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‘It’s your house?’
I shook my head. ‘My dad’s.’
‘And I can go there?’
‘I’m not saying you can move in. But you look like you could do with a break. Somewhere private.’
She nodded.
‘There’s a big rusting sculpture of a harp on the front lawn. It’s called Trevethan House.’
‘Trevethan.’
‘And I don’t think I need to say this, but it’s our secret, okay?’
She nodded and walked off, not looking back. I wagered with myself that all she was seeing was an image in her head that I had planted, of an old brass key.
68
NOW
We jog to the grain store and no one says a word as Mina and Tristan get into his Jaguar and I get into my Mini. I guess they don’t want me in with them either. Does Tristan think I’m his enemy?
There’s no way Tristan is involved in this. His own children have been taken now. How could I have thought such a thing?
I push down thoughts about the necklace Mina swears was a ruby. My hands are shaking and I flip open the mirror and stare at myself.
Now is the time for positivity and strength.
I hold my own gaze.
I am strong. I am brave.
My nostrils flare and a tear escapes.
I’m a useless mother. I’m a self-harming mess who’s been lying to herself for thirty years. I’ve never stood up for anyone or anything my whole life.
But there’s no point in going into anything already feeling defeated. I mustn’t fail Jenna now.
We set off down the drive, birds rushing into the sky above the field across from our gates. The crunch of the gravel seems too loud, the morning light too bright. Mina turns round and I can see her dark eyes staring at me, round and uncertain.
She’s been awful to me. But that’s how you survive in Shorthorn Lodge. I’ve ignored my own daughter, celebrated Ava and Ash, because that’s what’s expected of me. You’re awful to my mother and me and Jenna, or you’re out; my father would make life here untenable.
Even Tristan is awful to me, I realise – snide comments, jokes that cut too close to the bone. Only under our father’s watchful eye, which somehow has made me excuse it – play along.
I feel queasy, remembering the time my mother forgot to book our rainwater tank cleaning and he made her clean it herself, which might seem fair enough to some, but then there’s the fact he didn’t let her wait for it to empty before telling her to climb in.
How many examples like that, Frances?
Suddenly I see myself sitting in a courtroom, unable to look at an imaginary jury of disapproving faces.
Isn’t it true, Frances, that your father has always treated your mother like that? You laugh when she falls into one of his traps because if you admitted what he was, you’d have to do something about it, and risk losing your fancy home and?—
No, no it’s not like that.
No? What about the time he caused her to fall from a ladder, and the nurse asked you?—
But it hasn’t been that bad for years. He’s much better.
