The Skeleton Tree by Diane Janes (reading women TXT) 📕

by something someone else has done. Has it occurred to you how horrible this must be for John? Having worked with someone who’s done a thing like that?’

‘Are you still seeing John?’ Wendy asked.

‘From time to time.’ Tara sounded cagey.

‘Well, you know what I think. But you’re eighteen in a few weeks and I’m not your father anyway …’

‘Oh, Bruce, don’t say that,’ Wendy protested.

‘I’m not your father,’ he continued, ‘so you don’t need to take any notice of me, but if you end up dead in a ditch somewhere, it won’t be anything to do with me either.’ He stomped out without affording a right of reply.

‘I wish you’d never spoken to your dad the way you did,’ Wendy said. ‘It’s never been properly sorted out and now there’s always this … this edginess between the pair of you. Things were all right before you went and upset him like that.’

‘For you, maybe.’ Tara spat the words out before taking her leave in equally dramatic fashion.

Wendy noticed that Tara had taken the paper with her. She would probably show it to her girlfriends later and they would all enjoy the frisson of excitement that came from a brush with a newsworthy story. And really, she reflected, there was nothing for Bruce to get upset about. Peter Grayling was in custody. Any danger he might have represented was nullified now. She thrust away the thought of his voice echoing through the house, singing those odd, mournful songs, the times he might have watched herself, or Tara, or Katie from a window. On second thoughts, she supposed that Bruce was right. She should have told him what Mrs Parsons had said. Lies and deliberate omissions always came back to bite you, if you got found out.

She wondered how often Tara was still seeing John. He hadn’t been mentioned since the original argument, but that didn’t really mean anything. Tara came and went pretty much as she pleased. When she said she was going into town with Joanne or round to Helen Newbould’s house, they had no way of knowing if it was true, and until now Wendy had carefully avoided mentioning John or asking Tara directly if they were dating, because there was no point in needlessly provoking a row. Besides which, forbidden fruit was always the sweetest. Rule number one with teenage daughters: parental disapproval inevitably renders any undesirable boyfriend ten times more attractive.

Wendy returned to the kitchen and cleared away the lunch things. Bruce called from the hall to say that he was heading for the match and Tara called a goodbye in turn as she was going into town. The younger children had gone off to play, leaving Wendy to deal with their leftover crusts and contemplate whether or not to run the mop over the kitchen floor. Bruce had been right about the amount of maintenance involved in taking on The Ashes, she thought. The floor area must be at least treble that of the house in Jasmine Close, if not more.

There had been no opportunity to smooth things over with Bruce before he went off to watch his football match. Wendy had decided to apologize. She had been wrong to say nothing, she recognized that now. She would make it right with him when he came in, she thought, as she stacked the dishwasher and turned it on.

There was an old Tyrone Power movie on BBC2 and, after checking on the children (Katie had seated herself at the dining table, where she was gravely sorting out her stamp collection, while Jamie was riding his bike up and down the drive, emitting sounds in imitation of a Harley Davidson at full throttle), she settled down in the sitting room to watch. The performances were stagey and the plot creaked, but it was pleasantly reminiscent of wet Sunday afternoons spent with Mam and Dad, everyone cosy in front of the glowing coal fire, and she stuck with it until the credits rolled. As she stood up, she noticed Tara and her friend, Joanne, coming up the drive. She met them as they entered the kitchen. ‘You’re back sooner than I expected.’

‘It’s these shoes,’ Tara said, pointing down at the offending items. ‘They’re rubbing me. I couldn’t stand it any longer. Jo’s mother’s just got a microwave oven. We should get one, they’re amazing.’

Wendy ignored the abrupt change of subject, introducing one of her own. ‘Did you see any suitable invitations?’

‘Oh, no. Sorry, I completely forgot to look. We went into Topshop though and I got this amazing T-shirt.’ Tara fumbled with her bag and dragged out a skimpy-looking vest which she held up for inspection.

Wendy declined to be amazed. ‘Oh, Tara! The one thing you should have been focussed on and you forgot all about it. The clock is ticking, you know. The party is only six weeks away. If you don’t give people proper notice, they won’t be able to make it.’

‘Relax. People can always make a good party. I’m starving. Do you fancy some toast, Jo? We’ve got strawberry jam, marmite or peanut butter. Oh … and also a scrape of lemon curd in the bottom of the jar.’ Tara held up the jar in question, assessing the quantity that remained.

‘I’ll make a pot of tea,’ Wendy said. ‘And it’s about time the children had a drink. Slip out and ask Jamie if he wants tea or juice, will you?’

‘Where is he?’ asked Tara.

‘He’s riding his bike. Didn’t you pass him as you came in?’

‘We passed his bike. It was lying on the drive. Jamie wasn’t there. He’s probably in the back garden.’ Tara headed outside and across the courtyard. Wendy heard her calling her brother’s name as she disappeared round the corner of the outbuildings. She was back a moment later. ‘Not there,’ she said, as she crossed the hall. ‘He must have gone up to play in his bedroom.’ A second later her voice sounded loudly from the foot of the stairs: ‘Jamie …