“You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
My father pursed his lips. Then he nodded, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face. “Okay,” he said, “good to know.” I blinked. I felt as if thousands of spiders were crawling out of the back of my shirt. I forced myself to stand still. He crossed his arms, his eyes still holding mine. “Your mother”—he paused, as if searching for the right words—“has been known to entertain some pretty odd ideas at times. I would hate for you to be—infected by that sort of thinking. Anyway. We probably shouldn’t bother her with this conversation, I think. Better we should keep it between ourselves, tell her we were chatting about school. We wouldn’t want to worry her. You understand me, precious?” I nodded, standing very still. He looked at me for a long time. Finally he said, “You will be all right, Willa.”
He looked down at his desk. I turned, reaching for the door handle.
“And, just so we’re clear,” he said, “I did not.”
I stopped. I looked back, my breath caught in my throat. My father was leafing through some papers. He didn’t look up. When he didn’t say anything further, I turned again to go.
“You’re a good one, Willa,” he said, almost half to himself. “If all women were like you, my life would be a damn sight easier.”
***
A day later, the police liaison officer was back.
“Based on what we know so far, we suspect it’s a migrant,” he said. “Some poor kid from the Philippines or Vietnam. Somehow ends up inside a long-term lockup.”
“But how did she get there?” my mother said. “That poor girl.”
“People smugglers, almost certainly. It’s a growing business. Mr. Martenwood, we’re going to need to interview your drivers, in fact, your entire workforce. All of them.”
My father said, “Jesus Christ, do you have any idea what that’s going to do to my business? Some little whore steals a lift from me and I pay the price.”
Two days later, my father let my mother and me know that he intended to take a trip to Southeast Asia. He planned to sell Martenwood Haulage and wanted to investigate possible business opportunities abroad. He couldn’t say when he’d be back. The morning after, a driver came to take him to the airport. I stood on the stone steps beside my mother, her arm around my shoulders, my chest tight. I felt as if I’d been holding my breath for weeks.
The day was already warm, the sky a peacock blue. My mother watched the limousine as it disappeared down the drive, a rigid smile fading slowly from her face. She stood for a long time after the car finally disappeared from sight, a fingertip pressed tight against her lips. I thought she looked unspeakably sad. The metal gates they’d installed swung open, and then shut. My father was gone. My mother sighed, and the look of exhaustion seemed to slip off her like a cloak. She pulled herself upright. She put her arms around me and clasped her fingers tight together. She looked at my face. Her eyes roved over mine and I waited for her to say something momentous.
After a moment she said, “Did you ever apply for that provisional license? I really ought to teach you to drive.”
***
We practiced every day. My mother put down the roof of her convertible and we went hiccuping up and down the gated road, first at a snail’s pace, then gradually faster. My mother was a relaxed instructor. Wearing a spotted sundress, head scarf, dark glasses and red lipstick, she appeared completely oblivious to the bucking, jerking motion of the car and the fact that I didn’t appear to be making any progress. Occasionally she’d shout clutch but mostly she kept up a stream of commentary about our neighbors, which she interspersed with lines from Dynasty, all of which were delivered in a slow American drawl. I’d say, “I keep forgetting which one is the indicator and which one is the wipers,” to which she’d reply, “Felicity Williams has most definitely had work done, you overrated cowboy.”
Later she based my lessons around trips out—to country houses, the coast or tea shops in little local towns. Despite my appalling skills behind the wheel, she always looked like she was enjoying herself. She smiled a lot that summer. She laughed. She sang along to her George Michael CDs. She wore short sleeves.
One warm afternoon we drove miles to see a crop circle that had appeared in a field. We stood looking at a vast yellow meadow beneath a sky filled with banks of lavender clouds. In front of us was a small section of flattened ground, but, from where we were standing, it mostly looked like a normal field of wheat.
“It’s incredibly disappointing,” my mother said. “I really wanted to see the whole thing. I suppose you’d only really be able to see the entire design from up there.” She pointed at the sky, then leaned her elbow on the top of the fence rail and propped her chin in her hand. After a bit, she said, “My entire life feels like that sometimes. Like I’m only ever seeing a tiny part, when what I really want is that bigger perspective.” She paused, “Still, it’s truly astonishing to think that aliens have landed right here, in this very spot.”
“Mum—”
“I’m joking, Willa.”
We stood in silence, both of us leaning on the wooden fence. After a while she said, “I’ve been thinking about starting a business.”
“Really? Doing what?”
“That’s where I get stuck. I have no idea. What could I actually do?”
“Something you know about. Something you enjoy.”
Her eyes drifted over the field. “Maybe I could start my own gin company. Something super-special, aimed at the top end. Boutique, obviously, with a lovely label and a really upmarket bottle—heavy weight, you know the type I mean: the sort that could give someone a really good clonk.”
“You’d have to come up with a name.”
“Yes. Something upbeat and full of possibilities—Adventure Gin, or something.”
I said, “Or Misadventure Gin.”
“Yes! Misadventure Gin. Wonderful, you clever thing. With the tagline Death by Misadventure.” She let out a hoot of laughter.
“That makes it sound like you’d want your customers to drink themselves to death.”
“I was thinking more about the clonking-over-the-head bit.” She turned and gave me a buoyant smile. “What?”
“I’m not sure gin is the best idea, Mum. You can’t run a successful business if you drink all the stock.” My mother pursed her lips and looked away. “Sorry,” I said, “I probably shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly what you meant, Willa. You think I’m a lush.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I squeezed her arm by way of apology. “Why d’you want to run a business?”
“So that, if it comes to it—” She stopped and the bright expression slipped off her face. After a long silence, she said, “If your father wanted a divorce, we’d have to sell the house and then how would she ever find me? How would she know where I was?”
I put an arm around my mother’s waist. “I keep thinking I see her, Mum. I’ve lost track of the number of people I’ve run up to, shouting her name. It never is.”
My mother drew me into her. “Oh, darling.”
