Haven't They Grown(6)

Where was Georgina Braid? Why wasn’t she in the car with her brother and sister? The last thing I saw before I drove away was Flora aiming her remote-control fob at the car to lock it, and then at the gates of her property, which started to glide shut. Maybe Georgina was inside the car and hadn’t climbed out yet.

She wouldn’t have been able to climb. She’s only a few months old. Flora would have lifted her out in her car seat and …

I push the thought away, appalled by it. How can I, an intelligent adult woman, be thinking this? Georgina Braid was a few months old twelve years ago. She’s twelve now. Thomas is seventeen and Emily fifteen. These are facts, not something to speculate about. There is no other possible outcome, for someone who was five in 2007, apart from to be seventeen now, in 2019.

Unless they’re dead.

That’s not a thought I want in my head either. Thomas, Emily and Georgina Braid are not dead. Why would they be? Two of them can’t be, because …

Because you’ve just seen them? Aged five and three, which we’ve established is impossible? I didn’t imagine what I saw. That’s impossible too.

Ignoring the mud and the discarded football boots, I walk into the lounge and sit down, like someone waiting for something momentous to happen.

There’s a clattering of footsteps on the stairs, followed by Zan’s voice: ‘You need to stop blanking Lauren, like, right now.’

‘Blanking? What does that mean?’

‘You’ll never understand, Dad, so don’t make me explain.’

‘I’m not blanking her,’ Ben says. ‘I’m just not replying to her.’

‘Yeah, and she’s been spamming me all morning about it – so please deal with her, so I don’t have to.’

The lounge door bangs open, hitting the wall. Zannah walks in wearing a black vest top and turquoise pyjama bottoms with white spots. There’s a lilac-coloured towel wrapped around her head and a grainy-textured green substance all over her face. ‘Mum, can you make him sort Lauren out?’ She squints at me. ‘What’s up with you? You look weird.’

Great: she’s picked today to notice that I’m someone whose behaviour might mean something. She stares at me, waiting for a response. In the hall, Dominic is saying that Gary, Ben’s football coach, must regret taking Ben off at half-time, because the other team scored their two goals within seconds of Ben being replaced by an inferior defender. This irritates me in a way it wouldn’t normally. Dom wasn’t there. How does he know? From my brief exchange with Gary at the end of the game, he didn’t strike me as a man racked with regret.

‘Dad!’ Zannah yells. ‘Come and look at Mum. There’s something wrong with her.’

The easiest thing would be to say I feel ill. No one would question it. It’s hot. I’m not good with heat. It’s a joke in our house. Ben and I have pale, Celtic complexions, and constitutions that function better in cooler weather. Dom and Zannah are dark, with olive skin, and love stretching out in the sun for hours at a time.

‘Dad, get in here, seriously.’

By the time Dom arrives, I’ve convinced myself that the most sensible thing is to pretend to be fine in the hope that I soon will be. Maybe by dinner time I’ll have convinced myself that I didn’t see five-year-old Thomas and three-year-old Emily, that the heat made me hallucinate.

‘You okay?’ Dominic asks me.

‘She’s obviously not okay.’

‘Zan, can you give me and Dad a minute?’

‘What? Why? You’re not getting divorced, are you? If you are, can I hit all the people I’ve been not hitting till now? Callie’s parents are splitting up, and she’s started punching and pushing me – in a jokey way, but, I mean … I have bruises! Actually, I’m so done with that girl.’

‘We’re not splitting up,’ I tell her.

‘Beth, what’s wrong?’ Dom asks. ‘Should I be worried?’

From the hall, Ben calls out, ‘Can you all stop causing drama?’

‘Yeah, when we’re dead,’ says Zan. ‘Life is drama, little bruth.’

‘Zannah, please,’ says Dom. ‘Upstairs.’

‘Mum, why can’t I stay?’

‘Suzannah. We very rarely ask you to—’

‘Uh-oh. Dad’s full-naming me. It must be serious. All right, I’m going.’ Zan flounces out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I still approve of my advice to myself to say nothing and try to pretend it didn’t happen, but I know I can’t follow it. The words are swelling inside me, preparing to burst out.

‘I went to Hemingford Abbots while Ben was playing football.’

Dom frowns. ‘Where’s that?’

‘Near St Ives, where football was.’ I take a deep breath. This isn’t the difficult part of the conversation. This bit should be easy. ‘It’s where the Braids moved when they left Cambridge.’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, I remember – before they moved to Florida.’

‘What? Who moved to Florida?’

‘The Braids did.’

The door opens and Zannah reappears. ‘You’re never going to get anywhere at this rate. You need me to interpret.’ She performs some invented-on-the-spot sign language.