AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Why would it be? What did he do?” Now Harriet sounded belligerent, dangerously so.
Rachel realised they were on shaky ground. They clearly had different memories, or maybe just different lenses through which they’d viewed those memories. And Harriet had been here, all this time; maybe she’d become protective of their father in a way Rachel hadn’t been.
She glanced at the table, the scorch mark in the middle. Did Harriet remember that? Did she remember seeing their mum on the stairs, her head resting on her knees as her shoulders shook with sobs? She must have, because she’d so often been the one to offer comfort, giving their mum hugs, knocking timidly on the bedroom door when she wouldn’t come out and they could both hear her crying, while Rachel had stayed away, furious and hurting.
Had Harriet forgotten all that? Had she chosen not to remember it? Maybe it was easier to believe her mum had been happy, until she, very suddenly, hadn’t been. Until she’d left. Rachel wasn’t sure she should ask about any of it. Harriet’s expression was both fierce and forbidding, and she was scrubbing a plate so hard Rachel was afraid she might break it. For someone insisting they’d all been happy, she certainly didn’t look it.
Maybe her own memories weren’t as far off as she’d thought. Maybe it was Harriet who was misremembering, or maybe they both were, in their different ways.
“I don’t know that Dad did anything, exactly,” she said slowly. “I just sometimes felt that maybe Mum wasn’t happy with the way things were.”
Harriet blew out an irritated breath. “Then maybe she shouldn’t have signed up for the farming life. It’s not an easy one. She should have realised that.”
Rachel blinked. “Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh?”
“No.”
Rachel had always known Harriet harboured a resentment and even an anger towards their mother for leaving the way she did—walking out without an explanation or even a goodbye. At least, that’s what Harriet had told her when she’d called, just a week before Christmas; Rachel had been in the midst of her first exams at university, trying to get her head around Harriet’s anger and sorrow, her own uncertainty and surprise. She’d already moved on, she knew, even then. She hadn’t wanted to go back and bail everyone out, but she had, dealing with Harriet’s fury and grief, her father’s stoic silence, her own yawning sense of strangeness. She’d understood her mother’s reasoning, but she also hadn’t, in a fundamental way. What mum justleftlike that?
In retrospect, in Rachel’s view, her mother’s sudden departure showed just how desperately unhappy she must have been. In Harriet’s, however, it seemed to show how callous and cruel she truly was—which was odd, because when they’d been growing up, Rachel had been the one who had been irritated by her mother’s low moods, and Harriet had been understanding and empathetic. Somehow, as adults, they’d switched roles, without her even realising. Maybe without Harriet realising, either.
“Do you ever talk to her?” Rachel asked now, and Harriet’s eyes widened in surprised disapproval; Rachel realised they’d never talked about their mum like this. She’d been a no-go area not just for them, but also for their dad since the day she’d walked out. Talk about dysfunctional, but she supposed that was what happened when you had a family where conversation was a rare resource, a precious commodity, doled out in syllables.
“I haven’t talked to her since she walked out,” Harriet stated flatly, turning away.
Rachel had suspected Harriet didn’t talk to their mother very much, but the admission still shocked her. It had been twelve years, after all. “Not even once?” she asked.
“No,” Harriet said after a brief pause. “Not since around then, anyway.”
Around then?Her sister’s tone did not invite questions, but Rachel wondered if there had been a difficult conversation that had precluded future ones. “Has she reached out to you since then?” Rachel asked. Harriet shrugged her reply, which Rachel couldn’t interpret.
“Doyousee her?” Harriet asked, like a challenge.
“I have, a few times,” Rachel admitted. Painfully awkward lunches every few years, where her mother looked near tears and Rachel longed to get away. Just like with going home, it had become easier not to do it at all. “Not for…a while, but I used to try to make an effort. Sometimes.” It had been more than a while, she knew. It had been a couple of years, at least. There had been Christmas cards, the occasional text, nothing more. It was sad, really. Lamentable.
“Well, I have no desire to see her or speak to her,” Harriet stated fiercely, her anger flaring out, high and hot. “And frankly, I’m surprised you feel the need tomake the effort, considering you never did with either Dad—or me!”
And on that sudden, accusatory note, her voice vibrating with hurt, Harriet whirled around and strode out of the room, leaving Rachel gaping at her retreating back.
Chapter Eight
Rachel woke slowly,blinking in the morning sunlight, the curtains at her window rippling in the breeze; she’d left it slightly ajar last night, for the fresh air. Now, as the last, ghostly remnants of a dream began to evaporate from her mind in nebulous fragments of memory, she breathed in the cool morning air and listened to a cow low in the distance, the sound mournful yet also oddly comforting.
She’d been dreaming, she realised, of her mother. Already it was fading into fog; as so often happened with dreams, the more she tried to think about it, the less she remembered. But her mother had been there—smiling, Rachel recalled, and maybe even laughing—in a way she couldn’t actually remember she had, now that she was awake.
Why had she thought of her mother like that? Was it because of her conversation with Harriet last night, which had ended so abruptly? The optimism Rachel had been determined to feel yesterday had seeped away overnight, as Harriet had barricaded herself in her bedroom and her father had kept to his newspaper, neither of them inclined to pay her any mind at all. The house had felt like a very lonely place, and Rachel had ended up watching Netflix alone before going to bed early.
Although, she acknowledged, she didn’t know what else she’d been expecting—had she hoped that she and Harriet would suddenly bond over chick flicks and popcorn? Paint their nails and make cocktails? Or maybe tear down the wallpaper like she’d hoped…but she hadn’t even been able to mention it.
Just because she was feeling optimistic, or trying to, didn’t mean her sister was—or even wanted to. And as for her dad…well, he didn’t seem to be all that thrilled she was back to stay, at least for a little while. It made Rachel wonder why she bothered, but then she reminded herself that she was trying to think differently now. And maybe eventually her dad and sister would think differently, too.
With a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her being, Rachel sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Today was a new day, and a Saturday, to boot. She didn’t have to work, and away from London she didn’t feel the pressure of logging a few more hours, answering a couple more emails, or doing some background research for a new investment possibility. She was away from the rat race, and like Danielle had advised, she intended to enjoy it…if she could.
She started by having a shower, telling herself not to mind that the house’s water pressure left something—or really, a lot—to be desired. Washed and dressed, she headed downstairs, only to find the house empty. Her father was no doubt out in the barn, and as for Harriet…
Well, she wasn’t here, either.
Rachel wandered around the kitchen, inspecting the watercolour of the Derwent Harriet must have bought, the bright red mixing bowl—these little signs that her sister had a life she knew nothing about it.I actually have a life,she’d thrown at her the other day,even if you think I don’t.
