awful. The people at Waitrose called the police in, but it was quite a while before they could identify him. Because he was supposed to be with Sophie all day, no one reported him missing and he was officially in care for about five hours, until Sophie didn’t pick the other boys up from school and the school rang Will. It took three days for them to find her. We were all out looking for her.”
It was strange to hear them recount it like this, in calm, dispassionate voices, as though there hadn’t been screaming and tears at the time.
“And where had she gone?” said Matt.
“She’d taken herself off to a hotel and locked herself in the room,” said Rowan. “They had to break the door down. We all thought she’d done the worst.”
“By then we were so relieved she was safe that we didn’t have the heart to be angry with her,” said Will.
“Not that anger was the appropriate response,” said Rowan. “She was
ill
. The police were very sympathetic, in the end, after Lydia had spoken to them.”
“Will, mate,” said Matt. “What a nightmare.”
“It was, yeah,” said Will. “I blame myself for a lot of it. I should have noticed sooner, shouldn’t I? And then later on, I didn’t handle it well either, I . . .” Sophie drew a serrated in-breath. He’s going to tell them about how he “handled” my breakdown, and because of what they have just seen, they won’t even blame him. For her family to know about his infidelity would make the humiliation complete. This, then, was to be her punishment for eavesdropping. She felt her lungs begin to strain and heard Will’s own deep inhalation before he said, “It’s just . . . it’s just grief, isn’t it?” Sophie finally let out her breath; she had been holding it for so long she was panting. “You’re all going through it.
We’re
all going through it.”
There was no response, just the noise of mugs being picked up and set down, the ting of teaspoons on crockery, the scraping of chair feet, the gentle constant of Edie’s high-pitched babble.
“But she seems so on top of things,” said Tara eventually. “I mean, she organized this whole weekend, for a start.”
And Will said, “Well, that’s Sophie, isn’t it? The more ill she gets, the more highly she functions, until one day she just . . .
doesn’t
anymore.”
“Will, I know she’s my daughter, but you can always talk to me, man to man,” said Rowan. Will made no reply. Someone drummed their fingers. Now the house itself seemed to hold its breath.
Matt cleared his throat and steered the conversation toward the familiar and unthreatening. “Well, supper isn’t going to cook itself, is it? Come on, Will, let’s see what you’re made of.”
“Let battle commence!” said Will, in the voice he used when he wanted to make light of something dark. Sophie wondered if he had any of the rest of them fooled.
8
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 2013
M ORNING MADE A million-dollar necklace of the spiderweb that spanned the kitchen window. A heavy white mist had settled in the valley overnight, and the cold sun struggled to cast a milky, opaque light. Only the nearest parts of the garden were visible: the sooty patch of land where the bonfire had been and the gouged earth of the trenches.
Leo and Charlie had an uneven wrestling match under the coffee table. Toby had reached the chapter about the twentieth century in his book of maritime disasters. “Ask me
anything
about the
Titanic
,” he said to anyone whose glance crossed his.
Tara was in the sitting room wearing a Slanket and nursing a mild hangover. By the kettle, Jake heaped a cup of tea with sugar. Sophie caught his eye and he flushed, caught red-handed in the shameful act of caring for his mum.
“Just as well we had the bonfire yesterday,” observed Rowan. “We’d have had the devil to fight to get the wood to burn on a day like today.” He went around closing the windows as he always did when the air was thick.
Sophie
It was strange to hear them recount it like this, in calm, dispassionate voices, as though there hadn’t been screaming and tears at the time.
“And where had she gone?” said Matt.
“She’d taken herself off to a hotel and locked herself in the room,” said Rowan. “They had to break the door down. We all thought she’d done the worst.”
“By then we were so relieved she was safe that we didn’t have the heart to be angry with her,” said Will.
“Not that anger was the appropriate response,” said Rowan. “She was
ill
. The police were very sympathetic, in the end, after Lydia had spoken to them.”
“Will, mate,” said Matt. “What a nightmare.”
“It was, yeah,” said Will. “I blame myself for a lot of it. I should have noticed sooner, shouldn’t I? And then later on, I didn’t handle it well either, I . . .” Sophie drew a serrated in-breath. He’s going to tell them about how he “handled” my breakdown, and because of what they have just seen, they won’t even blame him. For her family to know about his infidelity would make the humiliation complete. This, then, was to be her punishment for eavesdropping. She felt her lungs begin to strain and heard Will’s own deep inhalation before he said, “It’s just . . . it’s just grief, isn’t it?” Sophie finally let out her breath; she had been holding it for so long she was panting. “You’re all going through it.
We’re
all going through it.”
There was no response, just the noise of mugs being picked up and set down, the ting of teaspoons on crockery, the scraping of chair feet, the gentle constant of Edie’s high-pitched babble.
“But she seems so on top of things,” said Tara eventually. “I mean, she organized this whole weekend, for a start.”
And Will said, “Well, that’s Sophie, isn’t it? The more ill she gets, the more highly she functions, until one day she just . . .
doesn’t
anymore.”
“Will, I know she’s my daughter, but you can always talk to me, man to man,” said Rowan. Will made no reply. Someone drummed their fingers. Now the house itself seemed to hold its breath.
Matt cleared his throat and steered the conversation toward the familiar and unthreatening. “Well, supper isn’t going to cook itself, is it? Come on, Will, let’s see what you’re made of.”
“Let battle commence!” said Will, in the voice he used when he wanted to make light of something dark. Sophie wondered if he had any of the rest of them fooled.
8
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 2013
M ORNING MADE A million-dollar necklace of the spiderweb that spanned the kitchen window. A heavy white mist had settled in the valley overnight, and the cold sun struggled to cast a milky, opaque light. Only the nearest parts of the garden were visible: the sooty patch of land where the bonfire had been and the gouged earth of the trenches.
Leo and Charlie had an uneven wrestling match under the coffee table. Toby had reached the chapter about the twentieth century in his book of maritime disasters. “Ask me
anything
about the
Titanic
,” he said to anyone whose glance crossed his.
Tara was in the sitting room wearing a Slanket and nursing a mild hangover. By the kettle, Jake heaped a cup of tea with sugar. Sophie caught his eye and he flushed, caught red-handed in the shameful act of caring for his mum.
“Just as well we had the bonfire yesterday,” observed Rowan. “We’d have had the devil to fight to get the wood to burn on a day like today.” He went around closing the windows as he always did when the air was thick.
Sophie
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