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Okay, breathe. In. Out. Rachel opened her eyes, having not realised she’d closed them until she was met with the sun’s glare once again. “So he needs some tests,” she stated, knowing the silence had gone on too long, but relieved to hear how calm she sounded. “Why do I need to rush home for that?”
“Because he’s refusing to go in for them,” Ben replied. “He’s got an appointment at a memory clinic the day after tomorrow and Harriet can’t convince him to go.”
Of course not. Her sister Harriet’s strong suit wasnotconvincing anyone of anything. Or doing anything remotely proactive. She was more in the huffing and hand-wringing line. “And you think I can?” Rachel asked, trying to scoff.
“You know you can.” Ben did not make it sound like a compliment.
Rachel stared out at the aquamarine sea, shining like a jewel, the white sand beach stretching out, so soft and inviting. She’d barely unpacked her suitcase; she hadn’t even tried on her new bikini yet. She’d signed up for a Zumba class that afternoon. She wanted another mojito.
“You owe this to Harriet,” Ben said quietly, and Rachel’s fingers clenched so hard on her phone that her knuckles ached.
“I don’t actually owe anyone anything,” she replied curtly, “as it happens.” Ben let out a small sigh that communicated as clearly as if he’d said that he expected no less of her, to say something like that, because his expectations of her were so very, very low. “I really don’t,” Rachel insisted, even though, with a weary resignation, she already knew she was going to go. It felt inevitable, like an undertow she was slowly, inexorably being pulled into, or maybe like quicksand. Sucked down, down, down, into the depths, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. This was her family, and even if she’d been avoiding them for ten years—and they’d been avoiding her, in their own way—she was still going to go home when she was asked to.
And Ben must have known that, as well, because he asked calmly, “When can we expect you?”
“I’ll get a flight tonight,” Rachel snapped, “and drive up tomorrow.” And then she disconnected the call, because she could not bear to hear the smugness in his voice when he told her, so patronisingly and yet still managing to seem so unimpressed, that she was doing the right thing.
With a growl of frustration Rachel hurled her phone into her bag, earning yet another reproving look from the toddler’s mum.
*
It was rainingin Yorkshire. It wasalwaysraining in Yorkshire, Rachel thought with a sigh, as she drove her rental car up the A1(M). With a reluctant sigh, she acknowledged that this sentiment was at least a little bit unfair; for theveryfew days a year when it wasn’t raining up here, it was utterly beautiful. And as if God Himself were trying to score a point just then, the dank grey clouds cleared away as she turned off the motorway for the A-road that led to Mathering, the market town on whose outskirts she’d spent the first eighteen years of her life. The sky turned a fragile, ethereal blue and sunlight poured over the rolling moors, touched with the first autumn colour, like liquid gold. Stone barns and farmhouses peeked out from where they were nestled in gentle valleys, their windows glinting diamond-bright in the sunshine. A few sheep, cows, and horses dotted various slopes and fields like they’d been placed there as props; the whole thing was absurdly and perfectly pastoral, a postcard brought to life, an oil painting turned to reality. Yorkshire was called God’s Own Country, and you could see why on a day like this. Never mind that for Rachel going home felt far more like going to hell.
All right, that was abitextreme, she told herself, determined to get out of her funk, at least a little. She still smelled of sun cream and she’d had a morose mojito in the airport back in Ibiza, her holiday fast-tracked to forty-eight hours. Going home wasn’t like going tohell, but it definitely had some purgatory-like vibes. Walking down the high street felt like going back in a time machine. Stepping into her family’s farmhouse felt like becoming a child again, with all its ensuing, unhappy memories, not to mention the chilly silence from her sister, the utter indifference from her father. Was it any wonder she’d wanted to leave?
She followed the road up hill and down, past sleepy farms and cheerful bed and breakfasts; the area near the motorway was semi-gentrified, thanks to tourism’s benevolent effect, with one farm offering glamping yurts, another an organic farm shop. It was another thirty-five minutes to Mathering, which tourism had not touched with quite the same generous hand.
At least it hadn’t the last time Rachel had, reluctantly, been there, for her father’s seventieth birthday. There had been no notable celebrations, but Harriet had acted as if she’d be the most heartless daughter alive if she didn’t come home for the big day. And, Rachel knew, she’d semi-hoped her father would have been happy to have her there. She had, unsurprisingly, been disappointed on both counts. No matter what she did—or didn’t do—it was never enough for Harriet, and her dad never even seemed to notice.
And so, three years ago, she’d driven back to London determined not to bother again, or at least for a very long while. Why torture herself? It wasn’t as if Harriet or her dad enjoyed her company, either, so why torture them, for that matter?
So why was she here for yet more punishment for all three of them? Oh, right. Tests. A memory clinic. Rachel had spent several hours on her laptop last night researching memory clinics and the seemingly inevitable dementia diagnoses going to one indicated. Back in her tiny flat in Putney she’d printed out several relevant documents, an array of literature to give to her sister to equip her for dealing with their dad, if that’s what it came to. And if it did, she supposed she’d have to make the drive from London to Mathering as often as she could, to help out. The thought made everything in her clench and cringe. Harriet would not appreciate her help—that much she knew—even as she would be sulky that Rachel wasn’t doing more. It had been a lose-lose proposition for Rachel for a long time.
But maybe, she told herself, this was all the typical tempest in a teapot. Maybe their dad was becoming a little absent-minded; he was seventy-three, after all. It didn’t mean he hadAlzheimer’s, for heaven’s sake, but that’s where Harriet’s mind would have immediately gone, even if she hadn’t bothered to mention any of it to Rachel. Why hadBen, of all people, called her? Had Harriet asked him to?
For a second she let herself picture Ben—his weathered face, shock of brown hair that stood up at all angles, eyes the colour of acorns, a glinting golden-brown. That slow, lazy smile. That broad chest.
She decided to stop that train of thought. She and Ben might have shared a couple of kisses in their teens—or something like that—but those days were long, long gone.
Anyway, Rachel told herself, this might be an easy fix. She could hope, anyway. She was giving it three days, which was the rest of her holiday time, plus a day to get back to London. After that, well, she supposed they would have to see, but she wasn’t going to let Harriet guilt her into staying any longer than that, because her sister thought sheowedher.
Even if she did.
*
Embthwaite Farm lookedexactly the same as it always did, which was both comforting and depressing. Same Georgian-era square, squat farmhouse of grey Yorkshire stone, same dusty curtains at the living room windows, the best room of the house and hardly ever used, except for when her father read the newspaper after tea, as regular as clockwork.
A wisp of smoke curled up from the chimney into the pale blue sky, and sunlight glinted on the rain puddles in the farmyard. It would have been a lovely sight, if it hadn’t been home.
Rachel pulled her car into the drive, wincing as the wheels hit the deep ruts. She turned the car off and sat there for a few seconds, her hands resting on the steering wheel, trying to steel herself for whatever lay ahead. She could pretty much predict it, unfortunately—Harriet’s bristling hostility and covert-yet-constant suspicious looks; her father’s continued silent, brutal indifference. Her self-confidence took a battering every time she stepped across the threshold, even if she did her best not to show as much, not to be the girl she’d been here growing up—frightened, angry, hiding her hurt, trying to protect the sister who now couldn’t stand her.
She let out a gust of breath and then squared her shoulders and got out of the car. She took her one small suitcase out of the back, along with her work bag, and then headed for the front door.
It creaked as she opened it and the smell of home hit her, with all its accompanying memories—must, dust, dog, woodsmoke, a hint of cooking grease and coffee. The dog in question heaved his arthritic form from his usual place in the hall, by the welly boot rack, and came trotting faithfully towards her, lying down at her feet, his plumed tail beating a determined staccato on the floor as he looked up at her with cataract-clouded eyes.
Quite suddenly, tears stung Rachel’s eyes and she blinked them back, crouching down to stroke the dog’s silky brown ears. “Hey there, Fred.” He had to be thirteen years old now, she realised. Ben had given him to her from his own spaniel’s litter, back when they’d been friendly. He’d asked what she was going to call him, and she’d said she didn’t like all those cutesy dog names—Fido, Lucky, Spark. “I’m going to call him Fred,” she’d declared, and Ben had let out a sudden huff of laughter. The man rarely cracked so much as a smile, but when he laughed, even in a small way, it was a sound of genuine joy.
Rachel gave Fred one more pat on the head before she rose, bracing herself for whatever lay ahead. No one, of course, had come out to greet her. Fred trotted back to his spot and flung himself down on the bit of battered old carpet that served as his dog bed. The last time she’d been here, Rachel had bought a top-of-the-line dog bed, leather lined in fleece, thinking Fred deserved it for his old bones, but he’d turned up his nose at it, just as Harriet had.
