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

‘I’d love to.’ Trevor smiled tightly. ‘What does he plan to do when he finishes?’

Felice put her knife down, wiped her mouth and smiled. ‘What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? Don’t you trust me to choose my own boyfriend?’

Trevor wanted to say, No, no one will ever be good enough for you, especially this one. He wanted to whisk her away to a place where all the young men were healthy and worked hard and knew the value of his little girl.

‘I just want to know you’re happy, that’s all.’

‘I am. I really am.’

‘So… what’s the nature, I mean, how is he… what’s he got?’

Felice sat back in her chair, arms folded. ‘Why does it matter so much?’

The ache in Trevor’s belly intensified.

‘I only want to know he can make you happy, that you’re not going to be held back by his…’ It was all coming out wrong. He’d put Felice on the defensive, the very thing he had wanted to avoid. ‘I’m sorry. Look, I’m your father, I only want what’s best for you.’

‘Attacking my boyfriend isn’t exactly helping, is it?’

Trevor shrugged and shook his head. He was fighting a losing battle. If he didn’t concede defeat he might lose more than this argument.

‘I’m sorry, Sweetpea. When can I meet him?’ The words felt false in his mouth but they had the right effect. Felice smiled.

‘Tonight – you can stay, can’t you? He’s coming round later.’

‘I thought he was in hospital?’

‘He’s going to be discharged soon and he’s allowed out a bit before then. He goes to a day programme now.’

‘So what was the meeting this morning about?’

‘His future. We were talking about his support network and stuff.’

So that’s what she was – one of a support network. The boy was so damaged he needed a web of people around him to depend on so he didn’t go mad again. It was even worse than he’d thought. He swallowed, ran a finger round the inside of his collar which suddenly felt too tight, and said he would love to stay to meet him.

After lunch Trevor occupied himself by going to the National Gallery while Felice went back to work. He found looking at paintings soothing and went straight to the Impressionists. He loved Monet’s Giverny paintings; the colours made him feel so tranquil. He also liked his snow scenes. Another favourite was Goenuette’s Boulevard de Clichy Under Snow. There was something about snow, the way it made a place look clean and sharp. He had memories of taking Felice tobogganing on the rare occasions it snowed enough to do so – the flush of her face, the shrieks of excitement, the exhaustion at the end of the day as he trudged through the slush pulling his shivering little daughter home and the tingling of fingers as they warmed again near the fire. Maybe it was also that the scenes in the paintings were so different to the country he remembered as the place of his birth; Jamaica, with its lush tropicality, its verdant hills, its vibrancy. He had become so English that he was discomfited by the fecundity of the place, the overt sensuality.

He sighed, moved into the next room and took a seat on one of the comfy leather sofas in front of the Constables. The Hay Wain evoked fond memories of the cycling holiday he and Frostie had taken in Suffolk. They’d gone to Willy Lott’s cottage specially to see the place where it was painted. They’d gazed at the cottage and walked in the fields along the River Stour, chatting about how different it must be now to how it was when Constable sat there painting. His favourite painting, though, was Stratford Mill which hung next to The Hay Wain. A group of young boys fishing, a little girl watching and the sky reflected in the wide, slow river. He sat for over an hour, his eyes on the pictures but most of the time his mind elsewhere.

Did he really have any right to interfere in his daughter’s life anymore? She was twenty-two after all, had a good degree and a job she enjoyed and which paid enough for her to live in London.

What he couldn’t convince himself of was that she really knew what she was getting herself into with Liam; life with a man who would never earn a regular income in his chosen profession. Trevor stopped himself. Income didn’t matter, as well he knew. He and Frostie had never been well off, with him a teacher and her managing a dress shop but they had been happy. And anyway, he reminded himself of the meeting with his in-laws that morning. They were odd people. They’d never accepted their daughter marrying a black man but they preferred to talk to him about their granddaughter’s inheritance rather than directly to her. They’d said it was because they wanted his assurance he would guide her in how to invest the money, but he thought it was more about rubbing his nose in the fact that Felice would be getting no money from his family – there was none to be had. He thought how little they knew their granddaughter if they thought she needed help in that department. She was far more financially savvy than him.

She’d be comfortably off with what they’d put in trust for her and for that he was grateful. And even though he believed most difficulties could be overcome if two people loved each other, he couldn’t convince himself that was the case with mental illness. Felice clearly didn’t understand the magnitude of the problem. The revolving door they called it. In and out of hospital, getting a little worse each time. And what if he became violent when he was psychotic, if his voices told him to kill Felice? It had happened before – he’d read about it in the news. The very idea made him shake with anxiety.

He dragged his attention back to the painting, tried