For Rye by Gavin Gardiner (books for 10th graders txt) 📗

decided against it, instead carefully stepping towards the door as she tugged nervously at the long sleeves of her woollen sweater.

As she approached the stairs leading to the ground floor hallway, response-length silences between the continuing sentences of Quentin’s voice became evident. He was on the telephone.

‘No, honey. I love you more than anything, you know that. Listen, Sandie, I’m not mad. Actually, screw it. I am. I explicitly told you not to come to England, and what did you do?’

Another response-length silence.

‘You went completely against my wishes.’

And another.

His voice was tinged with the defiant tone of a parent resisting the pleading of their guilty child. From the snippets of conversation, it was clear Sandie had done as her father demanded and boarded the first flight back to the States. The first thing she’d done upon arriving home, apparently, was to pick up the telephone, call ‘Daddy’, and beg for forgiveness. Renata felt a stab of sympathy.

There’d been a time, long ago, when she’d toiled to turn Thomas Wakefield’s resentment of her into favour. How many sleepless nights had she stayed up, just a little girl, constructing that homemade crucifix to replace the glass cross she’d smashed? She’d accumulated an abundance of building materials for the project; empty cereal packets, spent toilet roll tubes, a miniature paint set, PVA glue from arts and crafts class, all stuffed at the back of her wardrobe waiting to be built into her masterpiece, her apology.

The thing had stood as tall as her (well, up to her waist at least) and had boasted a wealth of colours that would have made Joseph jealous. Who needed a Technicolour Dreamcoat when you had an original Renata Wakefield homemade crucifix?

Yeah, she’d still been able to make out the remnants of the bruise on her face. And yeah, it had hurt more than anything she’d experienced in her short life, but it had been nobody’s fault but hers. That’s what the girl had concluded. That glass crucifix was so big and heavy, must have been worth a fortune, and Father had doted on the thing. If she hadn’t been so stupid, so careless, it wouldn’t have broken and he wouldn’t have had to do what he did. If only she’d taken her time going up those steps.

Choo-choo.

Well, this was going to make it all better. With Mother’s permission she’d left it on the sideboard in the living room, its multicoloured tissue paper and glitter standing out like a (colourful) sore thumb in the muted, uniform lounge of the Wakefield residence.

I am very sorry, Father, the note she’d left by its side had read. Hope you like this alot and you luv it cause I luv you alot. God bless. –Renata xx

He’d been back late that night. Although her mother’s wooden smile hadn’t faltered for so much as a second whilst they’d awaited his arrival, Sylvia Wakefield’s apprehension had been obvious. Renata had watched her manic cleaning, going over the same surfaces again and again, dusting imaginary dust. The girl had been good at spotting the signs of her mother’s terror. Finally, the sound of the front door opening had reached them, that sound Renata knew her mother dreaded so. The woman had straightened like a meerkat, her hands flying up to check her intricately fixed head of hair as footsteps sounded from the hallway.

In the little girl’s mind there had been two possible outcomes: either Father would love the gift and all would be forgiven, or she’d find her face squished once again into those cold floorboards before she got the follow-up beating she deserved. In some ways, the girl would later realise, she’d have preferred the beating to what actually happened.

Namely, nothing.

‘Good evening, Father,’ she’d said, her eyes flicking to the multicoloured crucifix on the dresser.

‘Thomas, welcome home,’ Sylvia had chirped, hands clasped neatly behind her back.

Like a raincloud obscuring the sunlight on a green pasture, the crucifix had fallen into darkness as his shadow passed over it. He’d continued on indifferently, Renata’s sculpture afforded not even a glance. She’d watched, dumbstruck, as her father had walked straight past the dresser and sunk into his armchair, today’s Daily Express rising between him and the cross.

And there it had sat for the rest of the week. He must have seen it, surely, but no comment was made. Maybe the allowing of it to sit there undisturbed should have been thanks enough, but a queasy feeling had still materialised in the little girl’s tummy whenever she’d looked at the crucifix and its unread note. Eventually, Mother had gently suggested it might look pretty in Renata’s bedroom instead. Despite the girl’s well-performed, enthusiastic nod, Sylvia Wakefield would later find it crammed into the outside bin, the note lying crumpled by its side. Had she known its disposal to be Renata’s doing? The little girl had cared not.

‘I know, Sandie,’ Quentin continued into the telephone, frustration creeping through his words. ‘Yes, I do know that. You’re the most important thing to me. You’re my world, but what you did was stupid. Really stupid.’

As she tiptoed down the stairs, Renata listened to Quentin scold his daughter. Girl’s doing her best, she thought, give her a break. But at least Sandie’s apology was being so much as noticed.

‘My love, if you stop talking for just one second I’ll explain why I’m so angry.’

Renata eased herself down the steps, listening intently for creaks, pressing her hands against the walls on either side of the staircase in an attempt to somehow displace her—

…a Himalayan trek, an Everest descent…

Her feet touched down on the hall carpet, an invisible imperfection imposed upon perfection. She pressed her body into the alcove at the foot of the stairwell and listened. The voice from the kitchen started up again.

‘I have my reasons, Sandie. Yes, I agree, she’s great, but—’

The earpiece’s pleading into his