Movement in the kitchen redirects my gaze. George is standing at the door, listening. We share a look of apprehension.
‘She said she’d try for Wednesday! That’s this Wednesday! I was calling to find out a time.’
‘Sophie,’ George says to me quietly.
‘Can anyone else help?’ Dad asks. ‘I’ve got a young man here who simply wants to see his sister, the sister he was separated from almost a year ago. That should be a priority here, not a bloody holiday.’
I bite my lip, listening intently.
‘Oh. I see. Well, I’m sorry for her. But this poor lad has already been through three social workers. Do you understand what I’m saying? At this rate, his young sister will be adopted and he won’t have even had a chance to say goodbye.’
I realise I’m holding my breath.
‘That would be much appreciated.’
Dad ends the call and comes out of the room, stopping short at the sight of the two of us.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says resignedly to George, ushering us both into the kitchen. ‘I’m afraid your social worker has had to take a bit of a break for mental health reasons. A new one will be appointed to you soon.’
‘And my meeting with Sophie?’ George asks through gritted teeth.
‘We’ll make it happen,’ Dad assures him. ‘Not this week, maybe not next, but soon.’
I jump out of my skin at the sound of something smashing on the tiled floor: a mug. Rage has contorted George’s face and his body is racked with tension, his chest rising and falling sharply and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
‘All right, son,’ Dad says calmly.
‘No, it’s not fucking all right!’ George yells, grabbing another mug from the countertop and hurling that at the wall too.
‘George!’ I gasp with shock as it ricochets off and broken crockery scatters everywhere.
He storms towards the door, wrenching it open.
‘Leave him, Leah!’ Dad shouts as I hurry after him. ‘Give him some space!’
I ignore him. ‘GEORGE!’
He’s striding fast along the lane, away from the farm. I have this overwhelming feeling that, if I let him go, I’ll never see him again. The thought is so hellish that I run, catching up with him at a bend in the road and spinning around to try to halt his progress.
‘Move!’ he commands, his dark eyes flashing with fury.
‘No. Stay,’ I beg, sidestepping to block his path.
‘Get out of my way.’
‘Please,’ I gasp, placing my hands on his chest.
He smacks them away and butts right up against me, completely invading my body space.
‘Get out of my fucking way,’ he growls at me with cold hatred.
Ice floods my veins.
‘What the fuck is going on?’
I spin around at the sound of Theo’s voice. He’s standing in the lane behind me, looking appalled.
‘George is upset,’ I tell him.
‘I can see that, but why the hell is he taking it out on you?’
George turns his face up to the sky and lets out a strangled scream. It rips out of him, full of frustration and anguish and fury.
He turns and sets off towards the lower paddock and I run after him.
‘LEAH!’ Theo shouts, before following too.
George comes to a stop at his silver birch sapling and proceeds to try and pull it from the ground.
‘Please,’ I cry.
He’s sobbing: scary, heart-wrenching and out-of-control yelps. He seems unhinged, his face red, veins popping in his neck.
Theo stands beside me, dumbstruck, as I cry and beg. And then my dad appears, just as George yanks his sapling free of the rich peaty earth.
‘Go inside, Leah,’ Dad says with quiet but absolute authority as George falls to his knees, his head bowed, the fight gone out of him. ‘Take Theo with you.’
This time I don’t argue. This time I do as I’m told.
* * *
‘And I thought I had problems,’ Theo says flatly as I make us tea.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask him bluntly.
‘Went for a walk.’
‘That’s a long walk.’
‘Nowt else to do,’ he replies in a monotone.
‘You sounded Northern then.’
‘I am Northern. Not my fault I had my accent beaten out of me at boarding school.’
‘I hope you don’t mean literally.’
He shrugs.
I really hope he doesn’t mean literally.
‘You should’ve called for a lift. Dad would’ve picked you up.’
‘Looks like your dad has got other things on his mind.’
‘Yeah,’ I agree morosely.
‘What happened?’
I fill him in as we drink our tea in the living room. When we’re up to date, his comment from earlier comes back to me: ‘And I thought I had problems…’
‘How are you?’ I belatedly think to ask. ‘You didn’t have plans for half term?’
‘Nope, but Acton’s in Monaco and my father and Sylvie are no doubt having a lovely time in Italy,’ he replies drily.
‘Oh. You didn’t want to go with them?’
‘I didn’t even know they were going until Saturday when Bart took them to the airport.’
‘What?’ I let out a small disbelieving laugh. ‘Your dad didn’t tell you he was going abroad?’
‘Nup,’ he replies sardonically, picking up a skein of rose grey yarn from the basket next to the sofa. He freezes when he sees that one end is attached to a knitting needle.
‘Careful,’ I say. ‘That’s George’s scarf.’
The edge of his mouth curls up as his blue eyes dart towards me. ‘George is knitting a scarf?’
‘Well, not all that willingly. But if he can sell it at the market, it should pay for his festival ticket.’
‘I need to get in on this.’
‘I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic,’ I reply after a pause.
He grins at me. ‘Why were you laughing?’
He slips the question in so casually, but I don’t miss a beat.
‘I will never tell.’
He returns my smile, but his is not as carefree as it usually is.
‘It’s good to see you,’ I say, sobering. And I am glad of his company. Dad is still with George and I have no idea if he’s managed to calm him down.
‘It’s good to see you too,’ Theo replies quietly, holding my gaze.
I smile and look away, feeling oddly edgy. ‘Have you got the house to yourself this week, then?’
‘Yeah. Want to come over for a house party?’
‘Really?’
‘Well, no, but… You could come over for a movie night?’
‘George too?’
‘Sure,’ he replies after a slight hesitation. ‘And Becky, if you like.’
‘He wasn’t going to hurt me.’
I feel a wave of nausea when Theo averts his gaze, not quite convinced.
I hate the thought of Theo thinking badly of George, not with everything that George is going through.
‘He kept asking me to get out of his way, and I wouldn’t.’