“Maybe I’ll see you at the beach again one of these mornings?” she said.

“Maybe.” That sounded grudging, so I added a smile and said, “I hope so.”

Dad had messaged me first thing. I glanced over his text as the bus jolted off the main road and over a series of speed bumps. It was a long one, for him. I skimmed it for any reference to Tom, and my eye snagged on the word “prerogative.” Only Dad would use a word like “prerogative” in a text message. I wasn’t sure I had enough patience to read it all just now.

I turned to the window but my eyes lost their focus, and the greens and greys of the suburban morning passed by in a blur. I could see Dad hunched over the screen, his lower lip jutting as he typed with his forefinger. He always punched the keys too hard, as if he were using a typewriter, and then he got cross when the touch screen did something untoward. It must have taken him ages to type such a long message, given his slowness and his idiosyncratic vocabulary.

I sighed and took the phone out of my bag again.

My Dear Freya,

I’m sorry I wasn’t communicative last night. Rest assured that I’m not angry in the least—you are a grown-up woman, and you know best how to live your life. Neither have I any axe to grind with Cory Byrne; it’s not his fault he lives in a place with sad associations for our family.

Anxiety is, however, a parent’s prerogative. I suppose, of my two children, I always characterised—caricatured?—you as the steady, thoughtful one, and your sister as the rash, startling one. It may not be fair, but it goes some way toward explaining why I feel apprehensive now.

I’m not writing to ask anything of you—except that you stay safe, well, and happy. I want to apologise for having been a difficult man to live with, and to tell you that I love you, very dearly.

Dad. X

The woman across the aisle darted me a look, so I turned to the window and hid my teary face against the glass.

Here, at last, was Bligh with its wheeling gulls and swaying masts, and the sea coming into view like a blank grey wall thrown up across the end of the road.

Chapter 4

4

Later the same day I floundered downstairs, rubbing my eyes. I didn’t know what time it was, but it felt like midafternoon. The dull skies had darkened, and the sunlight that reached through the open front door was cool and thin.

“Here she is!” Cory cried. “Sleeping Beauty awakes.”

He crossed the hall and swept me off my feet as if we were on a film set, about to go into a dance. I yelped and grabbed onto his shoulders, trying to take it in good part.