2089. Miles M Hudson

      Chapter Nine

      Vicky’s short walk brought her home at midnight. She was met by her father on the veranda. ‘How is he these days?’ The light hanging from the roof combined with the lantern light to highlight his small coffee cup, white against the dark of his clothes and skin. Vicky stopped in front of him, looking straight into his eyes.

      ‘He is his grandmother’s son,’ she answered. Marma did not speak, his silence entreating her to elaborate. ‘He’s still the most interesting man I’ve ever met.’ She paused and turned to look through the night in the direction of the old barn, invisible through the darkness. Vicky shook her head briefly and continued, ‘But for all his learning, he has a strange view of the world.’

      Her father touched her on the forearm. ‘His grandmother’s son.’ He paused. ‘Ellie was a great woman, there’s no denying that, but she could be wayward. As you say, a strange view of the world at times.’ They both reflected for a minute. ‘The boys say he is responsible for the armulets not working. They say there is word of a giant explosion in Cheltenham that has destroyed all the infoservers.’ Marmaran again left his statements hanging so that they became questions.

      Still staring into the night, she murmured, ‘I don’t know, father. He isn’t going back to Cheltenham. He says he will head to some old bunker somewhere around Leckhampton, but I honestly don’t know what he’s done, what he’s doing or even, really, what he thinks he’s doing.’

      ‘Her death was a real blow.’ Vicky looked back at her father, who was himself staring into the distance.

      ‘He asked me to go away with him.’

      Marma refocussed on her face. ‘You’re not thinking of going?’ She didn’t reply, so it was his turn to fill the silence. ‘Vicky, your place is here. When you find a man that you want, we’ll support your decision, whoever he may be. But you must stay here. Not only is this your home, but it is the Truva farm. You will not find so much love and support as you have here. Bailey and Truvan and I may seem like male brutes, but we only have your best interests at heart.’

      She interrupted his address, ‘Father, you have your own interests at heart. I am sure you will love and support me and a family of my own, but your love of Truva heritage is positively Turkish in its closed-mindedness.’

      He stuttered, ‘But… we are Turkish.’

      Vicky put her own hand on his forearm. ‘Yes. And we need to think more widely. How long would you have it continue? Should the Truva family stay on this land for another hundred years? Two hundred? A thousand?’

      She could see her father was flustered. He could not argue with her, as she had not posited a position. ‘We’re talking about you — I don’t have a crystal ball for the future, but you are the only one who can really keep our family alive. The boys will work the farm until they die, but they will not have any children. And I will not marry again. Only you can continue the Truvas into the next generation. And that should be here on the Truva farm.’

      Vicky struggled to keep her voice calm. ‘Father, you’re as bad as them. There is no reason why Bailey and Truva should not have children. If our bloodline really is that important to you all.’

      Marma smiled slightly, shook his head and tapped her hand with his.

      She lost control and shouted, ‘I am twenty-seven, I can decide for myself.’ Vicky let go of his arm, turned and stormed into the house. As she crossed the threshold, she could hear his breath soughing. It was unclear whether it was anger or sorrow, but she did not turn back.

      Vicky headed upstairs and stopped at the narrow table on the landing. A picture of her mother was kept there. In the image, she looked serene — although her face gave away little expression, there was clearly happiness there.

      She had died nearly twenty years earlier in a blizzard on their farm. Even the armulet alarm of her falling body temperature, transmitting her position to the rest of the family, had not allowed them to save her. She had been injured when she fell in the snow, knocked unconscious. Vicky was eight years old and the twins only ten. It had taken Marmaran more than an hour to reach her, in driving winds with snow a metre deep.

      She held the picture up and stared into her mother’s eyes. ‘I wish you were still alive, Mama. You would tell me what to do. And you would know how to still father and the boys.’ Just for an instant, Vicky thought the picture of her mother smiled at her. It was the briefest of flashes, and the tiniest of smiles. Just a little raising of the corners of her mouth, and a twinkle in the eyes. Vicky stared closely but it was gone. The picture was as it had been every day. She kissed her mother’s cheek and replaced the frame on the small table.