The House We Called Home: The magical, laugh out loud summer holiday read from the bestselling Jenny Oliver. Jenny Oliver
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20
She stood at the cliff edge looking out at the rolling summer surf. The house towering behind her, solid grey stone and slate, bursting pink rhododendrons, white garden furniture that needed a paint. The image, like closing your eyes after glancing at the sun, almost indelible on her retina, beams of light dancing in the dark.
Out ahead, mountains of cloud hovered on the horizon, a windsurfer made painful progress in the non-existent breeze while paddleboarders cruised on water that glistened like a million jumping fish.
Moira balled up her fists. Tight so she could feel her nails in her palms. If she could she would have rattled them like a child throwing a tantrum. If she could she would have screwed her eyes shut and stamped her foot and shouted down at the bloody picture-perfect view, ‘Graham Whitethorn, you goddamn pain in the arse.’
But she couldn’t. Because from inside the hoody of the teenage boy standing beside her she could just glimpse big worried eyes, and see the wipe of snot on his frayed baggy cuffs.
So, instead she took a deep invigorating breath of salty sea air, pushed her hair from her face, and said, ‘Come on then, Sonny. Let’s make some breakfast and call your mother. Tell her what silly old Grandpa’s done.’
They turned back towards the house. The beautiful house. The image on her retina fitting the outline exactly.
‘What do you mean he’s gone missing?’ Stella frowned into her phone, then almost without thinking pointed out of the car window and said to her seven-year-old, ‘Look, Rosie – Stonehenge.’
‘Missing…?’ Jack, her husband, mouthed from the driver’s seat.
Stella made a face, unsure.
Behind her, little Rosie had no interest in Stonehenge, deeply imbedded in YouTube on the iPad, happily powering through their 4G data with her gem-studded headphones on. Usually Stella would have clicked her fingers to get Rosie’s attention and pointed out of the window again to make sure she didn’t miss the view, but the phone call from her mother trumped any tourist attraction. ‘I don’t understand, Mum,’ Stella said. ‘How can Dad be missing? Where is he?’
Jack was frowning. Traffic was backing up from the roundabout up ahead.
‘Well darling, that’s what we don’t know,’ said her mother, her voice tinny over the phone.
Stella felt strangely out of control. Thoughts popped into her head that she wouldn’t have expected.
She and her father did not get along well. They barely talked. Hadn’t for years. Past anger had morphed into silence, and silence into habit – the threads tethered firmly in place, calcifying solid with stubbornness and age. Yet as her mother spoke, Stella found herself overcome by unfamiliar emotion. She worried suddenly that she might start to cry. God that would be embarrassing. Jack would probably crash the car in shock.
‘How long has he been missing?’ Stella asked, turning towards the window, eyes wide to dry the possible threat of tears.
‘Since yesterday,’ said her mother. ‘Although I’m not altogether sure what time he left because we were at Sainsbury’s.’
‘Since yesterday?’ Stella said, shocked. ‘Why didn’t you call before?’
‘Well, I knew you had a long drive today and I wanted you to get a good night’s sleep. And I thought it might be a good idea to give him a chance to come back without worrying everyone.’
This seemed very odd behaviour from her mother, who had never been the kind of person to suffer in silence.
‘So you’ve been worrying on your own?’
There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone.
‘Mum, are you OK?’
‘Yes darling, I’m fine,’ her mother said. And she sounded fine. Too fine. Almost drunk. Stella would have anticipated much more drama. A little more sobbing and neediness when actually she wondered if that was the kettle she could hear being flicked on in the background.
Stella frowned. ‘Is it something to do with Sonny? Is that why he’s left? Has Sonny been a pain?’
‘Not at all. Your father and Sonny have got on very well actually. I only told Sonny he’d gone this morning too – teenagers need their sleep, don’t they?’
Stella scrunched her eyes tight. The idea of her son and her father getting on well was too much at this point.
‘And have