surprisingly empty too. He was very contained, with a rare stillness. He made no unnecessary movements, had been terse to the point of rudeness throughout supper. And yet his presence still filled the room.
What could have happened to cause such a rift between him and his family? Was it just the garage, or had a teenage wedding that had evidently fallen apart faster than the ink had dried on the marriage certificate been the real cause of family friction?
And what about his daughter who, now that her father had left the room, had slumped down in her chair, all that chippy bravado gone.
It was obvious that she craved his attention. She might take every chance to wound her father, but when he wasn’t looking her eyes followed him with a kind of desperation.
‘Can I suggest something?’
The only response was a shrug of those narrow shoulders, making her look more like a sulky six-year-old than sixteen.
‘Write a note to Mrs Warburton.’
She was instantly back on the defensive. ‘I’m not sorry for taking the car.’
‘Maybe not, but you’re old enough to know that you must have given her a very nasty fright.’ She waited a moment but, getting no response, said, ‘Why did you do it?’
‘Because I could?’ she offered, giving her the same barbed I-don’t-care-what-you-think-of-me stare that she used to hurt her father and she felt a pang of tenderness for the girl.
‘If you wanted to come home to see your father I’m sure she would have understood.’
‘I didn’t! It’s got nothing to do with him!’ She glared at her. ‘I’ll write when I’m ready, okay? If I’d known you were going to nag I wouldn’t have asked you to stay.’
‘You’re right,’ she said, standing up, gathering the dishes. ‘I’ve abused your hospitality.’ Then, ‘Time to wash up, I think.’
‘Oh, right. Wash the dishes? Write a letter?’ Xandra held out her hands as if balancing the choice. ‘Very subtle.’
‘The two have a lot in common. They both need doing and neither gets easier for leaving. And I’ll bet I’m an amateur in the nagging stakes compared with your gran. As for your father…’
‘If he cared what I did he’d be here instead of sending me off to school so that he could live on a beach,’ she declared sullenly. ‘He might be able to fix it so that they’ll take me back, but I won’t stay so he might as well save his money.’
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Maybridge High School. It was good enough for him. I’ll stay here with Gran. She’ll need help,’ she said. Then, leaping from her chair, she grabbed the bag that George had dropped. ‘I’ll take this upstairs.’
‘Where are you rushing off to?’ her grandmother asked as she rushed past her.
‘I’m taking Annie’s bag up to her room.’
‘I’ve made up the front right bedroom,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to make your own bed.’ Then, giving her a quick hug, ‘Your granddad will be all right.’
‘Of course he will,’ she said tightly. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘Sleep tight.’
She turned to Annie with a shake of her head. ‘I suppose this is about her mother getting married again. The woman doesn’t have a thought in her head for anyone but herself.’
‘I’d have said it was more to do with her father. She did know he was coming home?’
‘I told her when I rang to let her know that her granddad was in hospital. George has always tried to do his best for Xandra, a fact that her mother has used to her own advantage, but it’s never been easy and, since she hit her teens…’
‘It’s a difficult time.’
‘And they are so alike. George has probably told you that he and his father had a difficult relationship. It’s like watching history repeat itself.’
‘I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble when you’ve already got so much on your plate,’ she said, taking the food from the warming oven and placing it on the table.
‘What trouble?’ she said with a smile. Then, looking at the food, ‘Actually, I think I’ll pass on that, if you don’t mind. I had a sandwich earlier and there’s something about a hospital that seems to take away the appetite.’
‘How is your husband?’
‘Like most men, he’s his own worst enemy, but he got treatment very fast. The doctor said he’s been lucky and if he behaves himself he’ll be home in a day or two.’
‘And then your problems will really begin.’ They exchanged a knowing look. Her grandfather had never been seriously ill but he could make a simple cold seem like double pneumonia. ‘Could I make you a cup of tea, Mrs Saxon?’
‘Hetty, please.’ Then, ‘Actually, what I really need is a bath and my bed. You must be tired too.’ She patted her arm. ‘ Your room is on the right at the top of the stairs. It’s not fancy, but it’s comfortable and it has its own bathroom. There’s plenty of hot water. Just make yourself at home, dear.’
People kept saying that to her, Annie thought, as Hetty, clearly exhausted by long hours at the hospital, took herself off to bed.
She smiled to herself as she got stuck into the dishes. This wasn’t anything like being at home, but that was good. Just what she wanted, in fact. And she was happy to help, to be able to repay in some small way this unlooked for, unexpected kindness, hospitality.
And she could think while she was working.
The loss of Lydia’s car had thrown her simple non-plan off the rails and now she needed a new one.
A new plan, a replacement car and a haircut, she decided, pushing her hair back from her face.
She should make a list, she thought, twitching her nose to keep the glasses in place.
Or maybe not.
Her life had been run by her diary secretary for years. A list of monthly, weekly, daily engagements had appeared on her desk, each month, week, morning without fail.
Everything organised down to the last minute. Even her escape had been meticulously planned. The how. The where. The when.
She’d still been doing things by the book until the wheels had come off. Literally.
At the time it had seemed like a disaster. Now it seemed like anything but. Hadn’t kicking back, taking whatever life threw at her, been the whole point of this break from reality? Cooking and washing up hadn’t figured on any list of things to do, but it certainly came under the heading of ‘different’.
George hadn’t reappeared by the time she’d finished, put the dishes away, wiped everything down, so, remembering his aversion to instant coffee, she made a pot of tea and then ventured into the main part of the house to find him.
The front hall had that shabby, comfortable look that old houses, occupied by the same family over generations, seemed to acquire. It was large, square, the polished floor covered by an old Turkish rug. There was a scarred oak table along one wall, piled with mail that had been picked up from the mat and left in a heap. Above it hung a painting of an open-topped vintage car, bonnet strapped down, numbered for a race, a leather-helmeted driver at the wheel.
A small brass plate on the frame read: ‘George Saxon, 1928’. It was full of life, energy, glamour and she could see how it might have caught the imagination of a teenage girl in much the same way as photographs of her mother working at a clinic in an African village had inspired her to follow in her footsteps.
Despite George’s misgivings, she hoped Xandra was more successful in achieving her dreams.
The living room door stood ajar but George wasn’t there. The next door opened to reveal the dining room and, after tapping lightly on the remaining door, she opened it.
The study was a man’s room. Dark colours, leather furniture.
There was an open Partner’s desk against one wall, but George was sitting in a large leather wing chair pulled up to the fireplace, head resting against one of the wings, long legs propped on a highly polished brass fender, cellphone held loosely in his hand, eyes closed.
Fast asleep.
‘George?’ she murmured.
