mother’s day. Another picture flashed up, her dad standing there with his head down whilst her mum shouted at him. ‘Dad never knew what to do. Mum would get angry and he didn’t know why. It made me sad.’
The words ground to a halt. She couldn’t explain it, how she wanted to make a forcefield around him, stop him having to listen.
‘I sometimes think I might go and find my dad.’ Victoria’s voice was casual, matter of fact.
Helen tried to remember where he’d gone. Was it South America? She imagined Victoria galloping across some dusty plain, accompanied by men with heavy moustaches. They would cross in front of the sunset, reach a wooden homestead and behind the door would be the drummer, his sideburns flecked with grey now, and his eyes narrowed by the sun. She took a breath in readiness to speak, but her words were interrupted by the sound of the garage door scraping on the concrete floor as it swung open. The boat wobbled again and Mick’s head appeared over the side.
‘Come on you two, out.’ He was more cheerful than Helen had seen him in weeks. ‘We’ve got some measuring up to do.’
Chapter Eleven
Helen dawdled over her breakfast the next day, enjoying the sense of the sunshine waiting outside, the settled blue of the sky and the air warm through the open window. She had
War and Peace
in front of her, propped up against a pile of newspapers so she could finish the last few pages. The book was too thick to stay open by itself, so she had to eat with one hand and keep it flat with the other. And she read about Prince Andrei’s death, Natasha’s grief, her toast cold on the plate in front of her, and the pages turned faster as she rushed towards the end, needing to discover what happened to those left alive, the survivors of the mud and the dark and the battles.
She swam up through the layers of words, almost surprised to find herself in the kitchen, her bare toes curled around the rung of her stool and the slant of the sun hot against her forearm. She read the final lines again. Surely that wasn’t it? He couldn’t end it on that half line, with Natasha drained of her sparkle and stuck forever with fat, boring Pierre. The epilogue was all about Napoleon, but she leafed through it anyway, desperate for more. Names sprang out. Natasha and Princess Marie, smug in the countryside, poor Sonya, pretending to be happy. She let the book close. That was it. She felt drained, unable to make a decision on what to do next. The sound of a blackbird singing floated in from the garden, and she stared at her half-finished mug of tea, wondering if she could be bothered to pick it up.
As if the thought of tea had called him, the back door opened and Mick came in. He swept the newspapers to one side, sending Helen’s book flying. His presence, solid and impatient, brought her back to life.
‘Are you looking for something?’
‘Bit of paper. Might be in the car.’ He picked up her abandoned tea and drained it. ‘I’ll see you later.’
The house seemed lighter, from the sun, from Mick, the atmosphere bouncing up as if a weight had been lifted. The warm feeling it gave her increased as she walked along to the canal. It was a particular summer feeling, she thought: everything was possible, all things within reach. She stopped for a minute to relish the sense of it, gathering her hair up into a bundle behind her head. That made her think of Seth, his eyes on her as he sketched, and a rush of excitement spread across her chest. The whole world was present inside her, expanding into an infinite space. She wanted to cartwheel, or spin round in circles. If her dad’s boat could make it on to the water, who knew what else could happen? She picked up her pace and ran down the lane.
At the cottage, though, it wasn’t Seth or Victoria that she found. She was hovering by the door, waiting for a response to her call, when a voice answered her from the sitting room.
‘In here.’ It was deep and croaky, as if
The words ground to a halt. She couldn’t explain it, how she wanted to make a forcefield around him, stop him having to listen.
‘I sometimes think I might go and find my dad.’ Victoria’s voice was casual, matter of fact.
Helen tried to remember where he’d gone. Was it South America? She imagined Victoria galloping across some dusty plain, accompanied by men with heavy moustaches. They would cross in front of the sunset, reach a wooden homestead and behind the door would be the drummer, his sideburns flecked with grey now, and his eyes narrowed by the sun. She took a breath in readiness to speak, but her words were interrupted by the sound of the garage door scraping on the concrete floor as it swung open. The boat wobbled again and Mick’s head appeared over the side.
‘Come on you two, out.’ He was more cheerful than Helen had seen him in weeks. ‘We’ve got some measuring up to do.’
Chapter Eleven
Helen dawdled over her breakfast the next day, enjoying the sense of the sunshine waiting outside, the settled blue of the sky and the air warm through the open window. She had
War and Peace
in front of her, propped up against a pile of newspapers so she could finish the last few pages. The book was too thick to stay open by itself, so she had to eat with one hand and keep it flat with the other. And she read about Prince Andrei’s death, Natasha’s grief, her toast cold on the plate in front of her, and the pages turned faster as she rushed towards the end, needing to discover what happened to those left alive, the survivors of the mud and the dark and the battles.
She swam up through the layers of words, almost surprised to find herself in the kitchen, her bare toes curled around the rung of her stool and the slant of the sun hot against her forearm. She read the final lines again. Surely that wasn’t it? He couldn’t end it on that half line, with Natasha drained of her sparkle and stuck forever with fat, boring Pierre. The epilogue was all about Napoleon, but she leafed through it anyway, desperate for more. Names sprang out. Natasha and Princess Marie, smug in the countryside, poor Sonya, pretending to be happy. She let the book close. That was it. She felt drained, unable to make a decision on what to do next. The sound of a blackbird singing floated in from the garden, and she stared at her half-finished mug of tea, wondering if she could be bothered to pick it up.
As if the thought of tea had called him, the back door opened and Mick came in. He swept the newspapers to one side, sending Helen’s book flying. His presence, solid and impatient, brought her back to life.
‘Are you looking for something?’
‘Bit of paper. Might be in the car.’ He picked up her abandoned tea and drained it. ‘I’ll see you later.’
The house seemed lighter, from the sun, from Mick, the atmosphere bouncing up as if a weight had been lifted. The warm feeling it gave her increased as she walked along to the canal. It was a particular summer feeling, she thought: everything was possible, all things within reach. She stopped for a minute to relish the sense of it, gathering her hair up into a bundle behind her head. That made her think of Seth, his eyes on her as he sketched, and a rush of excitement spread across her chest. The whole world was present inside her, expanding into an infinite space. She wanted to cartwheel, or spin round in circles. If her dad’s boat could make it on to the water, who knew what else could happen? She picked up her pace and ran down the lane.
At the cottage, though, it wasn’t Seth or Victoria that she found. She was hovering by the door, waiting for a response to her call, when a voice answered her from the sitting room.
‘In here.’ It was deep and croaky, as if