they’ve found my Ernie. He’ll probably come himself. He’ll insist. Very protective, is my Ernie. No. It won’t be too much longer now.”
Cecilia sat for a moment. Then leaned forward and took Maisie’s hand in her good hand. A deep breath, and a glance up, a swift smile. “I’m sure you’re right, Maisie.” She lied. “I’m sure that he’ll be here any time now.”
Chapter 18
Freya – Saturday, 17th March – 9.33am
Freya pulled a loose fitting sweater over still damp hair. Citrus green. She tugged her hair up into a bun, twisting loosely, looping it with an elastic band. Stooping down, pulling brown leather boots from the bottom of the wardrobe, stuffing her feet in, holding onto the wardrobe door for balance.
What was going on with your father?
She could still feel the reporter’s breath on her neck, the soft fleshed man’s patent shoes clip clopping behind her. Her slippers sliding on slush. Pressing her fingers against bitter cold wood, warmth of the house hitting her in a wave. Pushing the door shut, cutting off the voices that still called her name.
What was going on with your father?
She’d slept fitfully. There had been dreams of crashing planes and snow on fire, that jolted her awake, that allowed her to drift back into soft sleep, then yanking her back again. Had he made a mistake, some kind of terrible error that had brought his plane tumbling into the mountains? Freya had lain, staring at the ceiling, wanting so badly to believe that it was the plane, that, in spite of all his faults, her father had fought hard, railed against some mechanical failure that had eventually proven too much for him. It would be the plane. He was a good pilot, in spite of what the dough-skinned reporter had said.
Freya had almost convinced herself, had almost allowed her eyes to settle closed. Then she had thought about the night before the flight, her father’s car and her mother’s little Fiesta missing from the drive when she had returned home, a little after eleven. Coming home to a house that felt wrong, cold and empty. Richard was staying at a friend’s, had told her that this morning. But still she had expected something, some form of life. She had slipped up the stairs, pushing open the door to her parents room, thinking that she would check on her mother, because Mum worries when Dad goes out, when he forgets to call. But finding only an empty bed, duvet still pulled taut across the mattress.
Freya had stood there for a moment, trying to remember. They must be out together. Her mother must have told her and she had forgotten, that was all. Still that strange feeling in her stomach, of the world being a little off its balance. She had gone to bed then. They were grown ups, would return when they were ready. But still had lain awake, waiting even though she hadn’t meant to.
Her mother had returned about an hour later. Had known it was her from the clip clop of her heels on the tiled kitchen floor. Freya had listened, waiting for the sounds of her father’s heavier step. Had heard nothing.
They hadn’t talked about it, when they woke up the next morning. She hadn’t asked her mother, because in truth that just wasn’t what they did. They didn’t poke, or pry, they let things be. Her father hadn’t come down for breakfast. Still hadn’t surfaced by the time she left for the University.
Her mother had been quiet, replying in one word answers.
What was going on with your father?
Freya crouched down, pulling at the laces, knotting them tight. Then pushed herself up, darting down the stairs, light steps.
She had hoped that the family would be asleep, that she could pull on her coat and grab her bag, letting herself out of the house and into the car without ever having to answer a question. Because this isn’t how they do things here, this isn’t how their family works.
But she was never going to be that lucky. There were voices, coming from the kitchen. Her grandmother, trilling,
Cecilia sat for a moment. Then leaned forward and took Maisie’s hand in her good hand. A deep breath, and a glance up, a swift smile. “I’m sure you’re right, Maisie.” She lied. “I’m sure that he’ll be here any time now.”
Chapter 18
Freya – Saturday, 17th March – 9.33am
Freya pulled a loose fitting sweater over still damp hair. Citrus green. She tugged her hair up into a bun, twisting loosely, looping it with an elastic band. Stooping down, pulling brown leather boots from the bottom of the wardrobe, stuffing her feet in, holding onto the wardrobe door for balance.
What was going on with your father?
She could still feel the reporter’s breath on her neck, the soft fleshed man’s patent shoes clip clopping behind her. Her slippers sliding on slush. Pressing her fingers against bitter cold wood, warmth of the house hitting her in a wave. Pushing the door shut, cutting off the voices that still called her name.
What was going on with your father?
She’d slept fitfully. There had been dreams of crashing planes and snow on fire, that jolted her awake, that allowed her to drift back into soft sleep, then yanking her back again. Had he made a mistake, some kind of terrible error that had brought his plane tumbling into the mountains? Freya had lain, staring at the ceiling, wanting so badly to believe that it was the plane, that, in spite of all his faults, her father had fought hard, railed against some mechanical failure that had eventually proven too much for him. It would be the plane. He was a good pilot, in spite of what the dough-skinned reporter had said.
Freya had almost convinced herself, had almost allowed her eyes to settle closed. Then she had thought about the night before the flight, her father’s car and her mother’s little Fiesta missing from the drive when she had returned home, a little after eleven. Coming home to a house that felt wrong, cold and empty. Richard was staying at a friend’s, had told her that this morning. But still she had expected something, some form of life. She had slipped up the stairs, pushing open the door to her parents room, thinking that she would check on her mother, because Mum worries when Dad goes out, when he forgets to call. But finding only an empty bed, duvet still pulled taut across the mattress.
Freya had stood there for a moment, trying to remember. They must be out together. Her mother must have told her and she had forgotten, that was all. Still that strange feeling in her stomach, of the world being a little off its balance. She had gone to bed then. They were grown ups, would return when they were ready. But still had lain awake, waiting even though she hadn’t meant to.
Her mother had returned about an hour later. Had known it was her from the clip clop of her heels on the tiled kitchen floor. Freya had listened, waiting for the sounds of her father’s heavier step. Had heard nothing.
They hadn’t talked about it, when they woke up the next morning. She hadn’t asked her mother, because in truth that just wasn’t what they did. They didn’t poke, or pry, they let things be. Her father hadn’t come down for breakfast. Still hadn’t surfaced by the time she left for the University.
Her mother had been quiet, replying in one word answers.
What was going on with your father?
Freya crouched down, pulling at the laces, knotting them tight. Then pushed herself up, darting down the stairs, light steps.
She had hoped that the family would be asleep, that she could pull on her coat and grab her bag, letting herself out of the house and into the car without ever having to answer a question. Because this isn’t how they do things here, this isn’t how their family works.
But she was never going to be that lucky. There were voices, coming from the kitchen. Her grandmother, trilling,
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