Page 43 of Unworthy
“I felt it best to get out of there as soon as I could. The kids had our number – I told them they were free to ring us if there were any problems. Heath was adamant I should go. He seemed so acutely embarrassed of his mother that I thought it best I leave. After all, they were both fourteen.” He shrugged. “I’ve always regretted it if I’m honest.”
“So that’s why they spent most of the other holidays with us?”
Mum nodded. “There was that one summer when their father came to collect them from school. He was very charming. Despite the obvious level of neglect of the twins, the staff at the school still seemed to be totally in awe of their parents. Glamourous types, not like your dad and me, and super posh. Aristocracy or some such. Lord and Lady Markham. They own half of Cumbria if you’d believe it – family money. People are impressed by that sort of thing you see. Anyway, the dad took them home that summer and we didn’t see them again until the start of the next term. But…” Mum paused, and her expression clouded with anger for a moment before she cleared it. “Well, we made sure thatneverhappened again.”
“Why?”
“They were thin, love,” Dad said quietly. “They didn’t look right. Heath didn’t smile when he saw us. The light had left that boy’s eyes. It–it wasn’t right.”
I felt my face drain of colour and sat back in my chair. I’d always presumed that Heath and Verity’s life was infused with privilege, that they’d had everything they wanted. As adults, they had access to properties all over the globe, endless funds to take our whole family away. I thought they just did that because they could, because it was pocket change to them. But I was beginning to see just how important my family must have been to them back then. I didn’t want to consider why a summer with their own family as children left them worryingly thin, why the light in Heath’s eyes had been dulled. It made my chest ache just thinking about it. But one thing was for sure – they werenotgoing to go back to that place without Hardcastle support. Not if I could help it.
Chapter 20
When it came to humans
Heath
I scowled at V and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. Fern Hardcastle and Mia waved at me from the back of Yaz’s van, whilst Aubrey and Max gave me vaguely apologetic expressions from the front next to a smiling Yaz. She was wearing the most bizarre outfit of dungarees, a barely there vest top, a bandana securing her mass of blond curls on top of her head, and of course the flip flops that rarely left her feet (apparently Yaz’s feet need “freedom from the oppression of shoes" or some such nonsense).
“Are you responsible for this?” I asked my sister through gritted teeth as I pulled away from the drive. The ancient van moved after us, emitting a plume of toxic smoke. For someone who purported to care so much about the environment, Yaz’s van was an environmental disaster. How it passed its last MOT was a mystery. I could imagine the mechanic at the local garage falling into a Yaz-induced trance (not an unusual occurrence for men in her presence) and signing off a dangerous vehicle without having full control of his mental faculties. Apparently she needed the van for the business now and it was more eco-conscious to keep that heap of junk going than to buy brand new. I suspected it had more to do with Yaz being too damn proud to accept any help with financing a new van than anything. She was sostubborn. Following V and me on this grim journey was further evidence of that.
“They said they wanted to come and pay their last respects,” V replied. “What was I supposed to do? Tell them to sod off?”
“The funeral’s not until Monday. We’re clearing the house out tomorrow. We don’t need them to– ”
Verity laid her hand on my arm and gave it a small squeeze to silence me. We’d always been able to communicate without words from when we were small. I knew she was telling me to accept the help, that weneededthe help. I swallowed and glanced in the rearview mirror. Aubrey had a gigantic map opened out and was grappling with it in the front seat. Max grabbed it out of his hand and pointed at the phone that was programmed with satnav on the dashboard. Yaz was grinning throughout this exchange but batted her dad’s hand away when he started poking at the screen with a frown on his face. I stole a couple more glances back at them over the next half hour. The map versus satnav debate seemed to be ongoing, despite the fact they didn’t need either, seeing as we were going in convoy, and V and I knew exactly how to get there.
Once when I looked back again, I glanced at Yaz and she rolled her eyes at me – communicating that her dad was barmy but that she loved him. Sharing that joke with me. I felt some of the tension in my shoulders drain away. Maybe Verity was right. Maybe Ididneed them there. But down in the pit of my stomach I just didn’t want anybody tosee.Deep down I was still the embarrassed child, ashamed of my parents, and fiercely hoping nobody found out the truth about how they lived, howwehad lived.
Some kids hate boarding school. Verity and I bloody loved it. God bless the posh schools of the UK for taking kids from the age of seven. Regular meals, clean sheets – such luxuries were a novelty to us. Other seven-year-old kids were crying at night during the first term – missing home, missing their parents. We thought they were crazy. We couldn’t understand it back then. It wasn’t until we realised how different our home life was from other peoples’ that we began to understand.
“Do you thinkshe’llbe there?” I whispered, but I knew that V had heard me when I saw her shoulders go up and her arms move to go around her middle, so she was hugging herself.
“I hope not,” she whispered back, and we left it at that.
*****
“Right, well I–” Fern broke off for a moment, obviously searching for the right thing to say under the circumstances.
It was five hours later and all the Hardcastles, Verity and I were standing in the vast kitchen of the main house. It shouldn’t have been a shock, but still I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the state of it. Every surface was covered in bottles, old plates, cigarettes. Black rubbish bags were overflowing next to the almost buried kitchen table. The only space cleared on the wood surface was for a couple of rotting dead pheasants, with a gun (very likely loaded) sitting next to them.
Fern cleared her throat. “Let’s find a kettle, shall we? Tea will make everything clearer.”
“I very much doubt they’ll be a usable kettle, any tea bags or mugs, and since the fridge hasn’t worked in over two decades, there definitely won’t be any milk,” I said in a tight voice.
“Ah,” Fern replied, and we all fell silent again. A soft hand closed around my fingers, and I glanced down at Yaz. Beautiful Yaz in this horror show of a house, looking at me with her heart in her eyes was almost too much to take. Then the barking started. Roger, Max’s Alsatian, who’d made the trip with the Hardcastles in the van, was going nuts. He shot from Max’s side, barking all the way as he raced to the kitchen table. After a few more seconds of barking he stopped, but kept his attention fixed on the floor under the table. That was when we heard it, this awful, terrified, low whimpering sound. Mia was the first to approach the table, with Max hot on her heels, trying to hold her back. But she shrugged him off to duck down next to Roger under the table and we heard her shocked gasp accompanied by more whimpering. She started making soft, encouraging noises. Roger started whining and eventually a small brown and white (well, what must have been white before it was caked in old mud) spaniel emerged. It was limping and so thin you could see its ribcage under its fur. It skirted around Mia and instead went to Roger. The two dogs touched noses, and then after a bout of sniffing, the little dog’s tail gave a half-hearted wag before it backed away under the table again.
Suddenly the room felt too hot. It was autumn, the bloody house had no heating (never had, even before the old bastard died) but I was sweating. A lump had lodged itself in my throat and however much I swallowed, I couldn’t seem to clear it. My legs felt weird, like they were in danger of not holding me up, and I staggered back. Everyone’s attention went from the dog under the table to me. I felt cornered. This kitchen, this house, everything was too much. It was like my brain was overloading, and the sight of that pathetic dog tipped me over the edge.
“I–I can’t stay here,” I heard myself saying in a raspy voice I didn’t recognise. “I’m sorry, V.”
The bloody hallway was so massive and so full of crap that I thought I wouldn’t make it, but I managed to get outside and slammed the front door behind me, hoping that would slam shut the door to my memories as well. But nothing could do that. Much as I’d like to just forget, I knew I never would. This wave of realisation was accompanied by an unstoppable one of nausea, and I lost the coffee and the Wagon Wheel that Verity had forced on me earlier that morning into the overgrown rose bushes.
I knew she was there before I felt her warm hand on my back. That feeling of well-being punctuated through the nausea and pain, and my vision started to focus again. Both my hands were supporting my weight on the wall while my head hung between them as she stroked my back, murmuring reassurances like, “It’s all going to be okay. You’ll get through this. We’re all here for you.”
But the one that cut through my panic attack the most was the simple statement, “I won’t leave you.”
When I pushed away from the wall, her hand fell away and she gave me some space but held out a bottle of water. I took it and used the water to swill my mouth out and spit before drinking down a small sip.
