tell her the truth?’ He desperately wanted to avoid a Friday night battle. He’d been longing for her all day. Then the new secretary was on his mind again.
‘Mum wants to sell Trevellin,’ Claire said out of the blue, stopping what she was doing.
‘Because of Pat?’ Callum helped her unpack the rest of the groceries.
Claire nodded and leant on the worktop, allowing her head to drop while he topped up her glass. She was so tense these days.
‘Dad doesn’t want to move, of course, but Mum won’t be able to cope with the farm and his illness.’
‘I agree with your mum. It’s not just the house but the land and all the old buildings too. It’s a lot to look after.’
‘Dad still does what he can. He goes out and potters about most days.’ Claire was defensive.
‘It takes more than pottering to look after a place like that and you know it. They’re in their seventies now, Claire.’ Callum allowed his hands to settle on his wife’s shoulders and drift down her arms. He held her hands.
‘I know. You’re right. It’s just the end of an era, that’s all.’ She gave a small smile.
‘Will you be selling it for them?’
Claire nodded. ‘Mum’s talking about offering it to developers. For holiday lets.’
‘Shrewd,’ Callum said, raising his eyebrows. ‘All the barns, the cottage, the land… Perhaps a caravan park too.’ He blew out through his teeth. ‘And only half a mile from the beach.’ He gently massaged her hands. He knew she liked that and reckoned he’d averted a blow-up.
‘It seemed like ten miles when we were kids, walking it four times a day.’ Claire softened at the memory.
Callum didn’t want her to get maudlin, so he lowered his mouth onto hers, kissing her gently. She responded briefly, their fingers in a loose weave, but then she pulled away.
‘I should get on with supper.’
‘Yuk,’ Marcus said, bending into the refrigerator after glancing at his parents. ‘This milk’s well off.’ He emerged sloshing a carton which contained something verging on cottage cheese. His hair flopped over his eyes.
‘Hi, love,’ Claire said, pulling some fresh milk from the last of the shopping bags. ‘Dad and I were just talking about how we used to walk to the beach as kids.’ She took the old milk from him and washed it down the sink.
‘Well, you lot did. Don’t forget I’d just started at medical school while you were still playing with buckets and spades.’ Callum winked at his son when Claire didn’t respond.
‘Marcus prefers surfing on his laptop than in the sea, don’t you, love?’ Claire said, chopping an onion. Secretly, she was glad he didn’t go the beach often. She could never relax until he was home safely – the rip tides were strong – and she couldn’t even contemplate the future when Amy would want more freedom.
It had
taken her and Callum many years to conceive their daughter after they’d had Marcus. It was only after several rounds of IVF that their family was finally complete. But all the stress of having Amy had occasionally led Claire to wonder if her protective instincts were in danger of mirroring those of her parents, especially with Amy being a girl – who was all the more precious for the agonising suspense of her arrival.
She tried to put these thoughts from her mind, along with the memory of the tension that her infertility had caused between her and Callum at the time. When out as a family, Claire suspected that people thought Marcus was from a previous marriage, but now, aged eighteen, the freedom he enjoyed with his mates only spotlighted what the future held for her little girl. And after what happened to Lenni, she didn’t think she could stand it.
‘Not entirely true, Mum,’ Marcus protested. ‘I went—’
Callum shot him a look. He could see the entire evening going down the pan if an argument ensued. Marcus took the hint and skulked off upstairs again, while Claire cut up the chicken. Her movements were slow and laborious, showing Callum that something was still on her mind.
‘I’ve had a crazy idea,’ she said finally, putting down the knife.
‘Go on.’ Callum sat on a stool, resigning himself to an evening of serious discussion. Under the worktop, his leg jiggled on the bar of the stool.
‘I want to organise a reunion.’ She stared out of the window. The sky had turned an even more ominous orange-grey, Callum noticed, following her gaze. ‘I want to get everyone back together for Dad. You know, all my childhood friends. The group.’ Claire ran her hand down his arm. ‘I think it’ll do him the world of good, don’t you?’
Callum immediately thought it was a terrible idea. ‘Claire, your father’s got a disease that won’t get any—’
‘My mind’s already made up, Cal,’ she said. ‘I want everyone to come and stay at Trevellin, to spend time with Dad. It’ll bring back memories for him, remind him of all the good times, help him feel like his old self again.’ She paused, tears pooling. ‘I want him to know how much everyone loves and cares for him. He’s been such an amazing father, it’s his turn now. The summer holidays aren’t far away.’ She wiped a finger under her eye. ‘It’s the onions,’ she added.
The Reunion: An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist Page 2