They’d reached his car. She looked in the back as she got in, and she saw her old duffel bag. Her lip jutted out, but she drew it back in. Home to Africa, her expression said, which meant home to Mum and Dad until they thought of another plan to shake her resolve. They’d tick Send Her to Her Grandfather off their list and come up with the next idea. Something like Send Her to Siberia. Or Send Her to the Australian Bush.
She got into the car. She fastened her seat belt and crossed her arms. She looked stonily forward at the canal, and her expression didn’t soften even when she took in the ducklings and how their little webbed feet raised them above the water when they hastened to follow their mother, making them look like tiny runners on the surface of the canal, just the sort of harkening back to a miracle that Selevan reckoned she’d appreciate. She didn’t, however. She was concentrating on what she thought she knew: how long a drive it was to Heathrow or Gatwick and whether her plane left for Africa tonight or tomorrow. Likely tomorrow, which would mean a long night in a hotel somewhere. Perhaps even now she was making her plan to escape. Out of the hotel window or down the stairs and then to France by hook or by crook.
He wondered if he should let her think that was where he was taking her. But it seemed cruel to let the poor lass suffer. Truth of the matter was that she’d suffered enough. She’d held firm through everything that had been thrown at her and that had to mean something even if it meant what none of the rest of them could bear considering.
He said as he started up the car, “I made a phone call, I did. Day or two ago.”
She said dully, “Well, you’d have to, wouldn’t you.”
“Truth in that. They said come along. Wanted to talk to you as well, but I told ’em you were unavailable at present?”
“Ta for that, at least.” Tammy turned her head and examined the scenery. They were passing through Stratton, heading north on A39. There was no easy way to get out of Cornwall, but that had long been part of its draw. “I don’t much want to talk to them, Grandie. We’ve already said all there is to say.”
“Think that, do you?”
“We’ve talked and talked. We’ve rowed. I’ve tried to explain, but they don’t understand. They don’t want to understand. They’ve got their plans and I’ve got mine and that’s how it is.”
“Didn’t know you’d talked to them at all.” Selevan made his voice deliberately thoughtful, a man considering the ramifications of what his granddaughter was telling him.
“What d’you mean you didn’t know I’d talked to them?” Tammy demanded. “That’s all we did before I got here. I talked, Mum cried. I talked, Dad shouted. I talked, they argued with me. Only I didn’t want to argue because far as I can tell there’s nothing to argue about. You understand or you don’t, and they don’t. Well, how could they? I mean, Mum’s whole way of living should’ve told me she’d never be able to come onboard. A life of contemplation? Not very likely when your real interest is looking at fashion magazines and gossip magazines and wondering how you can make yourself into Posh Spice while you’re living in a place where, frankly, there’s not a whole lot of designer shops. And you weigh about fifteen stone more ’n she does anyway. Or whatever she’s called these days.”
“Who?”
“What d’you mean who? Posh Spice. Posh whoever. Mum has Hello! and OK! sent over by the lorry load, not to mention Vogue and Tatler and whatever else, and that’s her ambition. To look like all of them and to live like all of them and it’s not mine, Grandie, and it never will be, so you can send me home and nothing’ll be different. I don’t want what they want. I never have, and I never will.”
“I didn’t know you talked to them,” he repeated. “They said they’d not talked to you.”
“What do you mean?” She flung herself round in the seat so that she faced him.