#poor parenting

The wind was still howling, not satisfied with having killed Monica. There was no rain, which seemed odd, just the wind battering and scraping at the Priory’s walls and windows, and Taggie supposed neither of her parents might have heard her over it. 

“Caitlin’s hurt, her arm’s broken,” Taggie said, raising her voice.

Neither of them looked at her.

“Da, listen to me. Caitlin’s arm is broken,” she said, grabbing her father’s forearm, making him pay attention. 

“What? She had some scrapes, that’s all. Poor Monica—” he broke off, lifting a hand to rub at his forehead. Taggie thought maybe she ought to pity him a little, maybe he’d had to see Monica in the car, maybe it had been gruesome, but she couldn’t find it in herself, pity or kindness like the last smear of drop of honey in the jar.

“Stop it! Caitlin’s the one who’s hurt,” she exclaimed.

“Monica’s dead, Taggie,” Mum said in the sort of acidic hiss that meant she was acting but also that she thought Taggie was a stupid eejit. There wasn’t a lightning bolt to make the point, but it came to Taggie, a whole thought, complete as an apple: Mum was a bad mother.

“And it might’ve been Caitlin, your own daughter, who you don’t seem to mind was dragged out into the storm for no reason. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to come home and she was safe there, with Archie,” Taggie said.

“What d’you mean, Tag?” Da asked. He was more ready to battle for his own, more apt to see insult, subtle or sly or close to invented, especially when it came to the Baddinghams. In the case of the Baddinghams, with the except of Bas, Da was usually right to expect an assault.

“Caitlin said she was fine there. She and Archie were sitting around, listening to records and finishing up the leftover pudding. Monica made her leave, insisted on taking Caitlin home. Monica’d already been out in the storm and she came back and then told Caitlin they were going,” Taggie said.

“The poor woman’s dead, Taggie,” Mum repeated.

“It could be Caitlin. And she’s hurt, you didn’t take any time to see if she was injured, you just brought her home and left Rupert to deal with Monica,” Taggie said.

“I’d call for an ambulance, but the phones aren’t working,” Da said. For once, he sounded like he had no idea what to do next. Like he was looking to Taggie for directions. Mum just sat at the kitchen table, winding a long lock of her coppery hair around two of her fingers, then letting it go. It was almost as if she’d never been frantic waiting for Caitlin to come home.

“We’ll have to wait until this storm clears up,” Taggie said. “It’s not safe to go back out there.”

“It can’t last much longer, now, can it?” Da said.

“I don’t suppose so. You two might as well go to bed, I’ll stay with Caitlin,” Taggie said. They’d be useless, each in their own way, and she didn’t fancy finding out how they’d do the next day on no sleep, a day when Tony Baddingham would have found out he’d lost his wife, Archie his mother. It was possible Rupert would come back to the Priory before dawn and he might need something. Cameron was enormously competent, but she wouldn’t know how to make a hot milky drink and simply be willing to sit with him while he drank it. There’d be some angle to consider and exploit about Monica’s death, Taggie didn’t expect Cameron would observe any niceties about condolences, at least not here. Taggie wondered, from time to time, when she was waiting for a batch of biscuits to bake or for a custard to set, how Cameron was with her own people back in the States. There had been one time when Taggie put down a dish of macaroni cheese and had seen an expression on Cameron’s face of disappointment and frustration, gone as quickly as one of Gertrude’s barks. 

“She’ll be fine,” Mum said. Da nodded and Taggie didn’t bother to answer. It hadn’t been meant for her. Mum was deciding how the scene would play, reassuring Da, since reassurance was what he wanted, reassurance and some return to how they’d looked at each other when she and Rupert had first come in from the storm.

“You’re good to look after her, Tag,” Da said. “Mind you wake us if she needs anything.”

“If I need anything? What a bloody joke,” Caitlin said, when Taggie repeated it to her in the morning, both of them sipping on mugs of black tea turned the color of a seashell with the last of the milk from the jug.

“Before, with Archie, was it okay?” Taggie asked. It seemed like a thousand years ago and she was still wearing Rupert’s jumper, the cuffs pushed up. She wanted it to smell like him, but it only had the scent of her own soap and the storm’s wind lingering in the crannies of the elaborate knitted pattern.

“It was nice,” Caitlin said, finally shy, looking down when Taggie raised her eyebrows at nice. “Archie’s nice, you wouldn’t think they could be his parents, they made us sit through the most dreadful meal and his mother—poor Monica—”

“After we get your arm sorted out, you could call him,” Taggie said.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if he’ll want to hear from me today. If it were Mum, I don’t know if I’d want him calling me,” Caitlin said.

“But you’ve got me and Patrick and Da. He’s got his father and his younger sisters,” Taggie said. 

“He likes shortbread,” Caitlin said.