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“All right,” she said. “I’ll put my bags in my room and then I’ll go see him.”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming, so I didn’t clean your room,” Harriet replied, an accusation.
“I can clean it myself,” Rachel told her, deciding not to remind her sister that she never cleaned her room for her arrival. The last time she’d come home, the sheets on her bed had smelled of mildew and there had been mouse droppings on thepillow. But it was fine; she could make her own bed.
“Fine,” Harriet gritted between her teeth. “You know where the sheets are?”
“I did live here for eighteen years,” Rachel replied as lightly as she could, “even if you like to act as if I never did.” And without waiting for a reply, she walked out of the kitchen.
The front stairs creaked under her footsteps as she climbed them to the first floor, standing for a moment in the square hallway at the top of the stairs, the four bedroom doors leading off it—her room, Harriet’s room, her parents’ room, the guest room. The air smelled faintly musty, as it always did; the same faded antique runner was on the stairs, the same pictures on the walls—a muddy oil painting of the moors, a black-and-white wedding photo of her grandparents. Not one thing about this place had changed since she’d left, she thought, which was what she always thought when she came back. Not one blessed thing.
How did her sister stand it? It was no wonder she was so irritable, Rachel supposed. Heaven knew she would be if she had to live here, but then she didn’t, and neither did Harriet, even if she liked to act as if she did, as if someone had hog-tied her to the house, for heaven’s sake. No one ever had, not remotely.
That was a point, one of many, on which they had never been able to see eye to eye, not that they’d ever truly battled it out. But Harriet had always blamed Rachel for leaving, even though she’d had the exact same opportunity. Yet no matter how much Rachel reminded herself of that salient fact, she still struggled with a vague sense of guilt about how it had all happened, and that irritated her as much as her sister’s attitude.
Well, never mind. She’d sort her dad out and scarper after three days. Harriet would probably be glad to see the back of her, and she’d return in a month or so, if she needed to. Harriet would insist that she didn’t, but then act aggrieved if she stayed away. Never mind. She could handle it. Rachel walked into her old bedroom, dumping her bag on the bed.
To say the room hadn’t been cleaned was something of an understatement. Boxes of old papers were stacked halfway to the ceiling, filling a good third of the room. The bed had been stripped of sheets, and it looked like a mouse had been nesting in the mattress. Tattered, faded lace curtains hung limply at the window, and a bookshelf of Rachel’s old schoolbooks was the only reminder that this had once been her bedroom.
A sigh escaped her in a long gust, and then she set to work. She’d tidy things up and then she’d go find her father.
It didn’t take too long to dust the room, clean the mattress—a mousehadnested in it, but was thankfully long gone—and make the bed. Rachel glanced at a paper lying on top of one of the boxes and saw it was from the bank, about a mortgage application.
Rachel frowned as she scanned the brief correspondence. There had never been a mortgage on this place; it had been in their family, free and clear, for hundreds of years. What mortgage? Something she’d have to ask Harriet about, although Rachel doubted her sister would know. She’d never bothered too much about financial matters; when they’d been children, she’d given their pocket money away with a sort of blithe carelessness while Rachel had hoarded her precious pound coins and fifty-pence coins, dumping them out of her piggy bank and counting them up like a happy miser.
Yet another way in which they’d always been different.
Still frowning, Rachel returned the paper to its box and headed downstairs. No reason to put off the happy reunion a second longer, she thought with a sigh. Because of course that was just how it was going to go.
Harriet had disappeared as Rachel came into the kitchen, which made things a little easier. She filled the kettle and plonked it on to the Rayburn, deciding a cuppa might help the conversation with her father go more smoothly. As she waited for it to boil, Rachel looked slowly around the kitchen with its usual clutter—muddy boots by the back door, a tottering pile of papers on the dresser. The complimentary calendar that they were sent every year from the local feed store was tacked up by the fridge.
The memory clinic appointment wasn’t even written on it, although several other dates were, in Harriet’s writing:4pm Delivery, Wainwright. 9am, The Old Bakery. What was that all about? Rachel wondered. As far as she knew, her sister didn’t have a proper job and never had. She’d done a few part-time things locally—worked in the aforementioned bakery, been a dog walker, helped out at a nursery. But they’d never been full-time and they’d never seemed to last, which was part of the reason why, Rachel supposed, her sister had never left home. She simply couldn’t afford it.
The kettle boiled and Rachel made two cups of tea—black for her, and strong but milky with two sugars for her dad. Then, taking a deep breath, she hefted the mugs and headed outside.
The Mowbray farm had always been something of a hodgepodge of interests—historically, they’d raised sheep and dairy cows along with chickens and vegetables for the family, but sometime in the last hundred years, Rachel couldn’t remember when, they’d had to sell off some of their acreage and they’d got rid of the sheep. In her lifetime, it had only been dairy cows, but as her father had got older, the pace of the farming life had become challenging—up at four a.m. for milking, arranging the local deliveries, never having a day off. Now there were only a couple dozen cows and he kept the deliveries local, hiring Ray, a grizzled, amicable guy in his forties, to drive the truck—at least that was how it had been three years ago.
But as she came into the barn, breathing in the strong, sweetish smell of cow that reminded her so much of her childhood, she realised things must have changed, because half the stalls were empty.
Her father was at the far end of the milking parlour, doing the second milking of the day. A few years ago, he’d finally modernised to a mechanised milking method; in her childhood, it had all been done by hand, taking hours. She watched him for a moment as he carefully cleaned the cow’s teats with iodine before attaching the suction cups. He looked exactly the same, she thought, as the last time she’d seen him—thick white hair, a bit mussed at the back, a craggy face and gnarled hands. He wore a holey fisherman knit jumper underneath his milking overalls, rubber boots and gloves that went up to his elbows.
“Hey, Dad,” she said quietly as she walked down the centre aisle, past cows patiently waiting for their turn, big, velvet eyes watching her progress. Her dad didn’t even turn his head, so Rachel wasn’t sure he’d heard her.
Then, gruffly, without looking at her: “What are you doing here?”
The exact same thing her sister had said. Rachel held in her sigh as she passed him a mug, which he took without a word.
“I thought I’d come visit.”
“You could have rung.”
“I suppose I could have.” She wasn’t going to be nettled, she told herself, before she found herself adding, “Thanks for the warm welcome.” So much for that.
Her father’s mouth tightened, and he took a sip of tea. He still hadn’t actuallylookedat her.
“Usually someone says when they’re coming, that’s all.”
“Yes, well, I’m sorry I didn’t.” Now the sigh escaped her. “I came because Ben Mackey rang me, actually. He says there’s an appointment you need to go to tomorrow, and I thought I might take you to it.”
