‘What are you after?’ he said in a firmer voice, and folded his arms. ‘More money? Don’t tell me – you’re in some sort of trouble?’
‘No, Bligh… I’ve come back to say sorry.’
‘You didn’t think about warning us of your arrival? I’d say that smacks of the old dramatic behaviours.’ He glanced meaningfully at Andrea and Gail before once again meeting her gaze. ‘Didn’t you for one moment consider the impact of your visit?’
‘I’ve come back to make amends. To help on the farm. I want to spend time with Mum and try to make things easier here. I want to make up for—’
‘I want, I want, I want,’ said Andrea. ‘You just assume everyone will forgive and forget. We should ring the police.’
‘And I… I wouldn’t blame you,’ said Emma, turning up the palms of her hands. ‘You’ve got to believe how sorry I am. I hated my life back then.’
‘Really?’ Andrea snorted. ‘To all appearances you were simply intent on having a good time.’
Perspiration ran between Emma’s shoulder blades. This wasn’t how her daydreams had panned out. ‘You didn’t really believe I was happy, did you?’
‘Well I know I wasn’t,’ said Andrea, in a voice like a starched shirt – a voice Emma had become accustomed to during her last months at the farm. So unlike the gentle tones she remembered from their childhood days. Andrea had been the softest older sister, always letting Emma borrow her clothes or make-up as if the five-year age gap didn’t matter. When Emma was little, Andrea would patiently play board games that must have bored her, and sing nursery rhymes even though her own taste in music had moved on to boy bands.
‘This nice woman talks too much. Has she come to make my tea?’ Gail tore her gaze away from the window. ‘Fish on Friday. It is Friday, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ said Emma. Guilt pinched her stomach. She’d been away far too long. ‘It’s actually Wed—’
‘Yes, fish today,’ said Andrea in bright tones. ‘If that’s what you fancy, Mum, I’ll put the cod in straight away.’
Cod? But Mum was a strict vegetarian.
Andrea stood up, took a firm hold of Emma’s elbow and steered her past Bligh, through the dining room and into the pine kitchen. Dash followed. The poppy-patterned crockery stood as proud as ever in the Welsh dresser, just like the soldiers that flower commemorated. The clock was different – bigger. The cupboards had child locks on them.
‘Don’t interfere with how I’m dealing with Mum.’
‘But shouldn’t she know it’s not Friday? Isn’t it best—’
‘You have no idea what is best. How do you think she would feel if people continually corrected her mistakes?’ said Andrea.
‘I’d have thought it would stop the progression of the disease.’
‘So, what if she asks you five times a day when she can visit Granny and Gramps? Do you keep breaking the news that her parents are dead? Force her to relive the grief? Or do you just say, don’t worry, Mum, we’ll see them later, and let her eventually forget the question?’
‘But… we can’t just let her give in.’ Emma swallowed. ‘She deserves—’
‘Don’t you dare tell me what she deserves, as if you have some say in this.’ Andrea paced the chequered floor like a mutinous chess piece. ‘Just go. It’s for the best. I’ve got Mum to see to. The livestock. The shop. I can’t look after you as well.’
‘I don’t need looking after any more,’ said Emma quietly.
‘What happened to your ambition of becoming a vet? What have you got to show for the last few years?’ Andrea’s ponytail swung angrily. ‘You threw it all away and now you expect us to pick up the pieces?’
‘It’s not like that.’ Emma concentrated on her breathing, determined to stay calm. All those hopes she’d had for a family reunion… she’d even given notice on her flat. How could she have been so naive – no, arrogant – imagining some kind of red-carpet welcome?
‘Look. Great-Aunt Thelma…’ Andrea rubbed the back of her neck.
‘Is she okay?’
‘She died a couple of months ago. Pneumonia.’
Andrea’s voice was matter-of-fact. Emma gasped.
‘She left us each an inheritance. Most of mine went on mending the farmhouse roof.’ Andrea rummaged in a kitchen drawer. Finally she found a business card. ‘Here’s the solicitor’s number. No doubt it’s money you’ve come back for, so now you can go.’
Dear Thelma, with her wicked sense of humour and her affection for the soaps. When Emma had first met Joe, she’d told him how much her great-aunt would have liked him, talking for hours aboutEastEnders… but she couldn’t think about Joe now. Not today. At Thelma’s ninetieth birthday party they’d all joked that she’d outlive everyone. Emma wished she could have attended the funeral. She winced as Andrea took great care for their fingers not to touch on passing her the card. They’d held hands for years growing up, swinging arms as they walked to the shops. People used to comment on how lovely it was to see two siblings so close.
