‘It’s in here somewhere,’ murmurs Mrs P, rooting around in her hall cupboard. ‘Hold those, would you?’
She hands me an orange plastic pumpkin and a large floral lampshade with fringing.
The summer fayre is just over a month away and she’s trying to locate a brand new coffee maker she wants to donate for the auction.
‘Has Erik said when he’ll be back?’ Her sharp, nut brown eyes pierce mine.
‘Er … he’s not sure,’ I say airily, as if I’m really not that bothered.
I’ve been deliberately avoiding the subject of her grandson, acting as if everything is fine. I know Erik can do no wrong in her eyes and I don’t want to disillusion her.
She sighs and goes back to her rummaging. ‘Well, the drama workshop sounds a lot of fun. But it’s high time he came home and went to some lectures. He’ll fail the course if he’s not careful.’
My heartbeat falters. ‘Drama workshop?’
She turns in surprise. ‘Yes. Didn’t he tell you?’
Why would he tell me he’s in Devon with his family if he’s really at a drama workshop? Perhaps he did tell me and I forgot.
Casually, I say, ‘So where is this workshop?’
‘In Somerset, I think.’
My mind races. Geography was never my best subject at school. But I’m fairly certain Somerset is next door to Devon.
‘He’s down there for a family visit more than anything else. And of course it’s his sister’s birthday this week.’
Relief floods through me. ‘Oh yes. Sharon.’
He must have forgotten to mention the workshop.
Either that or I’ve been guilty of ‘tuning out’ as I sometimes find myself doing when Erik is roaming round the kitchen, glass of wine in hand, talking about acting and doing impersonations of the people on his course.
He can be highly entertaining, of course.
But I admit there are times when I wish he’d just stop the performing and do the dishes instead.
I’ve grown quite confident in my new role of delivery driver, zipping around the countryside and chatting brightly on doorsteps.
But this afternoon, I’m aware of my stomach churning. I feel like I’m about to sit an exam, which is odd because Parsons Farm shouldn’t be that difficult to find.
According to my ancient road map – which doesn’t feature any major roads built after about the mid-seventies – Dan’s house is only a mile or so away on a more or less straight road.
I phoned him first thing to ask if I could drop by and pick up some fresh salad for tomorrow’s boxes. I had to lie and say I’d had a sudden flurry of extra orders.
It would be awful if he thought I was just coming round for a nosey.
I find the farm easily and I’m signalling to turn in at the gate when a small red sports car comes hurtling along the track from the farm, heading at breakneck speed for the entrance.
I wait, wondering if it’s actually going to stop.
The driver slams on the brakes and a cloud of dust rises up. Barely a second later, the car turns out onto the road and, with several angry-sounding gear changes, roars off in the direction of Fieldstone.
I watch it vanish round the bend in my rear view mirror, then I turn in and start bumping along the track to the house. It winds round to the right, past an ancient horse chestnut tree with a rope swing dangling from one of its branches, and then the main building comes into view – a solid, traditional farmhouse built of mellow red brick. It looks welcoming, if a touch worn round the edges like my map.
I park up to a fence at the side of the house, alongside three other cars that I assume belong to employees. Some farm buildings off to the right have been modernised and on a sign above the main door I recognise the official Parsons logo.
I pop my head round the door to the office building but there’s no-one there, so I walk round to the front of the house, breathing in the scent of lilacs from the small but well-tended patch of garden. Lifting the latch on the gate, I walk through, scanning the windows of the house a little apprehensively.
I’m so deep in thought that, in trying to close the gate behind me, I manage to get my thumb caught in the latch.
I yelp because it hurts. A lot.
‘I’ve done that before,’ a voice says.
I turn to find a dark-haired boy of about eleven standing on the other side of the gate. He has one foot on a shiny green scooter and, as I watch, he pushes off, then in several deft movements, jumps up, spins the deck round and lands neatly with both feet back on the scooter.
Zak.
‘Wow, I’m impressed. How long did it take you to learn that?’
‘Oh, not long,’ he says nonchalantly. ‘Just yesterday and the day before probably.’
He points at the gate. ‘Mum keeps saying Dad should get that fixed but he’s always too busy.’
I smile at him.
He looks the image of Dan with his frank, blue eyes and mop of dark hair.
‘Is this your house?’
He nods. ‘Mostly it’s just us now. Dad says peace is a good thing but sometimes I think it’s a bit boring. Mum lives in London, but she flew here this week to see me.’ He scoots a few yards then comes back to the gate. ‘She’s a make-up artist, my mum. She goes all round the world and stays in cool places like New York and the Caribbean. She was born in Paris, you know.’
‘Oh, how lovely,’ I say, slightly flummoxed by this deluge of information.
Zak nods. ‘Her name’s Monique. That’s French for Monica.’
‘Is she staying here?’
‘No. She always stays in a hotel. But it’s really posh. They have biscuits and movies in the room and everything.’ He points along the track. ‘Mum’s just gone. She was shouting at Dad and then she left.’
‘Oh dear.’
I glance at the house, wondering if now isn’t the right time. Perhaps I should come back later.
‘I’m Zak, by the way.’ He props his scooter against the fence and solemnly holds out his hand.
‘Hi, Zak. I’m Izzy and it’s very nice to meet you,’ I say, shaking his small, slightly sticky hand.
His eyes open wide. ‘You’re bleeding. Look!’’
I hold out my thumb and he inspects it carefully. ‘Once I fell down an escalator and the blood was pouring out of my knee.’
‘Gosh. Really?’
He nods. ‘Gallons of it.’
‘Gallons, eh? Well, escalators can be tricky things.’
‘I’ve got a scar.’ He pulls up the leg of his jeans and displays a small white mark.
I peer closer. ‘Ooh, I bet it hurt.’
He considers. ‘Well, it hurt a bit, I suppose. But I didn’t cry.’
‘I cried a lot when I broke my wrist,’ I tell him.
‘Wow.’ He peers at my long-mended arm. ‘Was there blood?’
‘No,’ I say regretfully. ‘No blood.’
Suddenly a deep voice bellows, ‘Zak!’ and we both jump and look towards the house. I catch sight of Dan at an open upstairs window just before he disappears.
Seconds later the front door is flung wide and he storms out along the path, yelling, ‘Zak! I thought I told you to stay inside.’
A pair of blazing eyes turn in my direction and I step back. Dan looks confused for a second. Then he barks, ‘Oh. It’s you.’
Zak looks stricken. ‘Sorry Dad, but the chickens needed to be fed.’
‘I don’t care about the chickens. I told you to stay in.’
I stand there, speechless. Dan is white-faced with anger.
He stares up at the sky for a moment, as if seeking inspiration. Then he rubs his hands wearily over his face, goes to Zak and loops his arm around him. ‘Come on. Inside,’ he says, gently this time.
When he turns to me, his eyes are bleak, his jaw tense.
‘Sorry.’ He nods towards the office. ‘Alison’s in charge. She’ll sort you out.’
I watch them walk slowly up the path, Dan’s arm still resting protectively on Zak’s shoulders.
The door clicks shut behind them.