‘Charming.’
‘She was really pretty,’ I continued, like this was relevant. ‘She had these really trendy boots on. If you saw her on the street, you’d think she was as normal as anything.’
‘What was she in there for?’
‘She’d headbutted a bouncer outside a pub.’
‘Nice.’
‘She probably was nice, without the booze.’
‘Headbutting someone is pretty defining.’
‘Haven’t you ever felt like headbutting someone?’
He snorted, ‘No!’ then added, ‘I probably have, actually.’
‘I have too.’
‘But neither of us have ever done it,’ Peter said.
‘That’s maybe just luck.’
‘Or good sense.’
‘But we’re not always sensible, not always, not every second of the day.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ he said in a manly sensible voice, clearing his throat.
‘Seriously though, one moment of madness and that’d be it, your life would be over. It would undo everything good that you had ever done.’
‘She’s lucky she wasn’t in for manslaughter.’
‘I’m not saying it was okay what she did, I’m just saying that maybe after a lifetime of shit, she just snapped.’
‘It would have to have been a hell of a lot of shit.’
‘What if her dad beat her up, or her mum even? What if she’d grown up with violence?’
‘A lot of people come from the most grim backgrounds and still don’t go headbutting people just because they’ve had a few too many shandies.’
‘It’s not an excuse, I’m just saying it might be her story,’ I said, propping myself up a little on a cushion. ‘It’s so easy to judge. None of us know who we really are until we’re tested or how we would behave under the wrong circumstances.’
‘I feel guilty now. I want to give the girl a hug.’
I inspected my hands. They burned as though they were two balls of fire, and my wrists were beginning to ache.
‘Part of me is not sure any of it was real.’
‘Imagine what Rosie went through.’
‘Now that makes me want to headbutt DC Miles,’ I said.
He snorted through a sip of whisky. ‘There’s that Campbell-woman spirit I know and love,’ he laughed, reaching far over the coffee table to squeeze my shoulder.
‘Superwomen. All of us,’ I said flatly, with a flash of my palms slamming the wall.
‘Wait till your mum hears about this. She’ll be campaigning with her students outside the police station holding placards with “Rough Justice for Gemma” on them.’
I felt the swell of a belly laugh form in my stomach but it didn’t quite make it out. ‘Stop it. I wouldn’t put it past her.’
‘It’s funny with your mum, she looks out with the fairies most of the time, but it’s staggering how scary she can be.’
‘All those ailments though.’
‘Mother of God, her handbag is like a pharmaceutical’s factory.’
We turned our heads to smile at each other and then looked back to the fire. I took a sip of my drink.
‘And there’s you, who won’t even take a paracetamol for a headache.’
‘I’m not like her at all,’ I stated firmly.
‘You’re more like her than your sister is.’
‘So you’re saying I am like her?’
‘You and your mum are both quite determined when you want to be.’
‘So is Jacs,’ I said, flipping my argument, suddenly defensive of my mother’s spirit. ‘She’s as stubborn as an ox, just like Mum. Remember woodshedgate?’
I laughed out loud at the memory of Jackie and Richard’s argument over their woodshed. Richard had promised he would build it – it was pretty vital considering they heated their house with a log burner – but he was notoriously lazy and hated asking tradesmen to do the job he knew he could do himself. Months had passed as their log pile on the driveway had become soggier by the day, until Jackie had taken the job on.
‘I’ve never seen Rich so put out,’ I laughed.
There was a lull as we listened to a log slipping in the fire. A moment of insecurity.
‘Who needs men, eh?’ Peter added.
‘We want you more than need you, darlings,’ I grinned, holding up my mug to cheers him.
He sent me a small melancholy smile back, ‘At least I’m wanted.’
‘Mum taught us to stand on our own two feet. That’s a good thing this day and age,’ I said defensively.
‘God forbid you might ever need anyone, Gemma.’ There was an edge in his voice that went beyond the mild joshing.
‘What happened to liking the Campbell-woman spirit?’
‘It has its moments.’
‘Give me an example of a bad moment.’
‘I’m not stupid. You’re tricking me into an argument.’
‘Promise I won’t get annoyed. Cross my heart, hope to die.’
‘I can’t think of anything specific.’
‘Go on. Try.’
‘I’m not sure this is wise.’
‘I’m not going to start headbutting you if that’s what you’re scared of.’
‘Okay. When you had to go for that interview for the promotion a couple of years ago, you didn’t confide in me and tell me you were shitting yourself or even that you wanted the job, you just got grumpier by the day and then the night before you suddenly made Rosie throw out all her plastic toys.’
‘She didn’t play with them anymore!’
‘Except one.’
‘That bloody diary of hers. I’d be reading it now if she hadn’t taken it with her.’
‘How do you know she has?’
‘She never sleeps over anywhere without it.’
‘The only plastic toy you let her keep is now her most treasured possession.’
I sighed, smarting at the criticism in spite of promising not to.
‘I wish I’d never asked now,’ I sulked. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. When I’m stressed I see mess in places I never did before.’
‘Spoken like a true pro.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with keeping things organised if it helps me think stuff through, is there?’
‘But you shut everyone else out, including the kids.’
‘Do I?’
‘A bit.’
‘I never thought of it that way.’
I had never thought of my self-sufficiency as anything but the one good trait that I had inherited from Mum. How discombobulating it was to think otherwise.
‘I suppose when I think back to how amazing Mum was when I was young and when I think of how lucky I am in comparison, I just think I don’t have anything to complain about.’
‘Everyone has something to complain about.’
‘Mum was a proper trooper though,’ I said absently, but as I said it I had a flash of Mum’s dark bedroom after my father had left her, left us, with the curtains drawn and a glass of water in my hand. I had wanted her for something – I couldn’t remember what – and had known it was impossible to ask her for anything when the curtains were drawn on her migraines. I had wanted her but couldn’t have her, and I learnt to find a way to get on by myself.
‘It might be good for her to be here with all of us,’ I said, trying to find justification for the arrangement, ways she could gain from it, to dismiss how unconditional and selfless her move here would be if she accepted.
‘I really believe it would be, you know,’ Peter said.
‘I’ll try her tomorrow,’ I agreed, unable to imagine asking her for such a colossal kindness. It was not supposed to be a test of how much she loved me, or her grandchildren. But now faced with the task of asking her, I knew it would become exactly that.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
TOP SECRET
* * *
Dear Mummy,
* * *
It’s the middle of the night. Spooookkkkeeeeee. I can’t sleep. Dad told us you will get out of prison tomorrow and we can go home. Mega happy-face. A hundred happy faces. We have to go riding tomorrow first. Mega sad face. Horses are a bit scary and big. Why do we have to go riding? Becky’s riding shoes stink.
* * *
I feel a bit mega, mega bad about you going to real prison. I hope you didn’t have to eat sprouts in there. I can’t wait to give you a big sorry hug. Question: Would you eat sprouts if the police gave you one hundred fluffy neon pencil cases? The police could get those for you. They can do anything. They even put children in prison, don’t they?
* * *