The Farm Read Free Page B

me from touching her, a concern that she might scream.
    ‘Mum.’
    She looked up, frightened, but seeing that it was me – her son – she smiled triumphantly:
    ‘Daniel.’
    She uttered my name in the same way as when I’d made her proud – a quiet, intense happiness. As we hugged she rested her face against the side of my chest. Pulling back, she took hold of my hands and I surreptitiously examined her fingers with the edge of my thumb. Her skin was rough. Her nails were jagged and not cared for. She whispered:
    ‘It’s over. I’m safe.’
    I quickly established that her mind was sharp as she immediately noticed my luggage:
    ‘What’s that for?’
    ‘Dad called me last night to tell me you were in the hospital—’
    She cut me short:
    ‘Don’t call it a hospital. It was an asylum. He drove me to the madhouse. He said this is where I belong, in rooms next to people howling like animals. Then he phoned you and told you the same thing. Your mum’s mad. Isn’t that right?’
    I was slow to respond, finding it difficult to adjust to her confrontational anger:
    ‘I was about to fly to Sweden when you called.’
    ‘Then you believed him?’
    ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
    ‘He was relying on that.’
    ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
    ‘Not here. Not with these people. We have to do it properly, from the beginning. It must be done right. Please, no questions? Not yet.’
    There was a formality in the way she spoke, an excessive politeness, overarticulating each syllable and clipping each point of punctuation. I agreed:
    ‘No questions.’
    She squeezed my hand appreciatively, softening her voice:
    ‘Take me home.’
    She didn’t own a house in England any more. She’d sold it and relocated to a farm in Sweden, a farm intended to be her last and happiest home. I could only assume she meant my apartment, Mark’s apartment, a man she’d never even heard about.
    I’d already spoken to Mark while waiting for Mum’s plane to land. He was alarmed at the turn of events, particularly with the fact that there would no longer be any doctors supervising. I’d be on my own. I told him that I’d phone to keep him updated. I’d also promised to phone my dad, but there was no opportunity to make that call with my mum by my side. I didn’t dare leave her alone and feared that reporting openly back to my dad could make me appear partisan, something I couldn’t risk; she might begin to mistrust me or, worse, she might run away, an idea that would never have occurred to me if my dad hadn’t mentioned it. The prospect terrified me. I slipped my hand into my pocket, silencing my phone.
    Mum remained close by my side as I bought train tickets to the centre of town. I found myself checking on her frequently, smiling in an attempt to veil the fact that she was under careful observation. At intervals she’d hold my hand, something she’d not done since I was a child. My strategy was to behave as neutrally as possible, making no assumptions, ready to hear her story fairly. As it happens I didn’t have any history of siding with my mum or my dad simply because they’d never given me a conflict where I’d needed to pick sides. On balance I was closer to my mum only because she’d been more involved in the everyday details of my life. My dad had always been content to defer to her judgment.
    Boarding the train, my mum selected seats at the rear of the carriage, nestling against the window. Her seat, I realised, had the best vantage point. No one could sneak up on her. She placed the satchel on her lap, holding it tight – as if she were the courier of a vitally important package. I asked:
    ‘Is that all you have?’
    She solemnly tapped the top of the bag:
    ‘This is the evidence that proves I’m not mad. Evidence of crimes that are being covered up.’
    These words were so removed from ordinary life that they sounded odd to my ear. However, they were spoken in earnest. I asked:
    ‘Can I look?’
    ‘Not here.’
    She