‘You know where she goes, don’t you?’
Robbie looked up, stared at Edie in the doorway and went back to writing.
‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll tell Mum who you’re writing to.’
‘So who am I writing to?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
Robbie stabbed at the letter with his pen, swore under his breath. The nib had gone through the paper, and now a blot of ink seeped into the cover of the book underneath: Whitcombe & Tombs’ Children’s Atlas. His mother would be furious.
‘If you’re so smart, then why don’t you know where she goes at night? Isn’t it obvious?’
‘She visits someone, doesn’t she?’
Robbie stared at her.
‘But why does it have to be a secret?’
‘Because it’s disgusting, that’s why!’
In one movement he hurled the book, letter, pen – an arc of ink drops – through the air. The book smashed against the wall and slumped to the floor, the pen left an ink stain on the wallpaper, rolled back and hit the mat. A torn sheet of paper drifted down.
‘If Dad was here this would never have happened!’ Robbie burst into tears.
The only time Edie remembered him crying was when their father died. If he was still here . . . if their father was still here, how different would it be?
Edie felt the urge to stroke Robbie’s back, his hair, but he seemed so far away, so very far away, the distance between them unsurpassable.
She stared at his shaking body, felt tears form in her own eyes. She did not know who she was crying for. She turned and walked into their mother’s room, looked out the window at the street below. She should start dinner. Peel potatoes and carrots, chop cabbage. Their mother would be home.
Soon.