‘How are you coping with retirement, Dad?’ she asked as he turned into the driveway and parked before the smartly painted garage door. He didn’t immediately answer, choosing instead to exit the car. Nee sighed and followed him out. Perhaps she should have stuck to less difficult topics.
Waiting while her dad retrieved her case from the boot, she studied the familiar red-brick edifice of her childhood home. Ruthlessly weeded borders sat beneath the front windows, and there was not a hint of moss on the path dividing the tightly clipped lawn. With its neat net curtains and tidy paintwork, it presented a perfect façade to the outside world. How many other houses in this quiet street hid the kind of dark secrets that lay behind the innocuous-looking front door? Letting George manage the burden of her luggage this time, she squared her shoulders and followed him inside.
Braced for the floral-sweet scent of her mother’s perfume, and an onslaught of memories, Nee smelled only lemon furniture polish and the rich gravy of some kind of stew. It was as though the house had already shed Vivian’s presence. ‘You made dinner?’ George had never been one for that.
He placed her case at the foot of the stairs, then hung his hat and coat on one of the hooks by the door. ‘I asked Wendy to make something nice for you. I thought you might be hungry.’ He raised a finger to her cheek, stopping just short of touching her skin. ‘You look tired, my dear.’
The unexpected tenderness of his tone and the concern shining in those dark-brown eyes that matched her own broke through the wall she’d tried so hard to maintain. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. ‘I’m tired, Daddy. So bloody tired.’
‘Come here.’ George opened his arms and she stumbled into them, breathing in the familiar scent of his soap as she started to cry in earnest. It was like a dam had broken within her, and all the tension of the past few weeks came pouring out. Her throat hurt with the force of the ugly sobs racking her body.
Her father’s hands settled on her back, patting her with the tentative gestures of a man unused to offering such comforts. Her heart gave a funny little flip. He was trying so hard to do right by them all. She hiccupped a few breaths, forcing herself to regain a bit of control. The wool of his cardigan clung damply to her cheek. Poor George – she was making a terrible mess of it. Easing back, she raised her arm to scrub her face.
‘Use this.’ George offered her a perfectly folded handkerchief.
Her breath hitched in a little laugh and she mopped at her face. ‘Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m supposed to be here to help you.’
He rubbed the top of her arm. ‘Maybe I can do something to help you a little bit too. God knows, it’s past time I acted like a father should.’ She nodded, fearing any attempt to speak would set her tears off again. He checked his watch. ‘It’s still early. Why don’t you go and lie down for an hour and then we can see about dinner?’
‘Okay.’ Nee reached for her bag, but he shook his head.
‘Leave it. I’ll put it outside your door in a minute.’
Obeying meekly wasn’t a feature of Nee’s skill set, but she didn’t have the energy to protest that she could manage for herself. Right now, she wasn’t sure that was entirely true. Letting George fuss over her wouldn’t do any harm, might give him something else to focus on. And it spoke to a quiet, yearning part of her heart she hadn’t realised existed, having grown up convincing herself she didn’t need to lean on anyone.
She started to climb the stairs, stopping before her foot touched the first tread when she realised she still had her outdoor shoes on. Some things were too deeply ingrained, it seemed. Toeing off her shoes, she tucked them beneath the coat pegs then padded upstairs in her socks. Exhaustion dogged her heels and by the time she reached her old bedroom, she could do little more than shed her jeans before crawling under the floral quilt.
Heavy-eyed, she stared at the old band posters scattered between paintings of trees, animals and birds she’d applied directly to the pale-yellow paintwork. It was exactly as she’d left it six years previously, ready to take on the world and make her mark. Only things hadn’t worked out quite how she’d planned. The world had left her scarred and scared, whilst she’d made barely a ripple.
She closed her eyes against the prickle of fresh tears. Twenty-four was too damn young to feel this old.
Whether the emotional overload had got to her, or it was just the sheer comfort of lying in a bed her body knew every inch of, Nee slept like the dead. Dark shadows had crept into the corners of her room, and when she checked her watch, more than two hours had passed. Feeling groggy, but much calmer for the rest, she donned her jeans, retrieved her case from the hallway and swapped her wrinkled top for a clean one. A quick splash of water on her face and cleaning her teeth chased any lingering drowsiness away. The smell of dinner drifted up the stairs, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
The door to her father’s study stood wide. Well, that’s something that’s changed in this house, at least. George’s study had always been a private sanctorum, not to be entered by little girls with grubby fingers who might cause chaos in a space dedicated to order. Feeling every inch that little girl, Nee made sure her toes didn’t cross the brass door plate which divided the pale-green hallway carpet from the navy of the study.
George bent over a large, leather-bound notebook, filling the lines with his neat script. Several textbooks lay open across the dark wood of his desk, each secured with a paperweight. The faint strains of Radio 4 drifted from a digital radio on the bookcase behind him. He glanced up in surprise at her light tap on the doorframe. ‘Oh, hello, Eirênê, I didn’t hear you come down. Feeling any better?’
She nodded. ‘Much, but you shouldn’t have left me so long. Aren’t you hungry?’
Capping his fountain pen, George glanced at the small carriage clock on the corner of his desk. ‘I didn’t realise the time. Got caught up in…’ He cast an embarrassed wave over the papers in front of him and she couldn’t help but smile. He was never not going to get caught up in his books.
She braced a hand on the doorframe and leaned forwards, trying to read the titles on a small stack of books. ‘What are you working on?’
He sat back in his chair. ‘You can come in, you know.’
‘Old habits,’ she said, taking a couple of steps inside.
‘You were always my little rule-breaker on everything but that.’ A shadow crossed his face, but he forced a smile. ‘To answer your question, I decided to try and write a children’s version of some of my favourite Greek legends. The book I found for Matthew about the origins of the constellations was a bit dry for a seven-year-old. I’m hoping to have some new stories ready for my visit at Christmas.’
Her stomach twisted at the happy expectation in his tone. Christmas had been a tightrope of hope and disappointment growing up. One of the few times their mother roused herself from her room and re-engaged with the family. Embracing the chance to be the perfect hostess, Vivian threw herself into the performance, decorating the house, planning meals and buying gifts. Nee and her sisters would receive new dresses to be worn, and for the next twelve months the mantelpiece would carry the image of a family which didn’t exist for the rest of the year.
She could still feel the flutter of excitement, the shake in her hands as she forced herself to carefully unwrap the beautiful stack of presents under the tree, trying to do everything just right to keep Vivian happy. There would always be something, though. A little hiccup, an insignificant incident most people wouldn’t think twice about. But Vivian would dwell upon it, pick it over until it overshadowed everything else. She would inevitably retire to bed, and their father would disappear into