She wanted to know why I was home so early and I gave her an excuse about having to come back to collect some kit. In truth, I was meant to be weeding some old widow’s garden as part of the college’s community service programme. Mrs Buezval was a dear and I was sure she wouldn’t report me. She’d be disappointed but I’d try to get there before the end of the week to save her from the rampaging chickweed and dandelion. Mum swallowed my story then insisted I swallow some lunch. I hadn’t felt hungry for a couple of days but I didn’t want an argument and didn’t want to explain that I was so confused that hunger had switched itself off. ‘Where’s Father?’ ‘You haven’t eaten much. Are you feeling alright, love?’ She pointed at my plate. ‘I’m fine. It’s all this training. I think my stomach has shrunk. Is he coming in for lunch?’ ‘You know your father, busy, busy, busy.’ Her tone was ironic. ‘He took his rifle. I think he’s gone to the top field. Trying to relive his youth – imagine he’s with Alan at Bisley.’ That was a frightening thought.
