Part 11 (1/2)

'Oh?' I was puzzled by her lack of enthusiasm. 'Sounds like fun. Did you find out about the orchestra?'

'Mm-hm. I can start anytime.'

'Flute lessons?'

'For G.o.d's sake! Yes, flute lessons.'

'C'mon, doll, talk to me. You look like you've swallowed a wasp. What's up?'

'I'm fine.' She didn't look fine.

'They all want to know you. That's good, right?'

'Only because I'm the new kid on the block.' She picked at her hem, mouth quavering. 'They know nothing about me. They've never been to England. They're not interested in where I've come from or who I really am. I've never watched any of their soap operas, nor do I want to, nor do I care how the New Zealand netball team is doing or which boy Tabby is dating this week. I don't play a sport and I'm never ever ever going to a gym. So where does that leave us?'

'I know what you mean.' The wind was gone from my sails. I thought of Lou, who'd shared my childhood. At that moment I missed her more than I could possibly have imagined.

'They're nice people, but they aren't my people,' said Sacha. 'They'll never be my people.'

'Give them time. Get a little common history.'

She'd curled up in her seat like a small child, and I wondered what had rattled her. We were weaving through the hills when she finally told me. 'Ivan's going out with somebody.'

I pulled into a gateway as the sad story came tumbling out. My poor girl. She'd checked her emails at lunchtime-it was against the rules, but everyone did it.

'He didn't want me to find out from anyone else,' she gulped. 'And he was just in time because straight after his, three other people had messaged me on Facebook. I was using a computer in the library and I was just staring at the screen, feeling sick, and everyone was going, ”What's wrong, what's wrong?” I just couldn't face them all feeling sorry for me so I ran down the playing field and just about screamed. I mean, we agreed we should both move on, and I've been gone three months now, but . . .' She dissolved into sobs. 'I want to go home. I want to see Grandpa.'

I turned out of the driveway and drove on, wis.h.i.+ng I could fix this for her. I felt stricken. A thought was fluttering in my mind, enticing and mischievous: I was wondering whether it was possible to turn our container around in the port and send it home. Perhaps I could get my job back and stick up two fingers at ghastly Lillian. All the way to Patupaiarehe I dreamed, picturing the joyful scene as Dad and Louisa met us at Heathrow.

Instead Kit met us by the car, almost dancing with suppressed delight. He had two pieces of news. The first was that the gallery had sold three of his paintings. Kit had to pay a hefty commission and the balance wouldn't make us rich, but it was a spectacular start and they were asking for more.

The second bulletin should also have been music to my ears. He'd had a call from the removal company. Our container had made it through customs at the Port of Napier. It had been held up by biosecurity but was in their warehouse now and would arrive at Patupaiarehe first thing on Sat.u.r.day morning.

It was too late to turn it around.

Twelve.

The twins were on watch straight after breakfast that Sat.u.r.day, ploughing d.i.n.ky car roads in the dry mud at the top of the drive. As I hung up was.h.i.+ng nearby, they discussed which of their long-lost toys they'd play with first. Charlie planned to tip Lego all over the floor and make the biggest plane in the world-big as a real one-this big! Finn was salivating at the prospect of riding his bike. Before we left England he'd already graduated from stabilisers, which was a source of much chest-puffing.

November had begun, and brought us a fine spring day. m.u.f.fin lay stretched on her side, snoring in the sun. Sacha came wandering across the gravel wearing a red halterneck top and denim shorts. Ivan's locket still hung around her neck. As she walked she was filming us with the pocket-sized video camera I'd been given as a leaving present.

'I'm making a DVD for everyone at home,' she explained. 'Uncle Philip's idea.'

'Swing me, Sash?' begged Finn, holding up his arms. Sacha took hold of his hands and spun, long hair flying, until Finn let go and staggered giddily. 'Whoa! Look, Charlie, I'm a shrunkened sailor.'

'You feeling a bit happier?' I asked quietly.

'A bit. Just got a text from a girl at school. She's invited me to a party.'

'Oh, that's great! Tabby?'

'Nah. Bianka. Spelled with a k. Says can I stay over at her place next Friday night.'

I'd never even heard of this girl. 'What's she like?'

Sacha was fiddling with the camera. 'Brainbox. Brightest pebble on the beach.'

'Except you. Careful! I love that camera, it's so cute.'

'Bianka's pretty offbeat. Talks about things like Sylvia Plath and Germaine Greer and how the nuclear family is obsolete.'

'How true,' I chuckled, hanging up Finn's trunks.

'She writes poetry.'

'Good poetry?'

''Course it's good poetry.'

'Is Friday anything special?' I grunted, reaching for another peg.

'Bonfire night on her cousins' farm. Can I go?'

'Well, of course. Maybe.'

Sacha crossed her eyes. 'Of course, maybe? Illogical, Captain.'

'I don't know Bianka's family. Are they . . . you know. Are they all right?'

'Hardly.' Jamming my camera into her pocket, Sacha reached into the was.h.i.+ng basket. 'Her dad's a psychopathic ma.s.s murderer and her mum's a gangland hit-woman.'

'Well, they might be, for all I know.'

'It's fine, Mum. The dad works for the planning department. The only real and present danger is that he'll bore me to death.'

'Is there a mother, or is the nuclear family obsolete?'

'She's got cancer.'

I was immediately overwhelmed by that awkward mixture of compa.s.sion and relief that it was somebody else. 'Oh, poor lady.'

'Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. She had it years ago, and it's back. She's had chemotherapy. Her hair all came out in clumps on her pillow. And her eyebrows.'

'Well then, obviously you can't go. The last thing they need is an extra child hanging about. And Bianka's mother might catch something from you. Like . . .'

'Like Grandma Norris did? It's okay. They want to live normally.' Sacha thrust her hands into her back pockets, swaying to some inaudible tune, her eyelashes long and tangled as she gazed down the drive. 'What d'you think these antipods wear for Guy Fawkes Night?'