She keeps it together as we stand side by side in the courtyard to wave goodbye. The girls don’t understand what’s happening – certainly not Nia and definitely not Ashlee, who sticks her tiny hand out of the window and wobbles it this way and that while her little voice calling ‘Bye!’ becomes harder and harder to hear.
But as soon as the car rounds the bend in the lane, we fall apart. Mum and I clutch each other as we cry, while Dad literally has to pick Joanne up off the ground. I’m aware of Jamie hugging George, but when I finally break away from Mum’s embrace, George is no longer with us.
I find him in his usual place, down by the oak tree, with his head in his hands, and his whole body heaving with quiet sobs.
If it hurts this much for me to let Ashlee and Nia go, I can’t believe how much pain he must be in, knowing that his own sister is about to be cut from his life, possibly forever.
‘I have to see her again,’ he says fervently, lifting his face to look at me. ‘That can’t have been the last time I see her. I have to see her again. I have to say a proper goodbye.’
Sophie is moving to Devon with her adoptive parents in less than a fortnight. When we speak to Dad about arranging another meeting before then, he promises that he’ll try.
But I know my dad. He does not look hopeful.
* * *
In the days after Ashlee and Nia leave us, George’s anger bursts back into flame. Theo is there when he punches his knuckles raw up at Brimham. We’re sitting together on the overhang when George suddenly flips out, jumping the couple of metres to the ground and laying into a rock as though it’s made of rubber. No amount of my begging can get him to stop, and Theo won’t let me climb down to him, although I want to.
That night I lay in bed, replaying the incident over and over in my head. George’s anguished yelps, Theo’s stark expression, the way he held me back protectively, worried for my own safety.
Afterwards, he took George for a walk, just the two of them. I stayed on the rock, crying my heart out.
The week before Sophie is due to leave her foster parents, I find out what they must’ve discussed when they were alone – and I’m not at all surprised they kept it from me. I’m furious.
George wants something permanent to mark the pain he feels in losing his sister, and if it’s not going to be scars caused by punching rocks or other self-harm, it’ll be her name etched onto his skin.
At boarding school, Theo had a friend who inked his own arm with a skull and crossbones. His friend got expelled, and even though Theo didn’t have anything to do with it, the fact that he was there while his friend performed the act was another black mark against him.
George is far too young to get a tattoo done legally by a professional – you have to be over eighteen – so Theo, in all his wisdom, has offered to do it himself.
I am simmering with anger and anxiety as I lead the way alongside the stream to a glade that’s far enough away from the farm that we won’t be disturbed. I seriously considered telling my parents what we were up to, but I knew both boys would find a way to do what they wanted regardless. George’s mind is made up, and I don’t want to be his enemy.
The air is heavy with the scent of wild garlic and the earth smells damp and mossy as we settle on some rocks amongst the leafy ferns. The sunlight streaks through the silver birch trees overhead, hitting our faces in a flickering dance.
I’ve packed baby wipes, antiseptic wipes and Ibuprofen. George agrees to the antiseptic wipes, but turns down the pills. He wants to feel the pain.
Theo has already sterilised the needle. It’s a longer than normal one – I don’t know where he got it – but he’s strapped it to a wooden tool so he can hold it like a pencil. He also has an inkpot and a biro – the latter to create a template to trace over with the needle. George has rolled his T-shirt up as high as it will go and cleaned his skin with the antiseptic wipe, but when Theo goes to write Sophie’s name below his shoulder, George stops him.
‘What?’ Theo asks, biro poised.
‘I want Leah to do it.’
Is he out of his mind?
‘Just the writing part,’ he says with a short laugh at the look on my face. ‘Please,’ he adds.
‘Yeah,’ Theo agrees, getting up and passing me the pen. ‘Your handwriting is much nicer than mine.’
I hesitate, but only briefly. Turns out I do want to be a part of this madness after all.
I sit down next to George, so close that my knees are pressed against his side.
‘Cursive?’ I ask. ‘Or capitals? What do you want?’
‘You decide,’ he says in a low voice, lifting his clear brown eyes to meet mine.
‘I think cursive,’ I murmur, staring back at him.
He nods. I hold his arm steady, stretching his skin so I can write as smoothly as possible. As soon as I touch the pen to his arm, he tells me to hang on.
‘Little one,’ he says. ‘Not Sophie. Write “Little one” with a capital L.’ He swallows. ‘It’s what I used to call her. It’s how I talked to her in my letters.’
I remember seeing it on his notepad. It’s how we referred to Nia and Ashlee too.
I nod, forcing down the lump that’s formed in my throat, and get to work.
He watches me the entire time that I’m penning the words, and there’s something oddly sensual about it. I feel incredibly edgy, but I’m also very aware of Theo standing over us. I can’t imagine how much tension there would be if George and I were alone.
When I’m done, I blow on the ink, making sure it’s set. George inhales sharply and his eyes meet mine for a long, goosebump-inducing moment before I get up and let Theo take my place.
Theo dips the needle in the ink and pierces George’s skin. George’s jaw is clenched, but pain flits across his forehead with every jab of the needle. Theo repeats the process, tracing the letters prick by prick, while I clean off excess ink with the baby wipes until, finally, it’s done.
George takes one last look at the words etched across his inflamed red skin before rolling down his T-shirt sleeve.
‘Not a word of this to your parents,’ he warns me seriously.
I shake my head, his silent accomplice.
Chapter 25 Now
‘Where’s your mam?’ George asks when I let him into the kitchen on Sunday evening.
‘She’s gone to the Nortons for dinner.’
‘Oh.’ He seems surprised, placing one of the big boxes from the knitting workshop on the kitchen table. He’s driven here in Mum’s car, as planned. We left everything in the boot overnight. ‘I thought she’d be here too.’
‘She already had the invitation. Don’t worry, I might not be able to cook as well as she can, but I promise I won’t give you food poisoning. Drink?’
‘Let me grab the other boxes from the car first.’
‘I’ll give you a hand.’
‘I can manage.’
He disappears out the door and I go to stir the ragù that’s simmering on the Aga hotplate.
A couple of trips later, he comes into the kitchen with a fabric tote bag and a big bunch of sunflowers.
‘They’re lovely. Are they for Mum?’ I ask.