“You might not have to,” I say. “My father is usually relieved when I don’t explain things.”
Daphne laughs again, less joylessly, and cries a little more. “Your mother never would have been such a fool,” she says in a small voice.
My mother might have killed me, I think.
And then, My mother isn’t here.
And then, How did my mother feel about gay people, has Father ever mentioned it, maybe when George Michael came out?
I get out of the car and walk around to Daphne’s side, opening her door.
She looks up at me, still hesitating. I hold out my hand. “Come on, Mum.”
Mordelia is passing through the living room when we walk in. She doesn’t look up from her phone.
“Delia,” Daphne says.
Mordelia looks up. “Mum!” She runs at Daphne’s middle. I step out of the way. “Dad!” Mordelia shouts. “Mum’s home!” She pulls away a bit to look at Daphne. “Are you home? Did you get the thing you needed?”
“I’m home,” Daphne says, smiling, her eyes too bright.
“Mordelia, I’ve asked you not to shout in the—” My father is walking into the living room, holding Swithin. He stops when he sees Daphne.
“Mum’s home!” Mordelia shouts again. （I never would have raised my voice in this situation, even at 8.）
“Hello, Malcolm,” Daphne says.
“The twins…” my father says.
Her face falls. “Are they all right?”
“They’re out back … I was just going to check on them.”
“I’ll do it,” I say. “Mordelia will help.”
Mordelia pouts. “Baz, no—”
“Come on, Mother’s not going anywhere.” I take Swithin from my father and haul Mordelia towards the back door. “Let them have a hug. You know they won’t do it in front of us.”
“Did Mum finish magic school?”
“Yes,” I say. “All done.”
“And she’s really home?”
“Yeah,” I say, hoping I’m right. We find Sophie and Petra in the garden, playing with the Tibetan mastiff my father bought when they moved to Oxford.
“Mum’s home!” Mordelia tells the twins.
“That’s Baz,” one of them says, climbing up my leg. I sit on the ground, so that I have some lap for her. The dog edges away from me, growling. Good instincts.
When Daphne comes out, fifteen minutes later, all three of the girls run to her. Swithin starts crying. Daphne takes him.
My father is standing in the doorway, watching. “Help me with dinner, Basilton?”
“Of course, Father.”
You’d never guess, at dinner, that Daphne has been gone for weeks. Which is a good sign, I think. My father treats her with as much polite tenderness as ever. He dotes on her, in his way. Caters to her every whim, without making a show of it.
I could get back to London before the trains stop, but Daphne asks me to stay the night. After dinner, I head to the attic to rummage through some boxes of my old things that were brought up from the house in Hampshire. Then I go hunting in the fields behind the house. （Two rabbits and a mole.） Daphne makes a bed for me on the sofa. “You should have your own room here,” she says.
“I’m fine. The twins are already doubled up.” I’ve just taken a shower, and I’m wearing some old pyjamas I found upstairs—they’re a bit short.
Daphne hands me a wool blanket, and I spread it out over the cushions.
“We could add on,” she says. “Your father could manage the spells. Or we could, you know, hire a builder.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary—”
“Or we could convert one of the barns! So you could come home for holidays. And bring a friend.”
“I…” I look over at her. Is she joking? My father would set me on fire if I brought Simon home. （Any boy, really. He’d set me on fire twice if it was Simon.） “That doesn’t seem likely.”
Daphne has just finished shaking a pillow into its case. She looks very sincere. And very cautious. Like someone who is very, very carefully stepping onto thin ice. “It’s possible, I think. Basilton.”
I nod. And take the pillow from her.
She touches my shoulder, just for a second. “Good night, darling.”
“Good night, Mum.”
I wait for her to leave, and then lie down, under the blanket. My phone is on the floor. I pick it up and open my text messages. I click on “SNOW.”