‘Now,’ said the farmer. ‘About that dog.’
Annie, alert to danger, sat up straighter in her chair.
‘Where is ’e? Now, I mean?’
‘Mr Wright,’ Annie said, trying hard to sound implacable. ‘I’ve apologised and I’ve said I’ll pay whatever you ask, but I will not – I will not – surrender my dog to you.’
He laughed. ‘Keep thi ’air on,’ he said. ‘I only asked where ’e is.’
Annie’s heart pattered. She pictured Finn at home: contrite, lovable, loyal as the long day, and tears of compassion sprang to her eyes. Mr Wright’s expression turned from amusement to concern.
‘Ey, now, dunt take on,’ he said, and he pushed the teacakes at her again as the only gesture of sympathy available to him and this time she took one.
‘All I meant was, keep ’im out of ’arm’s way, until you’ve decided what to do.’
‘Do?’ Her voice was muffled on account of the teacake, which was perhaps the most comforting thing she’d ever tasted.
‘Aye, and int meantime you mun keep ’im away from sheep.’
‘Your sheep?’
There was another cackle of amusement from his mother and Annie glanced round at her uneasily. The old lady was pulling the skin off a rabbit all of a piece, like a long furry sock. Hastily, Annie looked away.
‘Nay, lass, any bugger’s sheep. Yon dog’ll not be fussy where ’is next mouthful comes from.’
Annie swallowed. ‘So you don’t want him shot?’
He shrugged. ‘If I’d caught ’im at it, and I’d ’ad mi gun … but nay, not in cold blood. Weren’t ’is fault, were it?’
By which he means, thought Annie, that it was mine. She looked down at her hands. It struck her that she hadn’t yet said sorry, and this in turn made her think of Sandra, who would have rolled her chilly green eyes and said ‘typical’.
‘Mr Wright, I really am very sorry,’ Annie said now. ‘I probably should’ve come yesterday.’
He nodded in agreement, but made no remark.
‘It won’t happen again, I promise you that.’
‘If I were you,’ he said, ‘I’d mek sure o’ that by givin’ ’im away.’
‘Oh, but I can’t do that!’ Annie said at once. ‘He’s family.’
‘Kindest thing. Else, what will you do? Keep ’im tied up? Goldens need to run. Nowt worse for a big dog than a life on a lead.’
He was looking directly at her, but Annie was looking around the room. She wasn’t seeing the green walls or the Formica units or even the old woman hacking a naked rabbit into pot-sized pieces. All she could see was Finn, pulling her arm almost out of its socket as she took him time and again down Beech Street to the rec. Even there she’d be fearful of letting him run free because who knew where sheep might be lurking to lure him to murder again? But give him away! The mere thought made her want to lay her head on the farmhouse table and sob.
Instead, she wrote down her address for Mr Wright and took her leave. He walked her to the car, even offered his arm so she wouldn’t slip, and when she drove away he stood and watched her out of the yard as if he was sorry to see her go.
14
It was a squash in the car. Andrew was in the front seat with two suitcases on his lap, Bailey, Blake and Riley were in a row along the back, and in the boot the rest of their luggage was crammed untidily, so that it’d taken an almighty effort for Andrew to force shut the hatchback door. It was ten in the morning, but in Byron Bay it would be nine at night, and the flight had taken twenty-three hours, not including a one-hour stop in Dubai. Annie had given up trying to work out how any of that was even possible, let alone how it might make a person feel. Riley, the little one, was in a deep, deep sleep, immovably wedged in place – much like the suitcases – between his brother and his mother. Bailey rested her head on the small triangle of rear window and shut her eyes. ‘I’m zoning out?’ she said. ‘I’m zonked?’ Blake, though, was preternaturally alert. All the way from the railway station he fired little bullet questions at Andrew, each one quite unrelated to the last, and Andrew answered in a level, patient voice that he certainly hadn’t got from Vince, who could never be doing with childish prattle. ‘Ask your mother,’ he would always say, or ‘Button it,’ if he was feeling ratty.
Blake wanted to know why the houses were so close together, why the moon was out when it was morning, how many miles they were from Byron Bay, what was Andrew’s favourite food in England, why the cattle here were black and white, what did the hob mean in hobgoblin; on and on he ploughed, coming up – it seemed to Annie – with any old question rather than allow a minute’s silence to settle. Andrew listened and supplied a steady stream of thoughtful answers. Nobody mentioned Vince.
‘What a chatterbox!’ Annie said, when Blake drew breath. He hadn’t yet addressed one word to her.
‘Talks for Oz,’ Andrew said. ‘Don’t you, buddy? We’re in training for the next talking Olympics.’ He still had traces of an English accent, but Annie only noticed because she was listening hard for them. He had been so young when he went to Australia, it was no wonder he’d gone native. But at least he didn’t turn every statement into a question, thought Annie. They were turning into her road now and she said, ‘Here we are, Beech Street.’ Blake peered through his window doubtfully.
‘Dad, where’s the ocean?’ he asked.
‘Not that kinda beach, buddy,’ Andrew said. ‘Beech with two “e”s. It’s a kinda tree.’
‘So where’re the trees?’
Andrew laughed. ‘Good point, buddy, but if you look around at the other roads, you’ll see they all have tree names too, see? Elm Street across the way, Ash and Oak further down. They’re just nice names, see?’
‘Bit dumb,’ Blake said. ‘Should be No Beech Street, No Elm Street.’
Annie looked at Andrew, waiting for some mild judicious reprimand, but none came. ‘I guess so,’ was all he said. ‘Strictly speaking.’ He yawned widely. ‘So, let’s haul these bags into the house, show Gram how strong you are.’
Annie wanted to be Grandma not Gram, but anyway she said, ‘You’ve certainly grown, Blake – you’re going to be a very tall young man,’ but it was a statement, not a question, so she supposed she shouldn’t expect an answer. A smile would have been nice, though. As it was, the boy simply clambered out of the car and said, ‘These houses are tiny,’ in a voice high with incredulity. Bailey opened her eyes.
‘Jeez,’ she said, squinting out dozily past Riley, through the door that Blake had opened. ‘Is that a bear at your window?’
She meant Finn, who had his paws up on the ledge inside the house and was watching their arrival with mounting interest.
‘Oh,’ Annie said, ‘that’s just Finn.’ She gave him a wave and he grinned.
‘Finn?’ Bailey said.
‘Hon, don’t freak,’ Andrew said. ‘Mum, you didn’t say you had a dog.’
‘Oh, well, I do,’ Annie said. ‘But he’s ever so friendly.’ She thought of the sheep. ‘He loves people,’ she added.
‘It’s just, I’m allergic?’ Bailey said.
‘Hon, it’s cats that set you off.’
‘It’s pet hair?’ Bailey said, turning her sleepy eyes on Andrew.
‘Well, let’s see how it goes,’ Andrew said. ‘You might be fine.’ How reasonable he is, thought Annie: how easy. They’d been together for years, Andrew and Bailey, just kids when they met, but Andrew was as nice when he spoke to her now as he ever was. Annie wondered if Bailey knew the extent of her luck, being able to lay claim to Andrew: handsome, kind, capable. He had the boot open now, and was hauling luggage onto the pavement while Bailey grappled Riley out of the car, a dead weight in her arms. His head lolled backwards and his two skinny legs swung like plumb lines. Blake had his nose pressed against the living-room window and was pulling faces at Finn. Annie hurried up the path to unlock the front door.
‘Michael home?’ Andrew asked.
‘No, no, not on a Friday morning; he has
classes till one.’ She worried what he’d say when he saw all these bags; perhaps, she thought, they could be quickly carried upstairs and unpacked, then stacked on the back patio out of the way, under a plastic sheet.
‘We’ll just dump these here for now,’ Andrew said, following her through the small porch and into the hall. He dropped two holdalls on the floor, then went out for more. ‘No need to unpack anything yet,’ he said over his shoulder, and then, ‘How about a cuppa, Mum? Blake! Quit scaring the hound and pick up a bag.’
Bailey crossed him on the path, bearing Riley before her like a sacrificial offering. Inside, she made straight for the stairs. ‘I’ll just dump him anywhere?’ she said, already partway up.
‘No!’ said Annie, a little too forcefully, so that Bailey stopped and widened her brown eyes. ‘Sorry, but not Michael’s bed,’ Annie said. ‘Not the front one, the room with a music stand in it. Not that one, I mean.’
Bailey laughed.
‘Well it’s just—’
‘It’s cool?’ Bailey said. ‘I get the picture?’ and she continued on upstairs with her load. Annie watched her for a moment, just to be sure, and then bustled off to the kitchen. She felt lightheaded, remote, dizzy with unresolved anxieties. The boys were so much bigger now; even Riley, whom she hadn’t yet seen upright, seemed all legs and arms. Bailey had struggled under his weight. And then Bailey! Walking straight upstairs like that without so much as a by-your-leave. Yes, she was Andrew’s wife, but still; niceties should be observed, permissions asked, or else their visit might take on the qualities of an invasion. Annie put the kettle on and ventured back to the hallway. The two front doors were wide open still. Blake was now cartwheeling up and down the front path and Andrew was filling the house with bags; there were six pieces of luggage so far, two of them directly blocking the foot of the stairs. Michael would come home to chaos, and then they’d all know about it.
Behind the closed living-room door, Finn crooned and whined, longing to be released into the fray, but Annie turned a deaf ear to his lamentations. The very last thing she needed right now was him turning giddy circles through the melee to express his delight.
When Andrew was a little boy, he’d loved Annie with a fierce and urgent heat; he would hug her as if he was trying to claim the ground she stood on. Michael always kept a distance, needing only the material fundamentals of mothering – clothes, food, clean sheets – to sustain him. Andrew though: he needed all of her, heart and soul. School came as a terrible wrench for both of them. For the least of reasons she would let him stay at home, where the two of them would sit contentedly at the kitchen table dunking custard creams in milky tea and listening to the wireless. If she’d been asked to predict which of her sons would stay with her, and which one would move across the globe … well.
‘Custard cream?’ she asked Andrew now, wondering if he remembered, but he only shook his head and gave her a neutral smile. He stood across from her in the small kitchen, nursing a mug of tea in both hands. She let her gaze rove all over his face, feasting her eyes, taking him in, and he blew across the top of his tea and watched her.
‘What?’ he said.
‘You haven’t changed a bit.’
Andrew laughed. ‘It’s only been six years, Mum.’
‘No, I mean I can still see the little boy in you.’ She really could; she could see him now at that Formica table in their Coventry kitchen, blowing on his tea to cool it, regarding her with his calm grey eyes. His hair was darker now than it had been then, but he still had as much of it, and it was still prone to unruliness. And there was that fragile white line of a scar running from his temple to the corner of his right eye. When he smiled, it puckered.
‘Have you ever thought about a loft conversion?’ he said, bringing her back to the present. ‘You could have another floor, easy-peasy.’ This was one of the ways he made a living in Australia, putting extra rooms in people’s roof spaces. There wasn’t much Annie would change about Andrew, but she did wish he wasn’t a builder: wished he’d taken more exams instead of loafing off to France on a train and falling in step with Bailey, years and years ago, when they were still in their teens. But anyway.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘no, not really. It’d be a lot of disruption and there’s only two people.’
‘Yeah but one of them’s Michael,’ he said.
‘Oh, Andrew.’
‘Seriously, he could have a whole floor to himself, his own bathroom too, maybe. You wouldn’t be worrying you’d left a hair in the sink or a sock on the floor.’
Actually that sounded nice, Annie thought, but all she said was, ‘It’s full of clutter.’
‘Yeah, that’s ’cause it’s a loft, but you clear it out before they start, y’see. Most of it can probably be binned anyway.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe. I’ll see.’
Michael would hate it, she was thinking. Michael would be impossible to live with through building work.
‘I’ll check it out for you,’ Andrew said. ‘Stick my head through the hatch and have a look. Now, how about we visit the old bastard?’
‘Andrew!’
‘Shall we?’
‘I thought it could wait till tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d be too tired, or too busy, you know, unpacking.’
‘I reckon Bailey can manage that when she surfaces.’
Bailey hadn’t reappeared after taking Riley upstairs. She was discovered fast asleep, stretched out alongside Riley on Annie’s bed. They were both on their backs with their heads turned towards each other, as if in conversation.
‘Well, we can’t just leave, with them asleep upstairs!’ Annie didn’t want to go to Glebe Hall, that was the truth of it. She wanted Andrew to herself for a while, without having to include Vince.
‘Sure we can. We’ll take Blake with us and leave a note.’
‘Blake?’ Annie said. ‘Oh I don’t think …’ But Andrew was already emptying his mug, swilling it out with water from the tap.
‘Well, he won’t know you,’ Annie said. ‘Last time Michael went he took him for an intruder and threw a beaker at him.’ Three years ago now, she thought, and Michael hadn’t been since.
Andrew grinned happily. ‘Sounds reasonable,’ he said.
‘He’s in a world of his own half the time, so don’t be expecting a big reunion.’
‘Mum,’ Andrew said. ‘I came to England to see Dad, so why’re you trying to talk me out of it?’
Oh anyway, Annie thought, what difference did it actually make who went to see Vince, or when? Chances were he’d be fast asleep, and if he was awake you’d hardly know it. So she let Finn out into the back garden to cock his leg while Andrew wrote a note for Bailey, then they shut the dog away again, and off they went.
At Glebe Hall Blake held his nose the moment they stepped inside and said, ‘Gross!’ so Andrew had to step straight out again and have a quiet chat with him. Annie waited in the stuffy front reception. There was no one at the desk, but a hum of muted conversation drifted across from the staff room and from the row of ground-floor bedrooms came the sounds of competing televisions, showing their daytime chat shows and antique hunts. Annie peered down the corridor. The door to Vince’s room was propped open, and from this angle she could just see the very end of his metal bed, the white top sheet tucked tight at the corners, undisturbed by his feeble, motionless legs. Her spirits sagged at the thought of Vince’s emaciated limbs and slack features, but then Moira the Irish nurse appeared from a different room and Andrew came in with Blake, and suddenly the thick, still air of the foyer was full of introductions and laughter and Annie felt heady with pride at being able to lay claim to this handsome man and his tousle-headed boy.
‘Well now, this is an event right enough,’ Moira said, clapping her hands, and directing her words downwards at Blake. ‘It’s a red letter day when I have visitors all the way from Australia!’
‘We came to see Gramps, not you,’ Blake said.
‘Blake,’ said Andrew, sound
ing a warning note, but Moira was hooting with laughter as if she’d never heard anything funnier. She set off down the corridor, speaking to them over her shoulder. ‘He’s awake, you’re in luck,’ she said perkily, and Annie’s heart sank. They trooped single file into Vince’s room, Annie last behind Andrew and Blake, who followed the nurse. The television was on but the sound had been turned right down. A slick, silver-haired man waggled his head at a studio audience; they laughed uproariously, in silence.
‘Now then, Vince,’ Moira said, too loudly, leaning across the bed so that she looked down directly into his eyes, which gazed up at the ceiling. ‘Some special people to see you.’
Vince turned his head at the sound of her voice and Moira moved out of the way and left the room. Blake took a cautious step backwards, nearer the door, but Vince only seemed to see Annie; he let his hooded eyes, red-rimmed and damp, settle on her, and he tutted as if to say, ‘Not you again?’ although likely as not he meant no such thing. His everyday responses were jumbled these days, hard to interpret; a shake of the head might not mean no, a nod could mean anything.
‘Look, Vince, Andrew’s here,’ Annie said. ‘All the way from Australia – isn’t that nice?’ She was trying to sound bright but in fact she sounded, to her own ear at least, like a second-rate actress delivering implausible lines. She had no idea whether Vince understood, but anyway his eyes slid from Annie and onto Andrew.
‘Hey, Dad,’ Andrew said. ‘How’re you doing?’ He perched on the edge of the bed. Vince stared, suddenly transfixed, his dull eyes unmistakably brightened by a light of recognition. Andrew was encouraged. He tried to draw Blake a little closer, but the boy held his ground, so that Andrew had to stretch his arm backwards to reach him. ‘This is Blake, remember? My eldest boy?’
This Much is True: How far will a mother go to protect her shocking secret? Page 12