‘It’s a long drive.’ The warning in my voice is clear, even if the reason isn’t.
Tired honey-coloured eyes dart to mine. ‘It has to be better than aimlessly driving around the city.’
I’m not sure I agree, but it’s safe. I’m long overdue a visit. And no one will ever find us there.
I drivethrough the night for five hours straight until the Scottish mountains are nothing more than a blurry memory.
Victoria’s temple presses against the side of the car, but from the way she’s breathing, I guess she’s awake. After hours of brightly lit motorway, the sleepy English town of Somerton looks like a ghost town.
It feels like one too.
I have no memories of my mother, obviously. She died in labour. But every time I returned, I feel her presence. I imagine her in the overgrown lawn picking flowers. By all accounts, she loved to be outdoors.
Dad couldn’t stick the place after she died. He went to work on the oil rigs, out of choice rather than necessity, and left Andrea to take care of me, while a young local farmer, Roger Hamley, was left to manage the farm.
Did Dad regret moving away when Roger took a shine to my sister and moved in with us? Or was it a relief that there was another man to take care of us in his absence?
Andrea and Roger must have been married for almost twenty years now. Their son, my nephew, Jason, is twenty this year.
My sister, Andrea, raised me as though I was her son, in the same way Sasha raised Victoria. We have uncannily similar stories, although my mother died so I could live.
And although my father might not have died, he couldn’t bear the sight of me, blaming me for my mother’s death.
I negotiate the SUV through miles of winding countryside and up a long winding dirt track towards the old house. Cattle occupy the fields on our left, sheep to the right.
‘Where are we? Is this a farm?’ Victoria’s arms lift above her head in a cramped stretch.
‘Yep. It’s Hope Farm.’ It would be funny if it wasn’t so depressing. The only thing I hoped for was to leave and never return. Because the two weeks' leave Dad got off from the rigs each month, he ensured I had no hope of having any self-confidence left.
‘What is this place?’ Victoria gazes through the darkness. It’s so remote. There’s not another house for miles.
‘It’s where I was born.’
The farmhouse appears in the bright gaze of the headlights. Its beige stonework is more weathered than I remember and the windowsills could do with a good sanding and a thorough lick of fresh paint. Plant pots, overflowing with purple pansy swaying in the warm breeze, bracket the weathered-looking front door.
Huge stables flankthe main house. They used to be home to two horses, Penelope and Peter, two thoroughbreds, which I used to groom daily as a teenager. I have no idea if they’re still alive.
The car slows to a stop next to an old Massey Ferguson tractor which I learnt to drive when I was just a boy.
Nostalgia sweeps through my blood. Tiny hairs prick on my forearms and neck. ‘Ready?’ Am I asking Victoria? Or myself?
‘You grew up here?’ She squints through the darkness.
‘Tending to the land was one of my favourite pastimes as a kid.’ My fingers are poised on the door handle, still not fully committed to getting out. Even if Andrea does welcome us with open arms, it won’t erase years of torment.
‘Wow, it must have been idyllic.’ Victoria exhales slowly.
‘Not really. My father was abusive. He blamed me for the death of my mother. The two weeks each month he was away on the oil rig were heaven. The other two weeks were hell.’ It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.
Warm hands reach out to me. ‘Oh, Arch, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’
‘It’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but if he’s still breathing, he’ll be an old man at this stage. He can’t hurt me now.’
Not physically, anyway.
‘Does he still live here?’ Victoria rakes her fingers through my hair, cradling my head. It feels like heaven.
‘My sister Andrea and her husband, Roger, live here. I’m not sure about Dad. He’d be over eighty now, if he’s still alive.’
