‘I’m saying she’d have thrived in 1582.’
Christina cracked a smile and was about to take another reluctant bite of her brownie when she spotted Mrs Henderson, folding her arms and scanning the room like a West End theatre director preparing for the next act.
‘Mrs Henderson,’ said Christina brightly. ‘Elspeth has really enjoyed rehearsing with you –she’s loved drama this term.’
Mrs Henderson smiled, then tilted her head. ‘I’m glad you’re both here. After your email, Mrs Pemberton, I thought it best to speak with you together.’ She glanced at Hamish, then back at Christina. ‘Is everything ... all right at home?’
Christina’s heart did a slow somersault. Hamish, beside her, stiffened.
‘I–I suppose ...’ Christina began, faltering, her mind scrabbling for words to describe a home life that wouldn’t embarrass her or be fictitious.
‘It’s just,’ Mrs Henderson continued gently, ‘as you saw in her report, Elspeth’s been unusually distracted. Moody, actually. And she’s ... well, she’s been telling the other children that her parents are getting divorced.’
The word felt like a fist around Christina’s heart.
Her ears rang. She became suddenly aware of every sound around her – the pop of a cap on a squash bottle, the high-pitched laugh of a sugar-fuelled child, the murmur of a group of fathers discussing the rugby.
Hamish made a small, strangled noise. ‘What?’
Mrs Henderson winced. ‘I’m sorry. I take it that’s not the situation then. We do offer student counselling if it is ...’
Christina forced a wooden smile she didn’t feel. ‘No, it’s not. But thank you. We’ll ... talk to her.’
The couple walked away from Mrs Henderson, the weight of the teacher’s words numbing them to silence. Christina stared at the floor, at a faint stain from spilt tea and a squashed cupcake trodden flat.
Oh God,she thought. Our daughter thinks we’re getting divorced. What if we are?
Sixteen
Hamish drove them home, along a lane black with night. Spiky hedges pressed close against the car, glistening with a fine mist that blurred the headlights into soft, golden cones. The word ‘divorce’ lay heavy between them. Christina didn’t want to speak in case Hamish agreed it was true. Beside her, Hamish stared blankly out of the windscreen, equally mute. Just the faint rumble of tyres on tarmac and the occasional hiss of branches scratching against the car’s side mirrors. The air inside was warm and suffocating with all the things unsaid.
When they reached the cottage, Hamish parked neatly, flicked off the engine, and the world outside swallowed them into stillness. A fox barked somewhere beyond the hedgerow, and Christina stepped out into the cold. Opening the front door, the familiar vanilla scents of old booksand the hum of the Aga met her like a favourite sweatshirt pulled from a cupboard.
Hamish lit a match and knelt in front of the hearth. The fire caught, spitting and crackling as flames licked at the logs. Christina shrugged off her coat and rubbed her arms, watching him in the glow.
He rose, brushing his hands on his trousers. ‘Shall I open a bottle?’ he asked.
‘Please.’
She listened to the satisfying pop of the cork, the glug of wine pouring. Hamish handed her a glass, and they both sank intothe sofa, close but not touching. The firelight flickered over the walls, catching the spines on over-stuffed bookshelves, bouncing off her silver collection and the mounds of early narcissi that she’d picked from their little garden and stuffed into jam jars.
‘It’s awful,’ she said, her voice almost lost in the fire’s crackle. ‘That she’s so convinced we’re getting divorced she’s telling everyone.’
Hamish swirled his wine. ‘She’s not wrong to worry.’
Christina’s heart lurched. Was this his way of telling her he really did want a divorce?
‘We’ve been cold,’ he said simply. ‘Kids feel that.’
‘And she’s been spending more nights at school too.’ Christina sipped her wine, tasting blackberry, oak and guilt. ‘I keep wondering what she needs.’
‘I think she needs boundaries,’ Hamish said, looking at the fire. ‘Structure. She’s clever, but she’s ... drifting.’
‘I told you before. She needs love and affection,’ Christina countered. ‘Not rules. She needs to feel safe.’But how can she feel safe if her parents are separating?she thought.
‘She’s only flexi-boarding; I think she should be fulltime. It would give her discipline, stability ...’
Christina felt panic bubble up inside her. She wanted Elspeth with her more, not less. ‘She’seleven, Hamish. What she needs is for her parents to like each other.’ They stared into the fire, its warm hiss the only safe sound in the cottage. For a few minutes Christina counted the plinks of water hitting the bucket behind the curtain. She thought of all the things she’d promised herself her child would have. Stability. Love. Security. And Elspeth did have it, for nine years. How had it gone so wrong? Why couldn’t they find their way back from those heated words two years ago?
