The Country Escape - Jane Lovering Page 0,54

down the front of the Motörhead T-shirt that she was wearing today. ‘No, that’s not my style. But if you don’t tell him, it’ll be between you always. And he’s too nice a boy for that. Besides, he might look thicker than a rag rug, but he’s going to start to wonder, don’t you think? About why you moved to the back of beyond, Dorsetshire, from London, where you had a job and good schools and all the opportunities for your daughter? You trying to protect her from everything. All those things she doesn’t know… He’s a clever lad, our Gabriel. He’ll be thinking about it.’

I could almost feel it now. The huge gulf that lay between who I’d been then and who I was now, and all the things that had fallen into that trench.

‘How do I tell him?’ I said, speaking to the violently coloured curtains that fluttered against the tiny window. ‘How do I tell someone that I killed my father?’

11

I stared out of my bedroom window. A few days had passed since I’d spoken to Mary, and life had intervened since then. Plus, I’d deliberately kept out of her way. I didn’t want a repeat of that conversation. Now I was watching Keenan directing a horse-wrangler, who was wrangling Patrick – a horse that didn’t so much need wrangling as resuscitating – through the gateway in full harness. They’d moved the caravan out into the lane and were, apparently, pretending that this was the first arrival at Serial Killer Cottage. There had already been shots of Patrick pulling the caravan up and down the lane. Granny Mary had insisted, according to Keenan, on driving, so there had been many cut-away shots and much careful framing so as not to reveal that the van was being controlled by a little old lady rather than Killer Peter.

Patrick looked different in harness, like meeting someone you know socially in a work setting. The big bridle with the blinkers and the gleaming brass fittings made his head look smaller and finer boned and he’d had a really good groom. His mane and tail flowed out behind him as he trotted, picking up his enormous feet as though he were trotting through tin tacks. He would occasionally stretch out his neck and snort, as though he wasn’t quite fit enough for the work he was doing, and the wrangler would have to stop and walk him quietly for a while. Patrick had gone soft during the weeks in my orchard.

I had retreated to my room to cut faces out of pumpkins, as instructed by Poppy, who wanted them for the Halloween fair, two lanterns, one each for her and Rory to carry. So far I’d ruined three, and had to drive up to Bridport for more supplies; my room was full of pumpkin innards, newspaper and squinty-eyed pumpkins with off-centre mouths. Carving faces was not turning out to be a latent talent of mine, although I had discovered a hitherto unsuspected ability to swear very loudly and curse the god of squashes and gourds. I’d watched more YouTube videos than I cared to remember, and they all made it look so easy. They definitely didn’t show the blood and plasters or the splatty-faced failures. There was one currently resting on my dressing table that looked as though I’d punched a melon.

I sighed and sucked at yet another cut finger.

There was a knock at the door. ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea,’ Gabriel said from the other side of the woodwork. ‘You’ve not been on set for a while and I just wanted to check you were okay. And by “you” I mean “we” because you seem to be avoiding me.’

I opened the door. ‘Yes, thank you. Sorry, I’ve just been…’

‘Wow. Are you going to stick pins in them?’ Gabriel came in and stared at a particularly lopsided carving attempt on the dressing table. ‘Like voodoo dolls of people with really big heads?’

I stared with him. ‘I think anyone who looks like this has already got enough problems.’ A badly cut piece of mouth slowly caved inwards under the weight of our gaze, and flopped inside the pumpkin with a hollow, wet sound. ‘It looks like I’ve found whatever the opposite of a niche in life is. But I promised Poppy, so…’ I shrugged ‘… here I am.’

‘Here.’ Gabriel handed me a mug and put his own down carefully on a piece of newspaper. ‘Drink that and I’ll see what I