There was nothing specific worrying him. Work was interesting and challenging as ever – though it could not escape the usual NHS managerial stranglehold, he was grateful his department had avoided yet more funding cutbacks. The health scare he’d had earlier in the year had proved nothing more than a minor infection mimicking something more serious, and even his new secretary had surpassed all his expectations. He couldn’t suppress the small smile at the thought of her as he skimmed the day’s news.
Agitated, he rested his head back on the chair. Claire seemed happy enough, he supposed, and the kids were doing well at school even if Marcus’s form tutor had found it necessary to telephone twice this term already about missed coursework. But that was Claire’s department. She’d sort it out.
Why, then, these feelings – a sense of dissatisfaction, of fear almost? Why the aggravating peck-peck at the back of his mind that something wasn’t right, that something was missing? He wondered if it was his age – he was approaching fifty, after all. Was it some kind of mid-life shift that, while it wasn’t a full-blown crisis, made him feel that surely there must be more to life than work-sleep, work-sleep?
No, he thought, as he heard the front door unlock. It wasn’t any of that. It was a far bigger thing, burning at the very core of him as it always had done, and he knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
‘We’re home,’ Claire announced.
Then he heard the shrill voice of his six-year-old daughter telling off the cat for licking the toast and Claire’s long sigh followed by the clatter of plates as she began clearing up.
‘How are my two favourite ladies?’ he asked, standing in the kitchen doorway. He flicked on the light. There was an eerie orange-pink glow outside, making it seem more like a nine o’clock summer sunset than the three hours earlier it really was. The red bricks of the barn across the yard looked on fire.
‘Looks as though there’s a thunderstorm on the way,’ he said, reaching down to hug Amy. He paused, wondering if it was prophetic. ‘How was school, little one?’
‘One of the chicks died. Mrs Henry told us it would get better, but she lied.’ Amy pouted.
‘That’s sad.’ Callum gratefully took the glass of wine Claire offered. Judging by the ingredients she was unpacking, she was going to cook curry. A Friday night tradition in the Rodway household. Another regular occurrence in the steady beat of his life.
‘It had been pecked to death,’ Amy went on. ‘It had blood and beaky marks all over its head.’
‘That’s called pecking order,’ he explained, glancing at his wife.
Claire raised her eyebrows. He thought her hair looked stunning in the strange light. It didn’t normally look quite so red, but tonight it was as if every strand had been dipped in a different shade of liquid copper.
‘Why did Mrs Henry lie, then? Why didn’t the mummy chicken look after the baby?’
Amy twirled the tassel on her cardigan around her finger. Callum knew it meant she was tired, that she’d had enough of school, the childminder, and wanted nothing more than supper, a warm bath, a story and bed. Claire would see to all that.
Callum sighed. What was he to do – tell her it was OK for adults to lie to children but not the other way around? Explain survival of the fittest in language a six-year-old wouldn’t question?
He was too tired for all that right now. Instead, large hands dragged down his face and when he reappeared he offered up a playful boo! sending Amy squealing off and hurling herself onto the beanbag in the snug.
‘Nicely avoided,’ Claire said, pulling a face. He wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic.
‘You want me to tell her the truth?’ He desperately wanted to avoid a Friday night battle. He’d been longing for her all day. Then the new secretary was on his mind again.
‘Mum wants to sell Trevellin,’ Claire said out of the blue, stopping what she was doing.
‘Because of Pat?’ Callum helped her unpack the rest of the groceries.
Claire nodded and leant on the worktop, allowing her head to drop while he topped up her glass. She was so tense these days.
‘Dad doesn’t want to move, of course, but Mum won’t be able to cope with the farm and his illness.’
‘I agree with your mum. It’s not just the house but the land and all the old buildings too. It’s a lot to look after.’
‘Dad still does what he can. He goes out and potters about most days.’ Claire was defensive.
‘It takes more than pottering to look after a place like that and you know it. They’re in their seventies now, Claire.’ Callum allowed his hands to settle on his wife’s shoulders and drift down her arms. He held her hands.
‘I know. You’re right. It’s just the end of an era, that’s all.’ She gave a small smile.
‘Will you be selling it for them?’
Claire nodded. ‘Mum’s talking about offering it to developers. For holiday lets.’
‘Shrewd,’ Callum said, raising his eyebrows. ‘All the barns, the cottage, the land… Perhaps a caravan park too.’ He blew out through his teeth. ‘And only half a mile from the beach.’ He gently massaged her hands. He knew she liked that and reckoned he’d averted a blow-up.
‘It seemed like ten miles when we were kids, walking it four times a day.’ Claire softened at the memory.
Callum didn’t want her to get maudlin, so he lowered his mouth onto hers, kissing her gently. She responded briefly, their fingers in a loose weave, but then she pulled away.
‘I should get on with supper.’
‘Yuk,’ Marcus said, bending into the refrigerator after glancing at his parents. ‘This milk’s well off.’ He emerged sloshing a carton which contained something verging on cottage cheese. His hair flopped over his eyes.
‘Hi, love,’ Claire said, pulling some fresh milk from the last of the shopping bags. ‘Dad and I were just talking about how we used to walk to the beach as kids.’ She took the old milk from him and washed it down the sink.
‘Well, you lot did. Don’t forget I’d just started at medical school while you were still playing with buckets and spades.’ Callum winked at his son when Claire didn’t respond.
‘Marcus prefers surfing on his laptop than in the sea, don’t you, love?’ Claire said, chopping an onion. Secretly, she was glad he didn’t go the beach often. She could never relax until he was home safely – the rip tides were strong – and she couldn’t even contemplate the future when Amy would want more freedom.
It had taken her and Callum many years to conceive their daughter after they’d had Marcus. It was only after several rounds of IVF that their family was finally complete. But all the stress of having Amy had occasionally led Claire to wonder if her protective instincts were in danger of mirroring those of her parents, especially with Amy being a girl – who was all the more precious for the agonising suspense of her arrival.
She tried to put these thoughts from her mind, along with the memory of the tension that her infertility had caused between her and Callum at the time. When out as a family, Claire suspected that people thought Marcus was from a previous marriage, but now, aged eighteen, the freedom he enjoyed with his mates only spotlighted what the future held for her little girl. And after what happened to Lenni, she didn’t think she could stand it.
‘Not entirely true, Mum,’ Marcus protested. ‘I went—’
Callum shot him a look. He could see the entire evening going down the pan if an argument ensued. Marcus took the hint and skulked off upstairs again, while Claire cut up the chicken. Her movements were slow and laborious, showing Callum that something was still on her mind.
‘I’ve had a crazy idea,’ she said finally, putting down the knife.
‘Go on.’ Callum sat on a stool, resigning himself to an evening of serious discussion. Under the worktop, his leg jiggled on the bar of the stool.
‘I want to organise a reunion.’ She stared out of the window. The sky had turned an even more ominous orange-grey, Callum noticed, following her gaze. ‘I want to get everyone back together for Dad. You know, all my childhood friends. The group.’ Claire ran her hand down his arm. ‘I think it’ll do him the world of good, don’t you?’