‘That’s Becky’s farm, there.’ I point past a field of brown-and-white cows towards a stone farmhouse with black-painted window frames, nestled in amongst some weatherboarded outbuildings. The wood on the barns is silvery in colour, not dissimilar to the grey-hued stone of the farmhouse.
In contrast, our buildings, including the open-ended shelters in the alpaca paddocks, are built from the same sandy-coloured stone. On the right of the courtyard are the barns. The nearest is the Bunny Barn where we keep angora rabbits and animal feed, and the big one behind it is the Yarn Barn, which is where we prepare the alpaca fibre and spin it into yarn. There’s also a third barn further along that’s used to store equipment for the farm.
The farmhouse, with its gleaming white window frames and shiny slate rooftop dappled with bright yellow lichen, is on the left. The living room looks out onto a small garden, which is enclosed by a low stone wall and bordered with white daisies. Mum spends a lot of time out there with Ashlee and Nia. It has a wooden bench that’s a sun trap on clear days, plus a sandpit and a mini trampoline for the little ones.
I sit down and dangle my feet off the edge of the overhang. The rocks are the colour of concrete, but with more sparkle. They’re glistening under the sun’s rays.
‘Do you come up here much?’ George asks, settling down beside me.
‘Yeah. If you can’t find me at the farm, this is where I’ll be.’ I pause. ‘Whoops. I’ve given away my Number One hiding spot.’
I sense him smiling, but don’t look to see if he is.
‘I bet you often want to get away from us lot.’
My brow furrows. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘What?’
‘ “Us lot”. As though I’d lump you all in together.’
‘It’s true though, isn’t it? You’re not one of us.’
It’s a statement, not a question. And he’s right. I don’t like it, but I can’t really argue with him.
‘No, I guess not,’ I reply.
‘I’m sure that’s hard for you too, though.’
I’m surprised he’s conceded this. I don’t know what to say so I let the silence stretch on. The warmth from the sun is soaking into my skin. Without the wind, it’s almost too hot.
‘Joanne seems a bit of a handful,’ he says at last.
‘Mm. I do a lot of reminding myself that she’s had a hard time of it. I mean, I know you all have, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’
‘You can ask me if you want,’ he says after a moment. ‘But don’t feel that you have to.’
I do want to. But where to start?
‘You said your mum…’
‘Drunk-driving accident. She was the one drinking and driving.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
He shrugs. ‘At least no one else was hurt.’
‘Did she drink much?’
‘On and off. She didn’t drink once she found out she was pregnant with Sophie, and I don’t think she drank much before I came along, either, so I have that to be thankful for.’
He does a good job of containing his resentment.
‘What about after she’d had Sophie?’
‘She was a nightmare,’ he replies offhandedly. ‘Sophie’s dad left and she lost it.’
‘You and Sophie don’t have the same father?’
‘No. I barely know my dad – he’s a total waste of space. Sophie’s dad is too. Once, when Sophie was a baby, these guys came looking for him, saying he owed them money. I’m sure he was dealing drugs. They beat him up really badly.’
‘Where were you?’ I ask.
‘With Sophie, under my bed. We barely fit. She stayed asleep, thankfully. I’d grabbed her from her cot.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Eleven? Mum was out, but when she came home and found out what had happened, they had a big argument and Twatface walked out. I was glad when he left, even though it sent Mum over the edge.’
‘Who looked after Sophie when she went downhill?’ As soon as I ask the question, I know the answer. ‘You did.’
‘Yeah,’ he replies softly.
‘I’m so sorry they separated you.’
His face creases with pain and he coughs. ‘They didn’t at first. We went to my aunt’s, but her boyfriend…’ He laughs darkly under his breath. It’s so far from the pleasant sound of real humour that it sends a chill down my spine.
‘What happened?’
‘My family is a piece of cake,’ he says, still grinning miserably. ‘You’ve heard enough.’
‘No,’ I insist. ‘You can tell me.’
‘My aunt is my dad’s sister. My blood, not Sophie’s. Sophie’s family were never on the scene – I don’t even know if she has anyone else other than her dad.’
‘Did social services try to find him after you lost your mum?’
He shrugs. ‘I guess so, but they’ve had no luck. He’s not fit to look after her in any case. Which left my aunt. Our grandmother is still alive, but she’s in a nursing home with dementia.’
‘So your aunt’s boyfriend…’
‘Kevin. A violent man with a very short temper,’ he adds bluntly. ‘The social workers believed my aunt when she told them the bruises were caused by clumsiness and kids at school.’
‘He beat you up?’ I hardly dare to seek clarification.
‘Often. Gave me a black eye once.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I did eventually, but only because he started on Sophie. If I’d known they’d put us into separate foster homes, I would have kept my bloody mouth shut.’ His voice cracks. ‘Sorry,’ he says, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes.
My nose prickles and I have an overwhelming urge to hug him.
My parents don’t think kinship placements are always in the best interests of the child. ‘Kin’ could be a distant relative, a friend of the family, or even a neighbour. The child might barely know the carer, and that was the case with Liam, the boy who had never seen a tree. He was taken away to go and live with an aunt he’d only met twice. The aunt didn’t even want him, but she took him under duress. Mum and Dad felt so helpless and frustrated at having no say about what happened to him. They thought Liam should have stayed with them – and he wanted that too.
‘Argh,’ George mutters, getting to his feet before I can act on my impulse. His eyes are red, but he doesn’t look at me. ‘Fun, fun, fun,’ he says in a singsong voice.
I stare up at him, my eyes brimming with tears. ‘Does Ashlee remind you of her?’
He nods. ‘Yeah, a bit. They have similar expressions. Sophie used to get the same look on her face that Ashlee does when she’s worried about something. They sound the same when they laugh too. And they’re about the same age. Well, Sophie’s nearly four now, but she was three when we were separated.’
‘Has it really been nine months since you’ve seen her?’
He nods. ‘My social worker keeps changing and no one seems to care enough to make a fucking meeting happen.’
His misery has mutated into anger.