The House We Called Home: The magical, laugh out loud summer holiday read from the bestselling Jenny Oliver

Like right now. He wasn’t letting the dog lick Rosie’s face – not that Stella could think of anything more disgusting than having a dog lick one’s face – but Rosie was desperate for a share of the licking and Sonny was having it all to himself.

‘Sonny, let Frank Sinatra lick Rosie!’ There it was. One of the first proper sentences she’d said to her son since she’d got there. Not only was it the stupidest sentence she’d ever said, it stuck fast to their usual rules of communication – her having to constantly tell him to do something differently.

Jack came down the stairs, eyebrows raised at Stella as if questioning whether there was seriously going to be conflict already, and took a seat on the other side of the dog. Then he reached forward and squeezing Sonny on the shoulder said softly, ‘All right son?’

Sonny looked up at him and nodded. ‘Yep.’

Jack smiled.

Stella almost rolled her eyes. That was part of the problem; it was so easy for Jack and Sonny because Jack was allowed to take the path of least resistance. He was good cop. He’d effortlessly bagsied that role early on. Which meant Stella was bad cop, and she had been OK with that – when the kids were still young enough to always relent to a hug. But now, with Sonny, it was a whole new role, like graduating from police academy into the real world – the hits were painful and never let up.

Jack joined Sonny and Rosie in the showering of attention on the dog. ‘Aren’t you lovely? Who gives a dog a name like Frank Sinatra?’ he said, giving him a generous rub behind the ears.

‘Mitch’s dad called him it,’ Sonny said, showing them a trick with the dog’s front paws that Rosie thought was hilarious. They looked the picture of a perfect family.

‘Who’s Mitch?’ Jack asked.

‘Granny’s friend,’ said Sonny. ‘He’s a hippy.’

Moira shut the fridge with a clatter.

Jack looked up and caught Stella’s eye. He raised an intrigued brow. Stella made a similar face back.

‘Does everyone want tea?’ Moira called, all matter-of-fact, lining up her dotty mugs as she deflected attention from this Mitch character.

There was a chorus of Yeses punctuated by a breathless request for hot chocolate from Rosie who was squealing delightedly as the dog licked all over her face. ‘Can we have a dog?’ she laughed.

‘Mum won’t let us,’ Sonny said without looking up from where he and Jack were rubbing Frank Sinatra’s tummy.

Stella sighed. Jack stayed silent. He’d always wanted a dog, Stella always said no. She thought they smelt and she couldn’t think of anything worse than picking up its giant poos. The question of why they didn’t have a dog had become, ‘Mum won’t let us.’ As if having the dog was the given and she was the one taking it away. Which she was. But then it had never been a given in the first place. See, bad cop.

Hating herself for feeling like the outsider, Stella pushed herself up to go and help Moira make the tea. ‘So, are you sure you’re OK, Mum?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes, I’m OK,’ Moira said, pressing buttons on the microwave to warm the milk for Rosie’s hot chocolate. Then she paused and sighed. ‘Just pissed off really – what does he think he’s doing, gallivanting off without telling anyone? His note’s on the table,’ she added, nodding towards the dining area as she shovelled some custard creams out on a plate. Stella wondered how great the tragedy would have to be before they could eat them straight from the packet.

Moira led the way to the dining room table carrying a tray of cups and matching milk jug, the plate of biscuits balanced precariously on the top. She gestured for Stella to follow with the teapot, adding, ‘So you like the new layout?’

‘Yeah, it’s very nice, very airy,’ Stella replied, still expecting her mother to be quite a lot more upset about her dad’s disappearance. She hoped she was just putting on a brave face, otherwise it felt too tragic – that he could slip away and the finding of him be secondary to thoughts on the new decor. How the mighty had fallen.

The dining room table was one of the only things that hadn’t changed. But instead the dark varnished wood had been sanded down to give it a scrubbed driftwood look. Stella wondered who’d done it, whether they’d found all the things she’d scrawled when she was meant to be doing her homework. Defiant teenage graffiti where she’d jab at the underside of the table with her biro after a dressing-down from her dad about her split times for her swim that day. Or when he’d wordlessly leave a graph of her heart-rate calculations on the table, dips in effort marked with just a dot from the tip of a sharpened pencil.

Stella put the teapot down and picked up her dad’s note that was pinned to the table by the edge of a tall white jug – unusually not part of her mother’s treasured Emma Bridgewater set – filled with freshly picked cuttings from the garden. Stella wondered if they had been snipped before or after her father had disappeared.

‘Gone away for a while. No cause for alarm. Graham/Dad/Grandpa.’

How odd that he’d signed it all three names. She glanced back at Sonny, remembering his pale look of worry, and wondering at this sudden relationship between the two of them. She felt a touch of suspicion at the thought of it, immediately wanting to protect Sonny from any sights her father might have set on his grandson’s swimming ability, but also a strange niggle of envy at their apparent closeness. She looked away, across at the dog occupying her father’s seat, and tried to remember the last conversation she’d had with her dad. One that wasn’t him nodding his thanks for the jumper she’d bought him for Christmas, the gift receipt in one hand, the plain grey sweatshirt in another. ‘Great, yep, thanks.’ Did that count as conversation?

Her mother started pouring the tea.

Stella walked over to the window to get a bit of space. Out ahead, past the strip of mown lawn and the patio furniture, was a view of the beach, the water as blue as the sky, light flashing like sparklers off waves rolling gently on the sand. She rarely looked out this way when she came to stay. Not for any length of time anyway, maybe a quick glance to check the weather. In the past she had stared at the sea for hours. Especially in winter, mesmerised by the giant breakers, the harsh angry froth of icy white water. As she stared now, the noise of the kids and the yapping dog loud behind her, she could suddenly feel the burning sensation in her lungs of the 6 a.m. swim. It made her put her hand to her chest, the memory was so sharp. She looked down at her fingers almost expecting to see raw pink skin like whipped flesh or the sting of the salt in her eyes. She felt like she was going mad. The sound of her heart in her ears as strong as the beating of the waves. Like the stress was oozing out of her in strange long-forgotten flashbacks.

Jack came and stood next to her, her dad’s note in his hand. ‘So where do you think he’s gone?’ he asked.

Stella swallowed, unable to believe he could saunter over and think her completely normal, that how she was feeling wasn’t radiating from her body like disco lights. She glanced across. He was waiting, casually expectant. She turned her back on the sea view in an attempt to regain her normality. ‘I have no idea,’ she said, ‘but things here are clearly not quite right.’ She nodded towards where her mother was handing hot chocolates to the kids, and added, ‘And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if this Mitch character has something to do with it.’

Jack turned as well, taking in the scene. ‘Do you think he might have something to do with those jeans as well?’

Stella laughed. Relieved at the joke.

Jack put his arm around her. ‘We’ll find him,’ he said, all solid and sure.

Stella didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She had the same rising sensation she’d had in the car, that it was all too much, like she might suddenly burst into tears which was not something she could let happen. Especially not in front of her mother. Or Sonny for that matter. And what would she be crying about anyway? Certainly not the disappearance of a man who’d basically cut her out of the family photo album. She was just tired.

A phone beeped in the kitchen. Her mum went over to read the message. ‘Your sister’s train arrives at about six she says.’

‘Oh God,’ Stella looked up, eyes wide, caught completely unawares. ‘I’d forgotten about Amy.’

Jack wrinkled up his brow as if the workings of her mind continually baffled him. ‘How could you forget about Amy?’

CHAPTER 5

‘No, I just can’t find it.’ Amy rummaged through her bag for the umpteenth time. ‘It’s not here. I did buy one though. I did, I promise. I just …’ She trailed off, searching through her bag, her hair straighteners, her phone charger, her teddy. She pushed that hastily to the bottom of the bag.

She could feel Gus next to her, watching.

The ticket inspector loomed above her seat. ‘Sorry madam, failure to show a valid ticket for a journey means I’m going to have to charge you a penalty fare.’

‘No, you can’t.’ Amy shook her head. The flicks of blonde catching on her cheeks. She pushed the short hair back behind her ears, she was no closer to getting used to it. Why in films they always showed someone getting a haircut to start a new life was beyond her. It was a bloody pain in the neck – learning how to style it, straighten it, stop it from being a giant fluffball on her head. She hated it.

She leant forward for another rifle. The hair flopped forward. She held it back with one hand. ‘Honestly, you can’t charge me again. My father’s gone missing,’ she said, pushing pairs of pants out of the way.

She thought she heard Gus scoff and looked across to glower at him but his expression was innocently bemused.

‘Are you going to help me?’ she hissed under her breath.

He shook his head. ‘What can I do?’

‘I don’t know? Talk to the man.’

‘You seem to be doing a very good job of talking to the man. He says you have to pay a penalty fare.’

‘But I bought a ticket.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘Seriously, I did. I could get my bank details up on my phone and show you.’

‘Sorry, madam, I’m being generous here. Last month it was zero tolerance – would have had to escort you from the train at the next stop.’

Amy put her hands up to her head.

‘Just pay it,’ said Gus, one hand holding his tiny takeaway espresso cup, the other some obscure-looking comic book.

‘No.’ Amy felt suddenly like she might cry. Gus was looking at her all superior through his big black glasses like he couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t just do what the man had said. ‘No.’ She looked up at the ticket inspector. His face possibly kindly. His bald head reflecting the strip lighting. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Please, I did buy a ticket. This is a nightmare day for me. I’m going home because my dad’s gone missing. I’m not thinking straight. My emotions are all over the place,’ she sighed, pushed her stupid short hair back, ‘because I’m pregnant. And,’ she sighed again, ‘well, you don’t need to know everything about it, but let’s just say it’s not ideal and I did buy a ticket, I promise I did, because the man at the counter I remember thinking looked like Father Christmas and he gave me a toffee.’ She reached into her pocket, eyes welling up. ‘Look, see here,’ she held up the shiny wrapper of the Werther’s Original. ‘See, this is the wrapper.’ She nodded, trying to elicit a response. She could see the people around her shifting in their seats as they uncomfortably tried to listen and not listen at the same time. ‘Do you see?’ she said, brandishing the tiny crinkle of gold. ‘And I nearly threw it away but I didn’t because I liked that he’d given it to me.’ She put her hands up to her eyes to wipe away the first spill of tears. ‘Do you see?’ she said again, voice plaintive, nodding at him and wiping her face while also trying to find a tissue in her jacket pocket.

The ticket man seemed to think for a second, then reaching into his own pocket brought out a brand new Kleenex. ‘That would be Geoff,’ he said. ‘Santa Claus with the toffees.’

Amy blew her nose. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, Geoff.’ She had no idea what his name had been.

‘OK,’ he said, tapping something into the machine that hung round his neck and handing her a replacement ticket. ‘Just this once.’

Amy put her hand on her chest. ‘Oh thank you, thank you so much.’

He nodded. ‘I hope you find your father.’

Amy nodded.

‘And that everything works out with the baby.’

She nodded again, wiping her eyes, clutching the new ticket.

The ticket inspector walked away down the aisle and into the next compartment.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Gus, flopping back in his seat, shaking his head, dumbfounded. ‘That was unbelievable.’

‘What?’ Amy said, blowing her nose.

‘That you just managed to get away with that.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes, you do. That— That little-girl-lost routine. That was unbelievable. How old are you?’

Amy looked at him affronted. ‘You don’t ask a woman that question.’

‘But you ask a little girl.’ Gus raised a brow.

‘Why are you so horrible?’

‘Why are you so like that?’ he said, gesturing to the tissue and the ticket and the blotchy face. ‘Normal people just pay the fine when it’s their fault they lost the ticket. Look at what you put that poor guy through.’

‘He was kind to me,’ Amy snapped, feeling like she was under attack.

‘Yeah, and you made him feel really awkward.’

‘I did not.’

‘You think it wasn’t awkward? You crying about your whole life history?’

‘I don’t want to talk about this any more with you.’

‘Oh, that’s right.’ Gus snorted a laugh. ‘That’s your answer. Very mature. I’m delighted that you’re about to be the mother of my child.’

Amy gasped. ‘How dare you?’

Gus blew out a breath. ‘How dare I?’ He shook his head, turning to look out of the window, closing his eyes for a second longer than necessary.

Amy felt a rush of resentment, it made her want to do something to him – flick his coffee over or maybe pinch his arm. But she sat seething instead, trying to get her hair to stay tucked behind her ear. Gus took a slurp of espresso and went back to his book all aloof.

‘Well at least I don’t read picture books,’ Amy sniped, immediately regretting the comment, immediately realising she’d made herself look even more of a fool.

Gus turned his head slowly as if deigning to address her. ‘What, you mean this Eisner Award-winning graphic novel?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You stick to your Grazia, Amy.’

‘There is nothing wrong with Grazia.’ Amy wanted to take her new ticket and stab his eyes out with it. ‘It’s very issue-led.’

Gus smirked. ‘I’ll look out for it on the Pulitzers.’

‘I’ll look out for it on the Pulitzers,’ Amy repeated, all whiny and childish.

‘That’s very grown up. Again, mother of child, very glad.’

‘I hate you.’

‘Rest assured, the feeling is mutual.’

CHAPTER 6

Just pulling up in front of the house in the taxi made Amy feel better: the sweep of purple sunset like smoke out of the chimney, the sparkle of the solar-powered fairy lights wrapped round the almond tree just visible in the early evening light, and the big hydrangea flowers like perfect pink balloons. The gravel underfoot gave the same comforting crunch as it had her whole life. She just had to block out the crunch of Gus’s feet next to her. As she put her key in the lock she could already picture the dark cosy hallway, smell the roast dinner from the kitchen, see the flicker of the TV, and a fire in the front room.

Except it was summer and there was no fire. And she’d forgotten her mother had had the entire ground floor demolished. When Amy left last it had still been a building site. Now, as she opened the door, she saw it was all pale and grand and open. She swallowed. Everyone was looking up from where they sat in the living room, watching. There was no time to take a breath in the hallway any longer or peek her head round the door and beckon her mother over.

‘Er, hello,’ Amy said, conscious of the presence of Gus next to her and everyone staring. ‘Have you found Daddy?’

Moira stood up. ‘No darling, not yet. We’re about to make a plan.’

Amy nodded. She felt suddenly on the verge of tears, like she wanted to throw herself at her mother and sob about everything, but in defiance of Gus and his already derogatory opinion of her she stayed rooted where she was.

‘Hi.’ Gus raised a hand.

‘Hello,’ Stella said back from where she sat at the table, watching intrigued and looking all cool and relaxed in a loose black sleeveless shirt, the plainest gold hoop earrings, skinny jeans and bare feet. Amy saw her glance across at Jack. Jack raise a brow back at Stella. Their silent language asking, ‘Who the hell is he?’

‘This is Gus. My—’ Amy paused by mistake because the word friend got stuck in her throat.

‘Just a friend,’ said Gus, which sounded so ridiculously unnatural that it made Amy want to cover her face as she blushed scarlet under her hastily retouched contouring. Stella was clearly holding in a smirk.

‘Hello darling. Hello Gus, lovely to meet you. You must be exhausted from the journey, it’s such a long time to sit on a train. Come in, sit down, have a drink.’ Moira stood up, glossing over any awkwardness regards this stranger in their midst, and came over to greet the pair.

Gus dumped his bag by the stairs and went to take the beer that Jack was pouring like he’d never needed anything more in his life. Moira gave Amy a kiss and a hug and whispered in her ear, ‘Will you be sharing a room?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Amy snapped.

‘Righto,’ said her mother. Then turning back to Stella said, ‘Rosie and Sonny are OK to share, aren’t they?’

‘Oh, no way!’ Sonny moaned.

Stella nodded. ‘They’re fine.’

Rosie giggled.

Amy went and sat down at the table across from Stella, refusing to meet her eye, even when Stella kicked her under the table.

‘Beer, Amy?’ Jack asked.

‘No, I’ll just have water. I’m really thirsty,’ she replied.

After some pleasantries about how warm the weather was, the length of the train journey, and how long it had been since they’d all seen each other – how terrible it was that someone had to go missing in order for them all to make the journey – Jack cleared his throat and said, ‘Right, shall we get started on a plan of action?’

Stella nodded.

Jack opened the pad that was in front of him then looked up at Amy to explain what had been discussed in her absence. ‘We thought it might be a good idea to note down all Graham’s usual spots. Places he goes most often. Then tomorrow go round and have a word with people. See if he mentioned where he was going, just get a sense of how he was. That kind of thing. Yes?’

Amy nodded. ‘Have you rung his friends?’

‘A few,’ said Moira.

‘Why not all of them?’ Amy frowned.

‘I’ve been busy.’ Moira shifted in her seat.

Amy glanced perplexed at Stella, who just raised a shoulder to show she knew and agreed with whatever it was Amy was thinking but who knew what forces governed their mother.

Gus watched.

Amy said, ‘Mum, you’ve tried to ring Dad, haven’t you?’

‘Of course I’ve tried to ring him. And I’ve sent a text asking where he is.’

‘A text? I rang his phone twenty-three times on the train,’ Amy said.

‘It’s not a competition, darling,’ Moira muttered, turning away to top up her wine with obvious affront.

‘OK!’ Jack held up his hands to try and take back control. ‘We talk to his friends, see what he’s been doing and if anyone noticed anything out of the ordinary. Good. Right. Moira, have you checked your bank account?’

‘I don’t see when you think I’ve had the time to do all these things.’ Moira shook her head.

Stella leant forward. ‘No one’s accusing you, Mum. Jack’s just asking.’

‘I know.’ Moira crossed her arms over her chest, then through pursed lips added, ‘I can pop into the bank tomorrow.’

‘Could you do it online now, Mum?’ Stella asked.

‘No, I can’t.’ Moira blushed. ‘I don’t know how. Graham does all that.’

Jack said, ‘Well we can help, do you know the passwords?’

Moira hesitated.

Amy said, ‘Don’t worry, Mum, I never know mine either. That’s why I have them all written down in my phone.’ She saw Gus shake his head at what a stupid thing that was to do. She made a face at him which she instantly regretted when she caught Stella looking.

Moira was getting flustered. Smoothing down her silk blouse, she said, ‘I know I should know them. It’s just something I haven’t quite got round to. There is something written down in the kitchen, though, I think. Hang on, let me have a look.’ She got up to go and rifle through a flowery Cath Kidston box file on the counter.

Jack wrote ‘Account activity’ down as the first point on his list.

Amy leant forward and said, ‘Shouldn’t we be calling all the hospitals and the coastguard and things? We need to be certain he’s not hurt.’

‘Amy, he left a note,’ Stella said, one mocking brow arched, ‘I don’t think he’s hurt.’

‘What if he was made to write the note?’ Amy replied, brows raised back at Stella, defiant.

Stella scoffed. ‘Like a hostage? Please.’

Amy refused to be ignored so easily. ‘Don’t look at me like that, someone might have taken him. It’s a real possibility. I think it should go on the list.’

‘Seriously?’ Stella shook her head. ‘It’s not Murder, She Wrote, Amy! It’s Cornwall.’

Gus snorted into his beer. Stella looked up, appreciative of his finding her funny. Then sat back with her wine, giving her long fringe a smug little blow out of her eyes.

Amy huffed.

‘Here they are. The passwords. I knew I had them somewhere,’ Moira called from the kitchen, brandishing a scrap of notepaper covered in numbers.

Amy pulled off the thin sweater she was wearing, feeling hot and bothered from the stand-off with her sister.

‘I have that top!’ shouted little Rosie, pointing excitedly at Amy’s Primark vest top patterned with different emojis. ‘Mummy, don’t I have that top?’

Amy watched Stella nod as she sipped her wine. ‘You do have that top, Rosie,’ she said, as if of course Amy and a seven-year-old would have the same fashion sense.

‘We’re T-shirt buddies,’ Rosie said, coming over and draping her skinny little arm round Amy’s shoulders, then peering closer to inspect her face said, ‘I like your make-up. You’re so pretty. You look just like Zoella.’

Amy felt the conflicting rush of both embarrassment and pride at what she considered a compliment. In the past she would have just snuggled Rosie up close and relished the adoration. But now she had Gus smirking under his breath at the end of the table. And something made her want Stella not to perceive her as quite such a child. Perhaps because Amy knew at some point she was going to have to tell them all about the baby. And she couldn’t face the accompanying looks of pity and the ‘Oh Amy!’ tone. But most of all she dreaded their lack of surprise that she would do something so stupid. It had made her contemplate just WhatsApping the news: ‘It was a one-night stand! Can you believe it? And when I told Gus he was like, “You’re not having it, right?” [crying laughing emoji]’

But it wasn’t funny.

It was terrifying.

It was hard to say if it was more terrifying now or earlier today when she had been standing on Gus’s North London doorstep delivering the news. She’d only remembered where he lived because it was above a Nando’s. He had winced when she’d told him. His expression as if it were possibly the worst news he had ever heard in his entire life. She had thought he might react badly but not like that. She had presumed he would usher her inside, make her a cup of tea and ask what he could do to help. Not stand in the hallway, his expression somewhere between panic and disgust and say, ‘Do you need money? How much is an abortion?’