Free The Son-In-Law by Charity Norman Page A

wall opened onto the first of a series of broad terraces leading down to a beck. Campervans were parked at the top, and a group of teenagers played with a Frisbee. Abigail and Joseph strolled together to the lowest tier. It was muddier here, the grass thick and rank. Gus had evidently been neglecting his mowing duties; or perhaps there simply wasn’t enough of Gus to go around. Several static caravans lay among twisted trees overlooking the beck. Abigail and Joseph headed for the last of the row.
    ‘Huzzah,’ grunted Joseph, lifting a lichen-encrusted rock. ‘Marie left the key.’
    He climbed two steps to unlock the door, standing back to let Abigail enter first. Their footsteps made the structure shake. The place smelled of damp, so Joseph propped the door open.
    ‘Well, she did the washing-up,’ said Abigail grimly, looking around. ‘But—silly girl—it wasn’t right clever to leave elder-flowers in a marmalade jar!’
    A galley kitchen ran beside a built-in table and seats. One sliding door led into a bedroom only just large enough to fit its double bed; another door led into a tiny bathroom. The far end opened out into a living area with covered benches and windows along three sides.
    ‘Bingo!’ cried Joseph, peering into a cupboard. ‘It’s all still here. Duvets, linen, blankets, towels . . . I’d forgotten we even owned the gas heater. Zoe bought this stuff. She decided the caravan was manky, drove all the way to York and came back with brand-new everything. See? Some of these are still in their packaging. Cost a bloody fortune.’
    Without comment, Abigail moved to a window and stood looking down at the beck.
    Joseph was caught up in the excitement of the past-made-present. ‘Aha, yes! I remember her buying these, too. The kids loved ’em.’ He pulled out a packet. ‘Glow sticks. Little plastic tubes that glow in the dark. Zoe said no camping expedition was complete without glow sticks. We spent hours twirling them, throwing them, making bracelets . . . and at bedtime the kids each had their own personal light source. Brilliant!’
    Noticing Abigail’s silence, Joseph realised that he’d spoken of Zoe as though she was alive and well and about to arrive for a week’s holiday. He closed the cupboard doors and joined Abigail at the window, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his coat. The valley was already full of shadow; he could scarcely see the beck. Patches of grass by the water hadn’t been touched by sunlight at all that day. The frost had never melted, and now another layer would form.
    ‘I forget,’ he said.
    ‘Forget?’
    ‘I still can’t imagine a world without her. That sounds ridiculous. Can’t imagine a world without her . . . Pretty crazy, coming from the idiot who killed her. Marie would have a field day with that. She’d say it proves I’ve got a narcissistic personality disorder, or something.’
    Abigail fiddled with the window’s catch and slid it open. Clean air rolled in, carrying the tang of peat and bracken. ‘Doesn’t seem more than a week ago that your parents bought this caravan. State-of-the-art it was, then. You took your first steps out by that tree—see? The knotted old bugger there. All the mothers fussed over you, little curly head. Your big sister’s nose went out of joint. I caught her prodding you to make you cry.’
    A muscle contracted beside Joseph’s mouth. It wasn’t quite a smile. ‘She still does that.’
    ‘You spent most of your summers here.’
    ‘Poor Mum was only too happy to bring us. She’d sit around with the other mothers and drink cider and laugh all day every day, while twenty kids ran riot and dammed the beck. I never once saw her laugh like that at home.’
    A pool glinted in the beck below, mirroring the pale sky. Joseph remembered lying there on summer days. He could still feel the eddying water as he submerged himself, tea-coloured ice that forced the breath from his lungs.
    ‘So,’ said Abigail briskly. ‘What are