Part 44 (1/2)

Six days. She has six days to pack, to organise, to say goodbye.

I try to put on a cheerful face. Really, I do try. I field anxious phone calls, a.s.suring all enquirers that she just wants to finish her education in the UK-gosh, yes, she'll be back before we know it. I wash her clothes and organise the flights. Kit helps the boys to tape themselves telling jokes and singing their naughtiest songs, which they think might cheer her up when she's lonely.

Again and again, Dad tries to rea.s.sure me that we're doing the right thing. She'll live with him, in the bedroom that she's always used. She can go back to her old school, back to Lydia and her other friends, and simply start Year Twelve again. When I protest that we can't afford the fees, he smiles. He was going to leave Sacha a little money in his will. Well, he'll pay the school fees with it instead, and cheat the tax man.

But it doesn't help.

Every moment of every day is bathed in cold grief. Once the lights go out at night, we seem to drown in it. This time next week we'll have no Sacha. There will be emptiness and silence where she used to be. It feels almost like a death.

This time in five days, she'll be gone.

Four days.

Three.

Two.

It takes all her resolve to keep going through this crash. She forces herself to stay on the job, sorting through her possessions with gritted-teeth determination. There's a new certainty about her, as though-at last-she knows her enemy. On the final afternoon she telephones the Colberts and asks to visit. They're delighted to hear from her.

The river is too high to ford so she and I drive around to their place.

'Sure you want to do this, Sacha?' asks Kit, as we leave the house. 'You don't have to.'

'No more secrets.' Sacha begins to scratch her wrist, then b.a.l.l.s her hands into nervous fists. 'That's rule number one.'

I'm not so sure. In fact, I'm dreading the next hour. Last night I dug out the newspaper article about Jean and his pet.i.tion. Those who are involved in the supply of this substance, and those who offend while under its influence, must be brought to justice and irrevocably removed from our streets.

Unequivocal, you might say.

I've barely parked before Pamela and Jean come smiling out to meet us, kissing Sacha on both cheeks and exclaiming over how tired she looks. They've laid a pot of tea and blueberry m.u.f.fins on a coffee table by the fire in their living room. It isn't a room they use much-generally they're to be found in their palatial kitchen or out on the glorious terrace-but today is obviously a special occasion. They've set out fine china teacups with gold edging. Above the fireplace, four brothers laugh together on a hillside.

'Sit down, sit down,' begs Jean, pulling out chairs. 'We're so pleased you've come. We didn't like to intrude at such a time. Your family will want to be left in peace, with Sacha and your father leaving so soon.'

'When will you be back?' asks Pamela, as she eases another log into the fire.

'I don't know,' says Sacha. She picks up a m.u.f.fin, then lays it back on her plate. 'Look, Pamela . . . Jean. I can't eat your m.u.f.fins. I can't accept any more of your kindness until I tell you something.'

Pamela is still fiddling with the fireguard but Jean leans closer, rubbing his hands amiably. 'A revelation! Go ahead.'

'Right.' Sacha glances at me, nervously tucking a curl behind her ear. 'Um, right. It's to do with why I'm leaving.'

And she tells them, with an honesty and humility that gives me hope. At first Pamela and Jean wear indulgent smiles, as though she's a small child reciting a poem; but as she continues to talk, the affection freezes on their faces. Pamela moves to sit on the arm of Jean's chair. He's leaning on one elbow, chewing his thumbnail and staring intently at Sacha while she tells them about her addiction, and the burglary, and Sibella's portrait. There's no hint of his usual good-natured humour.

As Sacha describes how she began to courier the drug, Jean's face actually seems to change texture. He looks like a different man. Any minute, I think, he's going to order us both out of the house. After all, he's heard the whining justifications of P addicts and their parents before. It was the P that did it, the P changed her son . . . I hope he hangs himself in jail.

It's when she comes to the night Finn fell that Sacha finally breaks down. Perhaps the hostile silence of her audience has unnerved her. She stops in mid-sentence and covers her face with her hands.

I rub her back, wis.h.i.+ng we hadn't come. 'I owe you both an apology,' I say. 'I didn't tell you the truth.' Two horrified faces turn to me as I describe exactly what happened on the balcony.

Pamela takes Jean's hand. 'So the social workers were absolutely right,' she says dazedly. 'Finn didn't just fall. He was thrown.'

'I threw him,' whispers Sacha.

'You threw him.' Pamela blinks incredulously. 'And I gave them an earful. I told them you were the nicest family I'd ever met.'

'If you feel you must, you can phone the social services this minute,' I tell her. 'Or the police. Turn us in, I can't stop you. But Sacha is leaving New Zealand tomorrow and I have no idea when-or if-she will ever come back.'

The fire sparks and spits in the grate. Jean's eyes turn to the painting above the mantelpiece, and we all follow his gaze. Daniel smiles down at us, his face young and hopeful, hands around his little brother's shoulders. The next moment Sacha is on her feet, clumsily knocking the coffee table as she lurches sideways. A china cup tumbles to the floor, spraying tea in a long, dark streak across the carpet.

'I'll go,' she says, her voice high and quavering. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here . . . Mum, please can we just go?'

She heads blindly for the door. I'm stooping to pick up the fallen teacup when Jean levers himself from his chair. His eyes look hot and red-rimmed.

'No,' he roars.

Pamela's hand shoots out. She pulls her husband back by the shoulder. 'Let it go,' she hisses urgently. 'Wait until you've calmed down. You might say something you regret.'

Jean shakes her off. 'Sacha!' he shouts. His voice seems to rock the peaceful room. 'Don't you dare leave this house.'

Sacha halts in the doorway. She's beside herself, bent double with sobs, her arms tight around her stomach as though she has an agonising cramp. 'I just want to go,' she weeps. She's gasping for breath. 'Just want to . . . I'm so ashamed.'

Jean moves closer to her. I'm about to intervene when he holds out his arms and hugs her to his chest.

'I've never had a daughter.' He inhales, shutting his eyes. 'But if I had one, I hope she would be very much like you.'