The Train, Sarah Bourne [dark books to read .txt] 📗

at him, eyes narrowed. ‘She used to say a lot of things, which one are you thinking of in particular?’

Trevor smiled at the reminder of his wife’s pontifications. She did have an opinion about most things, it was true, and she wasn’t scared to voice them. He used to call her his soap-box queen. Oh, Frostie.

‘I was thinking about what she said about honesty always being the best policy, even, or perhaps, especially when it is hard.’ He glanced at Felice who was looking off into the distance, as if hearing her mother’s voice. He went on. ‘But if two people love and respect each other they have to be truthful with each other.’

Felice nodded. ‘Yeah, I remember. Sometimes it hurt. Like when she told me I was a fool for thinking Tony Riley really wanted to marry me. We were eight and so in love. We held hands in the back row of form two.’

‘I didn’t know that. I’d’ve been round to his house with a cricket bat if I had!’

Felice laughed. ‘Yes, Dad, you probably would. That’s why we didn’t tell you! You’ve always been overprotective.’ She looked at him as the laughter faded between them. ‘You’re at it again, aren’t you?’

Trevor looked at his shoes. ‘Let’s go find some lunch,’ he said, knowing he wouldn’t be able to eat. The dragging sensation had returned.

In one of the few establishments in the area that hadn’t reinvented itself as a gastropub serving expensive organic food art, Trevor watched Felice tuck into a ploughman’s lunch. She’d always had a hearty appetite. She was the person he knew best in the entire world and yet, he realised, there were parts of her life he knew nothing about and while he knew this was normal and natural, it made him ache. He had held her moments after her birth, fed her, changed her nappies, been there to witness her first steps, had marvelled at her first words. He’d encouraged her first attempts at reading and writing, praised her stories. He and Frostie agreed they had been sent the most beautiful, talented, perfect child on whom to lavish their affection and it was their job to nurture and guide her to independence. They’d done a good job. Too good, maybe. They’d looked forward to the time when Felice gave them grandchildren, lived nearby and asked them to babysit, to be involved in her life and that of her family. But her mother was gone and here she was living in London, working in her chosen career and not needing him anymore.

Trevor sighed, ran a hand over his eyes, realising he was lonely.

‘You’re not eating, Dad,’ said Felice, glancing up, and then looking closely at her father. ‘Are you okay?’

Smile, say yes, Trevor told himself. ‘I don’t know.’ He took her hand. There was a sticky spot where she’d spilt a bit of pickle on her skin and hadn’t licked it off. He had to stop himself from moistening the edge of a napkin and rubbing it away.

Felice stopped chewing. A crease appeared between her eyebrows. It hadn’t been there before her mum died, Trevor noted.

‘Do you think of your mother much?’ he asked.

The crease deepened. I’m upsetting her, thought Trevor and wanted to cradle her in his arms and take all her pain away like he had when she fell down as a little girl, or quarrelled with a friend.

‘I think about her a lot. I talk to her every day.’

Trevor smiled. ‘She’d like that. I do too. It must be pretty busy for her up there, both of us chatting away to her.’

‘You’re lonely, Dad. You need to get out more. You’re still an attractive man, you should meet someone.’

Trevor’s hands flew to his face. How could his own daughter say something like that? He’d thought they knew each other, but obviously his daughter didn’t know him at all. He wondered, fleetingly, if in loving her as devotedly as they had, he and Frostie had allowed their daughter to become somewhat self-absorbed – unable, or unwilling – to look beyond herself. He pushed the thought away quickly. That wasn’t it. She’d spoken out of concern for him. If she thought about it she’d know he would never find another woman like his wife.

They fell into an awkward silence. Felice started eating again.

Watching her, Trevor wondered if, perhaps, this was his daughter’s way of telling him she would never be moving back to Milton Keynes, that her life was now in London with friends he didn’t know and work he didn’t understand. She couldn’t be his little girl forever, nor his companion. His throat tightened at the thought but he knew it was right. He had to let her go, had to take what scraps of her life and her time she offered and be proud she was resilient and strong. If only it didn’t hurt so much. He carried her around with him day in, day out, tucked away in his heart but she carried other things, other people with her. It was what he’d wanted and he hated it.

‘So,’ he said, ‘tell me about this boy.’

He saw Felice’s face soften and knew she’d been waiting for him to ask. ‘What do you want to know?’

What he really wanted to know was how she could let herself fall for someone so obviously unsuitable. A young man with a mental illness.

‘How did you meet?’ he asked.

‘At a party. I was with my girlfriends and one of them knew him from school.’

‘And what does he do?’ When he’s not mentally ill, Trevor added to himself.

‘He’s back at university. He’s already got a degree, but it wasn’t what he wanted to do, so he’s studying again.’

Of course, thought Trevor, a dissolute. The son of a wealthy family who never set any limits, who gave him to understand he need never do anything because there would always be money for him to indulge his little whims.

‘What is he studying?’

‘Photography. He’s very talented. You should