Sheltering Rain by Jojo Moyes Page B

was to remember them all. She told her how ridiculously difficult it was to communicate with her grandparents, and how hopelessly old-fashioned they were. She told her about how alien she felt among all these horse-obsessives, and how she missed her mates, and her telly, and her own home, and all her things, like her CDs and her computer. Annie just listened and nodded understandingly, so that after a while Sabine suspected she had heard much of this already from Mrs. H. That just fueled her sense of victimhood. For that was what she must be, she mused, if they were talking about her in sympathetic tones.
    â€œAnd why’s your mam not over here, Sabine? Is she working?”
    Sabine halted briefly, unsure how much to give away. They were nice people, but she hardly knew them, and she did feel some loyalty to her mother.
    â€œYes,” she lied. “She wanted to come over, but she was too busy.”
    â€œWhat does she do now?” said Mrs. H. “It’s so long since I’ve seen her.”
    â€œShe writes.” She paused. “Not books and stuff. Just features for newspapers. About families.”
    â€œAny old families?” Mrs. H shoveled a tray of food into the oven.
    â€œNot really. Family life in general. Problems and stuff.”
    â€œThat sounds very handy,” said Mrs. H.
    â€œYou must miss her,” said Annie.
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œYour mam. You must miss her. Her being so far away and all.”
    â€œA bit.” She hesitated, then said boldly, “We’re not that close, actually.”
    â€œBut she’s your mam. You must be close.” And suddenly, inexplicably, Annie’s eyes appeared to fill with tears.
    Sabine stared at her in horror, trying to work out what she could have said to have prompted this. Mrs. H, looking sharply at her daughter, called her over.
    â€œSabine—I’ve found a bit of fish in the freezer cabinet. Do you fancy this, if I do it in a butter sauce? Perhaps you could help me defrost it in the microwave. Annie, love, why don’t you go and fetch Patrick and tell him we’ll be eating in about twenty minutes.”
    Sabine stood slowly, and, trying not to stare too conspicuously at Annie, walked over to the kitchen.
    Annie became very quiet for about half an hour after that. She hardly spoke through supper, and her husband spoke very little, so it was left to Mrs. H and Sabine, who was feeling rather unnerved, to carry the conversation. Patrick was not the writer-type she had imagined: not thin and tortured-looking, but a big man, barrel-chested and slightly coarse-featured, with lines like plowed furrows along his forehead and down the sides of his mouth. But he was gentle, and solicitous, and he had that quiet air of intelligence that made Sabine slightly tongue-tied, and aware that almost everything she said sounded trite or stupid.
    â€œIs your dinner all right, Patrick? It was all a bit of a rush job, I’m afraid.”
    â€œIt’s grand, Mam,” he replied. “Lovely bit of lamb.”
    Sabine, who found herself staring at Annie, found it hard to picture the two together. He was so big and rough-looking, while she was so small and insubstantial, as if some melancholy breeze could just blow her away. And yet he obviously adored her; although he said little, Sabine noticed him touch her on the arm twice and once, gently, rub her back with slow, loving strokes.
    â€œHave you anyone coming this weekend?” said Mrs. H, picking up one of her chops with her knife and fork, and placing it on Patrick’s already overstuffed plate.
    Patrick looked at Annie, and then back at his mother-in-law. “I don’t think there’s anyone booked. I had a thought Annie and I might go up to Galway, just for a bit of a change.”
    â€œGalway,” exclaimed Mrs. H. “Lough Inagh, now there’s a beautiful spot. Me and your father used to holiday there every year when you were small,