Master of the House

‘Is it?’ he said, looking into my eyes. ‘I’m not so sure any more. I’m not so sure I wouldn’t be perfectly happy living here with you in a caravan by the river, fishing for our supper and reading poetry round a camp fire at nights.’

‘You … you don’t mean that. You’re such a dick, Lethbridge.’

My anger covered the starry-eyed nonsense that was going on underneath it.

‘Why?’ he said, leaning closer to me, putting his hand to my face so I turned it away. ‘What’s so wrong with that? Tell me. Why wouldn’t that work?’

I hid from him, face-down on the duvet. I knew he was leaning right over me. I could feel his breath, then his fingers drifted along my spine.

‘Talk to me, Lucy-In-The-Sky-With-Diamonds,’ he whispered.

I turned over and lay on my back, looking up at the familiar ceiling. I’d been surprised at how tiny these vans were when I came in. I’d forgotten.

‘If you think I ever want to live in a caravan again, you must be insane,’ I said. ‘It’s all very romantic when you haven’t lived in a poky tin can that’s freezing in winter and stifling in summer with nowhere to put anything and all the site knowing your business if you raise your voice above a whisper. But when you have …’

Joss lay down next to me, his shoulder against mine.

‘Yeah,’ he conceded. ‘That was a bit of a daft thing to say. I know I’m painting a rose-coloured picture for myself. But you make me feel like that. And I feel something, a kind of strange affection for this site, because it’s where you lived and grew and became what you are.’

‘Joss, why are you doing this? I wish you’d stop it.’

‘Stop what?’

‘Making out that this is some kind of … love affair.’

‘But I do love you. And you love me.’

I believed him, but I had believed him before.

‘I loved you then, Joss. And you said you loved me, but you didn’t.’

‘No, that’s not true,’ he said. ‘I did love you, always. Just because I left you didn’t mean –’

‘Oh, what a crock of shit!’ I shouted, punching a fist into the duvet. ‘Either you were cruel or you were lame. Either way, it’s not exactly attractive. And nothing’s changed. You’re still the lord. I’m still the caravan girl.’

‘No, listen,’ said Joss, and he sounded so agitated I propped myself up to stare at him. ‘There’s one thing that has changed everything for me. It’s made some things difficult, but it’s made other things possible, and it’s set me free.’

‘What? What are you on about?’

‘Father’s death. Lucy, I laughed when I heard the news. I laughed.’

I had absolutely no idea what to say to that. All I could do was carry on staring and hope that my bug eyes might bring forth some kind of elucidation.

‘You remember the way I was when we were kids?’ he added.

‘How could I not?’ Again, I lived through a sense-memory of being slashed on the legs with a bramble, not once, but repeatedly. How different that seemed from what he had just done to me with his riding crop – the terror all translated into exhilaration.

‘That’s how he was to me. ‘“Man hands on misery to man.”’ Or girl, in my case.’

‘“It deepens like a coastal shelf,”’ I capped, seeing a great big piece of missing jigsaw puzzle slotting into its place. ‘Your father was abusive?’

‘In the modern parlance,’ he said, with a little smile that tugged at my heart. ‘When I was small, it was called being a disciplinarian. “The boy needs to know what’s what.” That was me – “the boy”. Always “the boy”. Blind eyes were turned. But I don’t think anyone really thought it was normal.’

‘Oh, Joss.’ I reached for him. He was twitchy, and a little reluctant at first, but he allowed me to take his hand. ‘Didn’t you ever tell anyone?’

‘Who could I tell? Everyone around me knew about it, on some level or other, but they didn’t want to challenge him. My mother agreed with him. She always did. She put him before me, every time. She never hurt me, physically, but she knew exactly what to say to make me feel …’

He swallowed, unable to continue for a moment.