I’m sitting in the caravan, watching the rain slide down the windows. So far, it has rained every day since Boxing Day. The river at Moat House is swollen, a brown swirling torrent right up to the top of the banks, and Dad’s started worrying it’ll flood the house itself. But the house has stood there long enough, Cassy says. ‘Things are changing, though,’ Dad says. ‘The world’s changing fast, and the patterns of the weather are changing too. It never used to rain like this.’
The building work’s ground to a halt what with Christmas and New Year holidays and the rain. This week, Dad’s been going down there to try and get things moving again. We are all getting on each other’s nerves, cooped up in this stupid caravan in the middle of a sodden field. Kat’s still in London.
I check my emails for the millionth time. Nothing new. No texts from Seb, either. I can’t understand it.
‘Shall we do something, you and me?’ Cassy asks. ‘You’re so fed up.’
‘Like what?’
‘We could go shopping . . . the sales are on. Or go to see a film? What would you like?’
‘Nothing, really. It’s raining too much to go anywhere.’
‘We could go and see Bob, at the hospital. I know it’s not much of an outing. But I haven’t been for ages. We need to see how he is, tell him about Mattie. We could take him something.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know. Something to eat? Hospital food is rubbish these days. What does he like?’
‘Cheap cider. Chips.’
Cassy laughs. ‘OK, then, let’s get him fish and chips on the way in.’
‘The nurses won’t allow us, Cassy.’
‘We’ll say they’re for us. We can secretly feed chips to Bob, when they’re not looking.’
‘Is he better enough to eat chips?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll find out, won’t we? Last time, they wouldn’t even let me see him. I should’ve been back before, but what with Christmas and everything . . .’
Cassy’s driving’s worse than Seb’s, even though she passed her test years ago. We have to have the windows open and no radio or music on because she says she gets distracted and doolally. Having a baby is making her even more like that, she says. She doesn’t like reversing, so we search for a huge parking space. Even so, she swears a lot and huffs and puffs, going backwards and forwards. ‘Sorry about the language,’ she says.
‘I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘I’ve heard much worse.’
‘You should get Seb to teach you to drive,’ Cassy says once she’s got the car straightened up. She’s gone over the white lines on one side. ‘I’d be useless at teaching you.’
I laugh. She’s right; she would.
‘You haven’t seen him for a while. You haven’t fallen out with him, have you?’
‘No. He’s at his auntie’s. On some island that isn’t an island any more, in Dorset. But he’s back tomorrow, I think.’
‘Such a lovely boy,’ Cassy says. ‘You fell on your feet there.’
Cassy does a quick dash to the loo while I get the parking ticket. It’s still drizzling. Maybe it’s a good thing Bob’s warm and dry in hospital, instead of out on the streets in the endless rain. We’ve forgotten about the chips, I realise. Just as well. Cassy’s a bit mad sometimes.
I follow her through the swing doors and along a corridor and up two flights of stairs. Cassy stops at the nurses’ station to ask for Bob. Three of them in dark blue uniforms are having a laugh about something, but they sober up when Cassy mentions Bob’s name.
‘Mr Bob Moss,’ Cassy says again.
‘Are you a relative?’ The nurse in charge frowns at us like we’re bad news or something.
‘Just friends,’ Cassy says. ‘Bob doesn’t have any relatives, as far as we know. Is there a problem?’
One of the nurses click-clacks away down the corridor, and the other one starts flicking through the pages in the big diary on the desk.
Our nurse stands up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘Could you come through into the office, for a moment?’ She looks at me. ‘Perhaps your daughter could stay here.’
‘I’m not her daughter,’ I start saying, but she’s already shutting the door behind her and Cassy. So I wander off down the corridor. The ward stinks: boiled cabbage and poo. I walk past a row of single rooms with notices on the doors: No unauthorised entry. High Infection Risk. I’ve got a bad feeling about it all even before Cassy calls me. Her voice is teary and her hair’s all mussed up.
‘I’m so sorry, Em. I should’ve left a number with the ward manager. I should’ve called her before. I feel terrible we didn’t know.’
‘What’s happened? Cassy? Tell me.’
She’s crying so much it’s hard to take in what she’s saying, even though I kind of know instantly what she’s about to say.
‘Bob isn’t here. Bob died just before Christmas.’
He caught an infection and he was too weak and unfit to fight it off. His liver packed up. That, and the heart attack that started it all off.
‘All this time and we didn’t know,’ Cassy keeps saying, as if that’s the worst thing. ‘All through Christmas and everything.’
She’s so upset it means I can’t be. That’s the way it seems to work, like only one person at a time can be really sad. So I hand her tissues and give her hugs and she cries quietly all the way back to the car park.
Back in the car, I suddenly think: Mattie! What now?
‘It was supposed to cheer us up,’ Cassy says mournfully. ‘Our trip out for the day. Now look at us.’ She sniffs.
‘Let’s go and get fish and chips, anyway,’ I say. ‘Let’s remember nice things about Bob, you and me. And then we have to think what to do about Mattie.’
Cassy blows her nose like a great trumpet. ‘Thanks, darling,’ she says. ‘You’re so grown-up and sensible these days. I’m sorry I’m like this. It’s those hormones running riot. I can’t help it.’
‘Are you OK to drive?’
Cassy nods. ‘We’ll go to the Jazz Cafe and have a slap-up lunch and take it from there.’
So that’s what we do.
We talk about what should happen to Mattie. I think we should go and get her straight away, look after her ourselves. It’s horrible to think of her in that place, all unloved and lonely.
‘I’ll do everything,’ I say. ‘I’ll feed her and take her for walks every day. Once we’re all in the big house, it won’t be a problem.’
‘But you’re at school all day. And you’re not always going to be around, are you? You’ll be off like Kat at the end of next year. And then there’s the baby coming . . . We’ve got to think sensibly, Em, long-term.’
‘Long-term there’ll be masses of space. The garden’s so big she won’t even need taking for walks; she can just run in the fields. Moat House is huge. And it will be nice for the stupid baby. I think you’re being selfish and mean.’
‘Emily!’ Cassy sounds genuinely shocked. But she doesn’t start crying again. She goes silent, which is almost worse.
It’s like she’s actually counting down the days till both Kat and me will be gone. It’s horrible, realising that. They’ve got it all planned out, Cassy and Dad.
Life after us.