Читать книгу Christmas at Butterfly Cove - Sarah Bennett - Страница 9

It had taken all her powers of persuasion, but Nee had eventually convinced Mia and Kiki she was the best person to travel home to help their dad. She’d made sure not to give any hint leaving Butterfly Cove was anything more than a temporary arrangement. A bit of space away from everyone would hopefully give her time to think, and to come up with a plan for what she would do now her art was lost to her.

She had other reasons too. So many things had moved on whilst she was away, and running to catch up was exhausting. Her sisters had reached a compromise with their father over the past and were moving forwards. Nee had watched him at the wedding, especially with the little ones, and hadn’t been able to stifle a bite of jealousy when he’d balanced a laughing Charlie on his feet and danced around the marquee with her. She rolled her shoulders to shrug off the unwelcome reminder. Nee had never been a jealous person, never doubted her own worth and importance to the people in her life who mattered, until …

The announcer called her station and she watched the people around her stand and sway their way between the seats towards the door. She remained seated. Her suitcase perched in the rack by the corridor door, hemmed in on all sides. What was it that made people so desperate to be first off? She’d never been on a train where people didn’t start queueing five minutes before arrival. Nor on a flight where someone didn’t pop their seatbelt open before the indicator light turned out. Once that first click sounded, a wave of others invariably rippled around the cabin. As if once one person had disobeyed the rules, it made it all right for them too. You could always spot the Brits in those situations by their guilty glances, as though they expected to be told off.

The platform came into view through the window beside her and Nee watched the people crammed by the door and counted silently in her head, three, two, one … The train jerked to a halt as the driver applied the brake, sending one unprepared passenger staggering into the person in front of him. A domino ripple of bumps, pushes and glares followed. She shook her head. Every time. As soon as the crowd thinned, she slipped from her seat to join the back of the group, pausing to haul her case down from the rack as she passed it.

A tall, dapper figure waited for her on the platform, and she couldn’t help the small smile on her lips. Rain or shine, George Thorpe would be dressed in his usual uniform of pressed trousers, smart shirt and a jacket or buttoned-up cardigan. Today, he’d added a black woollen coat and a dark, felt trilby hat. He moved towards her, then stopped, an uncertain expression on his face. He removed his hat, turning the brim in his hand in a nervous gesture. ‘Hello, Eirênê, how was your journey?’

She popped up the handle on her rolling suitcase and closed the gap between them. ‘Fine, thanks.’ They did an awkward little dance when he tried to take the case from her, and she hung on to it. ‘Leave it, I can manage.’

George shrugged awkwardly. ‘The car’s not far.’ He settled his hat upon his head, checking the brim was straight. No jaunty angles allowed.

The silly thought made her smile, and she made sure he saw it as she gestured in front of her. ‘Lead on, MacDuff.’ He started a little at her words, and she frowned. It was one of those things she’d always said, picked up unconsciously from somewhere long ago. A memory tickled the back of her mind, of a smiling, happier-looking George lining his three daughters up in a row. Nee could feel herself bursting with pride at being put at the front of the line. ‘Lead on, Macduff!’ George had ordered, and they’d marched down the front path. Where they’d been going was lost to her now, but the long-discarded memory reminded her things hadn’t always been doom and gloom.

Traffic was light, and they made quick progress through the town, the dark saloon purring through the streets. Gentle strains of classical music drifted from the speakers, negating the need for either of them to make much small talk. There was no denying the air of tension between them, though. Nee swallowed a sigh. Between her father’s natural reticence and her own resentment towards him, the next few days were likely to be a struggle. One of them would have to make the first move, and somehow, she couldn’t imagine it would be him. Time to break the ice.

‘Matty’s settling in well at school. Still a bit shy, Kiki says, but he’s coming out of his shell nicely. There’s even talk about him joining the local cubs. They’ve got a taster session coming up. The teashop opened last weekend, did you hear?’

George drew to a halt at a set of lights and half-turned in his seat. ‘That was quick.’

She nodded. ‘The conversion works didn’t take long, and we all pitched in with the decorating.’ She might not be able to find the inspiration to create something of her own, but she’d wielded a brush and roller easily enough. They’d found some pretty stencils at the local DIY store, and Nee had added bright, summer flowers and a spray of butterflies to one crisp, white wall. It was the closest she was likely to come to having anything of hers on display.

Breaking away from those thoughts before she slipped into another spiral of melancholy, she continued the conversation, although George had turned his attention back to the road. ‘If the weather picks up next week, they might entice a few half-term visitors looking for a bite to eat. Mia’s guests are going to be directed there and there’s enough people using the studios to make it worth their while being open.’

‘Ah. That makes sense, I suppose. I’ve rather lost track of dates now I’m not working.’ His voice sounded a little wistful. George had left the job he loved at the local university, making way for Kiki’s ex-husband to succeed him, in exchange for his agreement to a trouble-free divorce. It had been a remarkable sacrifice for a man who’d attached his entire self-worth and image to his career. His passion for ancient Greece and its history had trumped everything, including the needs of his wife and daughters.

‘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 whilst 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 skillset, 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 that 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 his study, leaving the three of them to watch television and try to play board games without someone there to teach them the rules.

It was only as she grew older that Nee became aware of the extent of her mother’s drinking, and the excitement of opening presents was overtaken by waiting with trepidation for the first morning sherry to be poured. She’d begun to rebel against it at twelve, becoming the catalyst which would shatter the pretence. At fifteen, she’d refused flat-out to participate, not knowing it would turn out to be the last Christmas they would all be under the same roof. A year later, Kiki and Mia were both married and making their own homes, leaving Nee caught in the spiralling tragedy of her parents’ unhappiness.

Angry. She’d been so angry with them both for as long as she could remember. Looking at George now, a grey shadow of his former self, face lined with the pain of all those years, she let it go. However bad things had been for her, how much worse must it have been for him, for him and Vivian both, to have spent thirty years tied to someone you loved, but couldn’t make happy.

She hoped this year he would find some peace, and spending time at Butterfly Cove with everyone might be just the thing to bring it to him. Just a shame she wouldn’t be there to witness it. She shook her head. Now was not the time to think about it, because then she’d start thinking about the reason why she wouldn’t be there, why she couldn’t be there. Luke. ‘Come on, Dad, let’s eat.’

Feeling stronger after the hearty stew and a decent night’s sleep, Nee decided to seize the bull by the horns and visit her mother after breakfast the next morning. George had offered to accompany her, but she couldn’t be sure of her reaction and didn’t want to risk the fragile peace they’d begun to build. She’d left him with a cup of tea in his study to continue working on the stories for Matty.

Although her father had tried to prepare her for the changes in Vivian, her first sight of the birdlike figure lost in the harsh whiteness of the bed stole Nee’s breath. Strands of wispy, almost-colourless hair straggled around her mother’s face. The knotted hanks were so far from the gleaming coiffure of her memories that she knew little of the woman she’d known remained. Making her way quietly into the room, Nee noted the potted plants and bright accessories scattered around, and felt a quiet appreciation for the owners of the home for trying to minimise the institutional feel of the place.

The bed, though, was like those found in every kind of hospital. They’d positioned it where Vivian could look out of the window to the gardens below, although whether she had any awareness of the view remained to be seen. Memories flooded her mind of all the times she’d seen her mother supine on the couch beneath the window of her bedroom at home. The picture of delicate, ethereal beauty, almost professionally weak and wan. Helplessness had always been Vivian’s stock-in-trade – a damsel in distress, unable to cope with the pressures of life. That façade had fooled many, but not Nee. She remembered too clearly the cynical glitter in her mother’s eye as she twisted poor Kiki round her little finger.

A ghost of the anger she’d nurtured for so long against her parents began to stir in her stomach. If either one of them had faced up to the basic realities of life, then it wouldn’t have been left to Mia to try and raise a baby sister when she’d been little more than a child herself. Kiki, too, had done her best for Nee, offering every ounce of love in that big heart of hers to ensure she never lacked for affection. She clasped a hand over her stomach to try and settle the beast stirring within. Sometimes it felt like she’d been angry for ever.

The tempest of emotions had served her well in the past, bringing a fire and passion to her earliest artwork that caught the attention of teachers and, later, college tutors. Feed the fire, they’d urged her, so she’d tapped the well and poured it forth into every line drawn, every handful of clay moulded. She developed a reputation for dark, brooding pieces and the juxtaposition with her sweet, elfin appearance had intrigued more than one patron. Whispers had rippled through the art world of a bold, bright new star-in-the-making and she’d been encouraged to dream big.

Her dreams had crystallised into the ultimate goal for a young sculptor – a chance to study under the tutelage of Devin Rees, the mercurial, undisputed master of their medium. Even applying for a place at the Reinhold Institute had seemed like the ultimate act of hubris, and when her submission had gone unanswered for months, Nee had shrugged it off. London was more than good enough for her, and she’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into the trendy art scene, determined to make her mark. She’d found a group of like-minded souls, and had been out celebrating a friend getting signed by an agent when a fallen angel with the devil’s smile walked into her life.

She hadn’t known it was possible to be so happy. Luke filled every dark and lonely place inside her with a passion so raw, so intense, it consumed her every waking moment. Finding out how much she’d missed out on as a child, he’d made it his mission to spoil her. A trip on the London Eye, a magical sunset safari tour at the zoo, where they’d ridden the kiddies’ train and eaten huge whippy ice-cream cones, lying back in the Planetarium as they travelled through space and time. So many cherished memories crammed into a couple of magical months.

He’d taken her to his favourite place – the beautiful garden created in the magnificent ruins of St Dunstan’s in the East – and when he’d dropped to one knee in the shadowed corner beneath an elegant stone arch wrapped in vines, the only word on her lips had been yes. Drunk on champagne, love and the euphoria of becoming Mrs Luke Spenser, she’d believed herself satisfied with the path her life had taken.

Then the email with a plane ticket and an eight-hour deadline had arrived.