After staring out for some time, I pull the curtains across the window. ‘Was there something specific that drew you back here, Dad?’ I turn to see him perched on the edge of the sofa, tears in his eyes.
‘Only Lark,’ he says, rubbing his face with his hands. And talking through his fingers, adds, ‘I hoped to find Lark.’
I race to his side, drop down next to him, and wrap my arms around him. ‘Oh, Dad.’
‘Where is she, Amelia?’ His tears turn to sobs, and I’m struggling. Yes, I’ve seen him cry – when Lark went missing, and after Mum’s funeral, but it never gets easier seeing your father cry. ‘Where’s my little girl?’
‘I wish I knew.’ I’m crying too, fat tears streaming down my face – not only for his little girl, but for mine too. We’re a mess – a tragic bloody mess.
We finally release each other, and he dries his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Do you still think he took her?’
‘Jackson?’
He nods. ‘What did your mum really know about him? What did any of us know about him?’
It’s true. Mum had known very little. He told her his parents had recently died, and it was only by accident she’d found out they’d been travellers. When he disappeared, she never spoke about him again.
I lean my head on Dad’s shoulder, my eyes growing heavy, and before long the journey catches up with us both, and we drift off to sleep.
*
Someone is knocking at the door. My eyes spring open, and I glance at my watch. It’s almost seven.
‘Dad,’ I say, pulling myself upright, and he stirs. The hammering grows louder. ‘It’s probably Maddie needing help getting Thomas over to the conservatory for dinner.’
I jump up and hurry to open the door. Maddie stubs out a cigarette on the porch, and dashes past me, bringing a flurry of snow and the smell of tobacco with her. She’s togged up against the weather in a furry deerstalker hat and a navy ski suit that I can’t believe she’s had the sense to bring with her.
‘Hey, Robert, are you ready to eat?’ She aims her question at Dad, acts as though I’m not here. ‘I think you’ll need to carry Thomas. We’ll never get his wheelchair through all this white stuff.’
‘Yes, yes of course. I’ll carry him,’ Dad says, his earlier sadness masked with a smile.
‘It’s a good thing you’re strong, Robert,’ she says.
Dad rises and flexes his muscles, and she laughs. He likes her. Mum did too. ‘She makes Thomas happy,’ Mum would say, when I tried to suggest Maddie shouldn’t vlog about us; that I didn’t want a breakdown of our lives online for everyone to hear about.
‘Are you ready, love?’ Dad says to me.
I move across the room to the mirror above the wood burner and comb my fingers through my hair, catching a tangle and yelping. I look a right state, but I don’t care.
‘Yep,’ I say, pulling on my padded jacket, and bending to pull on my fur-lined boots.
We trudge through the snow, and, as promised, Dad carries Thomas. Maddie walks along beside them. I dawdle behind, kicking snow like a sulky child.
Ruth is by the conservatory door, patting warmth into her arms. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail, looks greyer than it did this time last year, though I’m sure she’s wearing the same button-through knee-length dress and cardigan.
‘He looks heavy,’ she says, with a smile, as Dad carries Thomas through the door and lowers him down gently onto a chair. Maddie and I file in behind them.
‘Cheers, Dad,’ Thomas says, looking dishevelled, and I wonder if he’s in any pain. He shuffles free of his jacket. ‘Although for the record, next time I’ll get a taxi.’
Dad laughs as he takes his jacket from him and hangs it up.
Once we’re free of our coats the rest of us sit down. The smell of dinner cooking tingles my taste buds, and I realise I’m hungry. But as I sit, surrounded by empty chairs where Mum, Lark, and Jackson sat one short year ago, a painful lump rises in my throat, and I lose my appetite.
Ruth approaches with her notebook and pen. ‘Can I get anyone a wee drink?’ she says. ‘Tap water is included; anything else is extra.’
‘A large white wine, please,’ I say as a sense of déjà vu settles heavily on my shoulders.
Once we’ve received our drinks, and Ruth has vanished to the back of the house, the silence between the four of us is awkward and painful, and I’m almost relieved when the door springs opens. Until I see who it is.
‘Rosamund,’ I whisper. As elegant as ever, she’s wearing the same orange coat she wore a year ago, topped off with a flamboyant fur hat and gloves. I feel a pang of envy when I notice she’s pregnant.
Her eyes meet with Dad’s. And without speaking she takes a seat.
I look over at Dad for an explanation, but he looks as bewildered as I feel, and is blinking rapidly. My body fizzes with adrenalin. Not once did she visit Mum after Lark went missing. Not once did she call to see how Mum was. She never even came to her funeral.
I desperately want to know what she’s doing here. It can’t be a coincidence, surely. I open my mouth, about to fire questions at her, tell her she was nothing more than a fake friend to Mum, but Maddie beats me to it.
‘Hey, Rosamund, how are you?’ she says, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass.
‘I should be asking you that question,’ Rosamund says, her tone soft and caring. She is stroking her stomach as though gaining comfort from her unborn child. I know that feeling. ‘You must have had a dreadful year,’ she goes on. ‘I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch.’
‘It’s been awful,’ Maddie says. ‘But we’re
