Coming Home: A compelling novel with a shocking twist. Annabel Kantaria
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the bedside lamp as my mind whirled. What could it be?
As my needles clicked, I tried to convince myself Dad must have spent the money on something so obvious I’d completely overlooked it. I finished off the hat’s ribbing and packed my needles away, resolving to go through the receipts with a toothcomb as soon as I could. I plumped the pillows one more time and settled into my favourite sleeping position, but still I couldn’t sleep.
After fumbling for the torch I kept on the bedside table, I padded into the bathroom and opened the medicine cupboard. I was hoping Mum might have an old box of herbal sleeping tablets somewhere in there, but what I actually saw, as the torch lit up the contents, was a shock: the entire right-hand side of the cabinet was given over to sleep remedies ranging in strength from Night Rescue Remedy to boxes of prescription tablets. I checked the dates on the prescription labels—all were under six months old. I’d had no idea. Had things really got that bad?
When I finally got to sleep, I dreamed about moving house. Mum and I watched the movers put the last boxes into the lorry, slam the door shut and drive off with a cheery wave. The driver was Dad. Mum and I followed in the car, but we weren’t able to catch up. The faster we drove, the further from us the lorry drew, as we span along dark, wet roads, trying to find shortcuts and straining always for a glimpse of the van that contained my father and the memories of my childhood.
I woke in a tangle of sheets.
‘Are things improving with your mum now?’ Miss Dawson asked. We were sitting in her living room—each of us in a big armchair. It was the school holidays but my sessions didn’t stop for holidays. Dad was waiting in the dining room. Miss Dawson had bought me a KitKat.
I bit my lip. ‘Not really,’ I said.
‘What makes you say that, Evie?’
The truth was, Mum wasn’t coping at all. I hadn’t told anyone about what had really happened with Dingbat: all I said was, ‘He got out; he died.’ Then, last week Mum had gone to the supermarket in her pyjamas. They were red-and-white checked and Mum had matched them with red high heels and a pillar-box red lipstick. She’d stood in the hall, finalising her shopping list with her basket over her arm and I’d thought she was doing it for a joke; trying to be funny; trying to cheer me up. My heart had filled with love and I’d laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ she’d snapped.
I should have spotted the warning tone in her voice, but I was still laughing. I’d thought the joke was still going.
‘You’re going to the shops in your pyjamas!’ I’d giggled. Already I was imagining telling my friends about it. My mum was the funny one!
‘They are NOT my pyjamas!’
I froze.
‘This is my suit! I am wearing a SUIT!’ she’d shouted. She’d jabbed at her lips, kicked a foot out at me. ‘See? I am wearing lipstick! I am wearing RED SHOES! Don’t you know what a SUIT looks like?’
She’d kicked hard at the stair I was sitting on and left, slamming the front door so hard behind her that the hall had seemed to reverberate for minutes.
I was upstairs when she’d come back with the shopping. I heard her put it away in the kitchen then go into her bedroom. When I went down for lunch she was wearing a dress and her lipstick had gone.
‘What would you like for lunch?’ she’d asked, smiling at me as if nothing was wrong.
‘She sometimes wears her pyjamas to the High Street,’ I told Miss Dawson.
Even through my eyelids, I could tell that it was sunny when I woke the next morning, remnants of the anxiety of my dream still coursing through my veins. Lying motionless, not daring to move after the skinful of gin I’d drunk the night before, I felt gently around inside my head for signs of the hangover I knew I deserved, and was both relieved and grateful to discover that I’d been spared.
The sound of music drifted up from downstairs. An uplifting piano concerto on the radio—Mozart, maybe. I lay in bed, letting the waves of sound wash over me. The music stopped abruptly and restarted a few bars back and I realised that it wasn’t the radio at all: Mum was actually playing the piano downstairs. It had been so long since I’d last heard her play that I’d almost forgotten that she did. The piano in the corner of the dining room had long been buried under a collection of dusty knick-knacks, photographs and old sheet music.
Dust particles pirouetted in the sunshine as I entered the dining room. Mum’s fingers danced over the keys as she strained forward to read the music. I stood and listened for a minute; I hadn’t seen her looking so alive in years; her body moved with the music and the word ‘graceful’ came to mind. When Mum realised I was standing there, she broke off, flexing her wrists and bending back her fingers.
‘Wow,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Impressed! I didn’t know you could still play.’
Mum smiled. ‘Still got it!’ she said. ‘I should do it more often.’
I remembered childhood evenings, sing-songs around the piano. ‘Dad loved it when you played.’
‘I know …’ said Mum. ‘Anyway. Sleep well?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘Oh … you know.’ She shrugged and turned back to her music while I fixed myself some breakfast. Mum absently played a few scales and their arpeggios, smiling to herself as she got each one right.
‘G major. Oh. I have an appointment to see the new house again this afternoon,’ she said, her fingers fluttering over the keys. ‘A major. Would you like to come? Or have you got something else planned? B major.’
‘Have you heard back from the estate agent yet?’ I asked.
‘Not yet, but he said he might hear today. C-sharp major. I can’t believe I still remember all these!’
‘So there’s still time to back out?’
‘Why would I want to back out? It’s the perfect house for me, and just around the corner.’ She played the arpeggios as chords. The sound of the last chord fell away and I didn’t fill the silence.
‘It’s what your father wanted, too.’
I sighed. ‘Sure. If you want me to, I’ll come.’
‘Thank you. If you like it, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t go ahead and buy it. There’s no chain and Dad had worked out the finances …’
‘Oh really? Had he put the money aside?’
Mum shot me a look over her glasses, her fingers still holding the chord for D-sharp major. Evie Stealthy Stevens, I was not. ‘As I said last time you asked: no. But the point is that this house is smaller, so we—’ she rolled her eyes upwards laughing a little at her mistake ‘—I would be able to free up a bit more capital. I think it’s really exciting. I can’t wait to move. F-sharp major. That was always my favourite.’
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