Patrick stared first at Claire and then at Shona, as though he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Are we moving?’ he asked, quite calmly.
‘There’s a bungalow,’ Claire went on. ‘It overlooks the estuary.’
Patrick picked up the newspaper, though she could tell he wasn’t really reading it. She noticed his hands were red and chafed, and the skin on his cheeks thin and veined. Seeing him nearly every day, she’d not been aware of him growing old, but truth was, after a lifetime of working on the farm, he’d been this weathered for years.
‘I should have bloody thumped him,’ Patrick said, glancing at the back door, suddenly remembering again.
The only time Claire ever recalled her father getting violent, exploding like a volcano, was when the detective handling Lenni’s case came to give them a three-month update. An update which consisted of absolutely nothing. There were no new leads, no extra evidence, and no fresh witnesses had come forward despite the television appeals. Patrick asked him what the hell they’d been doing, why they weren’t finding his daughter.
The detective stated quite calmly that he believed Lenni was most likely dead, that unless new leads came to light it wouldn’t be much longer until the investigation was scaled back. It was then that Patrick slowly pulled back his huge right fist and landed a sharp punch right on the detective’s nose.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jason took a long shower. In spite of himself he’d enjoyed being at the beach but, as he rinsed off the sand and salt, he couldn’t wash away what he’d seen earlier. He had no idea what to do.
What loomed between him and his father also couldn’t be washed away. During the afternoon he’d glanced at Patrick once or twice, watching his actions and movements, listening to what he said, concluding that yes, something intrinsic had changed in him. It was a metamorphosis, as if he was gradually becoming a different person, a man very unlike the one Jason knew as a kid. He screwed up his eyes, allowing the hot water to wash over him. When Shona had told him about the Alzheimer’s months ago, Jason had initially felt anything but sympathy.
All things considered, it was easier to stay away from Trevellin.
He put on a shirt his mother had given him on his last birthday when she’d been in London. He’d never ask her to take sides, but as they’d sat in the Fulham café, he admitted to himself that he was looking for clues – maybe even hoping for clues – that his father was softening, perhaps even showing remorse. If he was honest, he missed him terribly.
‘What you must understand about Dad, darling, is that he firmly believes everyone should graft. Make their own way in life like he did,’ Shona had said, but now, with Greta heavily pregnant, he couldn’t comprehend how a man could shut out his own son.
‘I was ill, Mum. I needed help, and more than just financial.’ From the moment Jason announced, aged eighteen, that he wanted to be an actor, Patrick’s thermostat switched to cool.
‘He’s old school, love. He thought acting was a cop-out.’ Shona had said this before, and always with a small smile. Jason had been surprised when she’d once confessed her long-held dream to be on the stage. But marriage, the farm, a family had put a stop to that.
‘Maybe Dad’s right,’ Jason had said. ‘I’m not cut out for it.’
‘He was hoping you’d take over the farm one day. He took it as a personal slight, as if you didn’t value everything he’d achieved. Trevellin was his life and he wanted it to be yours.’ Shona sighed, knowing she was treading a fine line. ‘And your dad doesn’t understand mental health. I think deep down he blamed himself for how you were.’
‘It actually felt like the opposite, like he wanted me to be out of the way and have nothing to do with the farm.’ Jason pondered this for a moment. ‘Anyway, let’s be honest, Mum. Not long after I came to London, I got addicted to smack. That’s hardly Dad’s fault. I was still grieving and riddled with guilt about what happened to Lenni. We all handled it differently, and my reaction came out much later. Understanding and love was what I needed.’
Shona nodded, sipping her drink to cover the quiver of her lips. But Jason still noticed.
‘My life carried on pretty much as normal the morning after Lenni disappeared,’ he continued. ‘I forced it to carry on as normal, that’s how selfish I was. I put on my uniform and I went to school. I did my homework and I walked the dog. I hung out with my mates and got on with growing up. It was my way of coping with the chaos around me. I went suddenly from the middle child to being the youngest child.’ Jason could see by his mother’s expression that she’d never considered that before. ‘Then, at college in London, everything was different. I was surrounded by people like me – broken people, creative people, desperate people, and people searching for something else in life. They helped me forget, while the drugs took away the pain.’
Jason recalled the day he’d finally plucked up the courage to go back home. It was the second lowest point of his life and he reckoned the only thing that would save him. He was an addict, penniless, and knew if something didn’t change, he’d be dead within a year. He’d got on a train without a ticket at Paddington, then hitched from Exeter to Trevellin. His father was in the yard when he tramped down the drive, a dirty canvas pack slung over his back. When Patrick finally recognised his own son, the cold look he gave him made him want to turn around and go right back to the squat.
‘Dad,’ he said, dropping his bag to the ground as they stared at each other. Jason felt his skin prickling with sweat, the shakes getting worse. He knew he looked dreadful, reflected in his father’s expression. Decline happens gradually in your own mirror. Wiping yellowed and dirty fingers down his face, feeling the deep familiar ache in his joints, he pushed his next fix from his mind.
‘Your mother’s inside,’ was all Patrick said. Later, at dinner, Jason broke down. He pushed his plate aside and dropped his head into his hands. He told them everything – about the drugs, his hopeless life, how he couldn’t carry on. How he thought he was going to die from the guilt. His mother was beside him, holding him, waiting for assurance from Patrick that everything would be all right, that they’d get help for him, that they’d get through this as a family like they’d always done.
‘I want to come home,’ Jason had said, sobbing, his pride long gone. ‘London’s not such a good place for me right now.’ He remembered relief exuding from his mother. But there was nothing from his father. ‘I can work for you on the farm, Dad. It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?’ He lifted his face. ‘Maybe I can even renovate the old cottage. Make it my own like Claire is doing with the Old Stables. I’ll go to the clinic, get healthy again.’ Jason swallowed, hating how desperate he sounded, wondering what else he could do to make the look on his father’s face go away.
‘We make our own beds,’ Patrick said calmly.
‘Pat?’ Shona said, watching as he continued eating. After three more mouthfuls, he set down his spoon.
‘The cottage is too far gone anyway.’