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I turn back to the steps, ready for my second trip of the day to my daughter’s school. My school. The school my family has attended for as many generations as we’ve lived at Shorthorn Lodge.
Back in the car, I try to call Jenna again. No answer.
I feel sick as I drive up the hill, my smile slipping. I don’t even honk in local tradition when I go past Betsy, the Port Emblyn mascot, a bronze statue of a Cornish Shorthorn cow – the breed our farm is named after.
The sun bounces off her back and I try to take some cheer from her, but I can’t find her funny. She’s whimsical and frivolous and she has no place in this moment.
As I wait at a crossroads, I call Jenna again. No answer.
Again. No answer.
Again. No answer.
Rose. No answer.
But Jenna does have other friends. I find Dinae and Devon’s mother’s number and try that. No answer. Although they’re boarders and their parents live near Newquay. So I try Dinae’s number instead. No answer.
There’s a break in the traffic and I pull over the crossing.
Dinae and Devon, now they’re a pair. They could give Ash and Ava a run for their money. Proper little royals.
A while ago – can it be two years? – Rose and Jenna had gone for a long weekend at theirs. Dan had driven them.
When was the last time I saw them?
Sylvie – she must have been round recently. She lives near Morvoren Bluffs. They used to lock themselves in Jenna’s room for hours, rehearsing songs they wrote and then performing them for the others. Her parents are lovely.
I almost drive into a hedge trying to call Rose again. I drop the phone.
Calm down, Frances. It’s no good if you kill yourself and Jenna turns up at home.
But how long till I call the police? Sarah said I needed to speak to everyone Jenna knows – friends and family. Because she’s most likely doing something completely normal that she forgot to tell me about. Or even intentionally didn’t tell me because she’s annoyed – about what? The hem of that silly dress?
There’s almost certainly a reasonable explanation.
So why do I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff looking down?
Because of Georgia Smith. Because of how she smiled at my baby.
12
NOW
Parents are meant to park round the side of the school, but I drive past the fountain and pull up, blocking the main steps. I grip the wheel, stare in the mirror and take ten slow breaths.
Chill.
Out.
Manifest.
I’ve always loved the vines growing up the old stone walls and the sounds of this place: children’s voices, birdsong, gushing water, the thock of balls on tennis rackets. I love the slick, efficient, laser-focused teachers. I love seeing the name at the top of best schools lists.
Though maybe what I love most is the photo of me and my brother in the trophy cupboard, holding up a gold cup for mixed doubles in a nationwide tennis tournament, my whites glowing, my legs as long and lithe as a gazelle’s.
When I was a student here, I was queen.
My father continues a Beaufort-Bradley tradition, donating a hefty sum every year. I’m on the PTA; I volunteer at every fete, dance, show, market; I’ve linked the school to the Riot Gallery and the children show their work at the Port Emblyn Art Festival.
