‘Yes,’ Jules replied. ‘I heard you and no, sorry, I haven’t seen your daughter.’
The woman stared at her for a moment, and Jules felt herself begin to flush. Out of the corner of her eye she saw thegirl shuffle along the side of the barn. The woman took a step forward as if to venture further into the yard and peer around the corner of the old building. Jules took a couple of steps forward herself, almost falling into the hedge.
‘If I do see her, I’ll tell her you were looking for her.’
Without so much as a brief thank you the woman swivelled and wove her way carefully back across the farmyard. When Jules looked back towards the barn, the girl had gone.
Tasha reached up and unlatched the heavy old door to the barn. She slipped inside and closed it behind her, pausing for a moment to lean against an upright timber beam and regulate her breath.
Her eyes quickly adjusting to the gloaming, she tucked her diary under one arm and, sticking her pen between her teeth, scooted up the ladder to the hayloft. She’d done this so many times she could do it blindfold; knew exactly the amount of space between each rung, where to place her feet, which part of the handrail was rough with splinters. Once on the first floor she padded across the boards and squeezed herself between the bales of hay to where she had formed a hiding place.
There was just enough light coming through from the gap in the upper doors for her to see, but she kept a torch up here as well for dull, wintery days or when it was getting dark. It was one of her favourite places, warm, scented with the sweet smell of the hay and quiet; away from the complications of life. She had Granny to thank for it still being used to store the bales. She insisted upon it for ‘old times’ sake’.
‘Used to love going up there when I was younger,’ Rita said when it came up in a family discussion, as it did with increasing regularity. ‘Would settle myself in with a book and a packet of pear drops and time would fly by.’
‘Well, you’re not going to do that now, Mum, are you?’ Alastair had snapped.
It was always a statement rather than a question, which Tasha thought was presumptuous. She’d felt that familiar thudding in her chest when a row was brewing. Often Dad had the knack of saying just the wrong thing at the wrong time. She’d been sitting in the big, worn leather chair in Granny’s kitchen, another of her favourite places. She’d squirmed and dug her nails into the seams, which were starting to come apart a little. It had been Grandpa George’s chair and Tasha tried to take herself back to when she was little and sitting on his knee as he read her a story. When she was older, she would sit at his feet as he talked to her about the birds and the wildflowers and cricket.
Sometimes he produced a sketchbook and a pencil sharpened to a point with the penknife he always carried and they would draw together. In spite of the pressures of the farm he always had so much time for her and Will. She wished he was here now. Dad wouldn’t dare speak to Granny the way he did if Grandpa George was around.
‘I might go up to the hayloft,’ Granny replied defiantly to Dad.
She sent Tasha a wink as if to reassure her.
‘Your father and I had some fun times up there when we were courting.’
‘Mum!’
Dad had looked so shocked Tasha almost laughed. Will put his hand over his mouth to unsuccessfully stifle a giggle.
‘Oh, don’t be such a prude!’ Granny snorted. ‘They both know all about the birds and the bees.’
‘What Alastair means,’ Mum had weighed in, brushing some imaginary crumbs from the kitchen table before leaning across it just enough to indicate earnestness, but not far enough to makeHercules growl properly, ‘is that he doesn’t think it appropriate for you to be climbing that ladder.’
She had paused and splayed her fingers so that light bounced off her scarlet nails.
‘Particularly at your age, Rita.’
That’s Mum, Tasha thought, wincing, always one for the killer blow.
Rita had pushed her chair back and stood up, Hercules in her arms. For one moment Tasha thought Granny was going to march straight to the barn and climb the ladder there and then to prove to them all that she still could. Not that she needed to prove anything to Tasha. Often, when she was in hiding, Granny’s head would appear through the hatch. Sometimes she would call softly, ‘Are you there, sweetheart? Are you all right?’
Sometimes Tasha would answer and sometimes not. Granny would never give her away, but more speaking could feel like too much effort, especially if she’d been shouting at Mum. There would be the soft thud of a tray being placed on the floor and she’d wait until the clunk of the latch downstairs told her that Granny was heading back across the yard again. There was always a glass of homemade lemon barley water or a mug of tea on that tray and of course a chewy cookie or good wedge of cake.
‘I may have a slightly dodgy ankle, and I may not be as fast as I used to be, but I’m not in my dotage yet, Christabel.’
Granny’s eyes had flashed challengingly. She always used Mum’s full name, never the shortened version which Dad used and she preferred.
‘I’m not quite ready for the care home.’
Or the bungalow, Tasha knew she was thinking. But thank goodness she didn’t say that.
‘Of course, I wasn’t…’
Mum had done that thing she did with her hands, as if to wrap Granny in a large virtual embrace which Tasha was surewas the last thing she wanted to do and absolutely the last thing Granny desired. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if Granny hadn’t included in her statement of wishes attached to her will ‘no hugs from my daughter-in-law’. Granny had thrown Mum an impressively disparaging look before turning her attention back to Dad.
‘Your father was stacking bales in that loft even after he was diagnosed with the cancer.’
