The Legacy

needs that didn’t centre on her, on Ben, on Mol y. They should be enough. This should be enough.
    She sighed and self-consciously pul ed a jumper from the suitcase, folding it neatly in what was almost a reflex action. Sleeves across the shoulder then fold at the chest. She had done it a thousand times at Grange Hal ; taking in laundry had been one of the ways it had demonstrated its ‘usefulness’ to the local community.
    Then she picked up another. Peter looked at her grateful y.
    ‘You’re not angry?’
    He seemed relieved, like he real y thought everything was OK now. Anna’s eyes narrowed; she threw the two jumpers back into the suitcase, ignoring the mess lying beneath them.
    ‘Of course I’m angry.’ His words had revealed his complete lack of understanding of the situation. Now she wasn’t even going to pretend to be OK with what he was doing.
    Peter looked stunned. ‘I won’t go for long,’ he said, as though that made a difference.
    ‘You won’t go for long?’ Anna looked at him in disbelief. ‘An hour is long. A day is long. Peter, you’re leaving us alone up here. Richard Pincent wants you dead, wants us al dead, and you’re going to London? Al because you want to be close to the action? What action, Peter? What could mat er so much?’
    Peter sighed, cleared his throat, took a breath. ‘You know what mat ers so much.’
    He was looking at her, but she refused to meet his eyes.
    ‘No,’ she lied. ‘I don’t.’
    ‘Yes you do,’ Peter said tightly. ‘We might be safe up here for now, but we won’t be for ever. I know you want to stay here and pretend that the world doesn’t exist, but it does. What about the Surpluses, about the children hidden in at ics? And now there are dead bodies. Can’t you see? We need to fight, Anna. I need to fight.’
    Anna could feel her hands clenching into fists. He was right and she hated him for it. ‘Why can’t other people fight?’ she said in a strangled voice. ‘We’ve been fighting al our lives.’
    ‘Other people are fighting. Every day. But I can’t sit back and let them do it for me.
    You know I can’t.’
    ‘I know you won’t .’ Anna saw Peter’s face tighten, could feel him drifting away –already she seemed to be losing her grip on him. ‘Anyway, you can’t go now. We’ve hardly got any food,’ she said, resorting to practical obstacles, knowing already it was futile.
    ‘I’l dig up some vegetables before I go.’
    ‘And I won’t be able to do al the planting while you’re away. Not if I’m looking after the children al the time.’ She sounded petulant and it irritated her, but she could see that it irritated Peter more. Impatience fil ed his eyes.
    ‘Whatever,’ he said, banging the lid of his case shut. ‘I’m sure we’l manage.’
    ‘There’s stil a “we”?’ Anna asked, sticking out her chin.
    Peter’s eyes met hers and immediately she regret ed the words.
    ‘I didn’t mean . . .’ she said, but it was too late. He was heaving his case off the bed, dragging it out of the room, down the stairs.
    ‘I’l get the vegetables now,’ she heard him say.
    ‘Don’t bother,’ she cal ed back. It was his fault, after al , that she’d questioned their future. He’d driven her to it. ‘Go to London. See if I care. See if any of us do.’
    Margaret paused outside the door to catch her breath, col ect her thoughts. It was open – the visitor was already in the room waiting for her. The visitor . . . But who?
    ‘You going in?’ The guard looked at her impatiently. She nodded.
    Slowly, she walked into the room. There was a man sit ing at a smal table on the other side of the toughened glass that separated them. A man who was ut erly familiar and yet a total stranger.
    ‘I didn’t expect you,’ she said, her eyes narrowing. ‘Why come now? Why come at al ?’
    The man stood up and smiled. ‘Margaret,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’
    She pursed her lips. ‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine you relish the sight of me. The decay. I’m part of you and yet here I am, fal ible. A failure. That must be hard to accept.’
    Her eyes were stony; she felt nothing but contempt for the man who was her father.
    He nodded slowly, appearing to digest her words. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventual y. ‘It is hard. And yet I have made my peace with the disappointment you have given me over the years.’
    It stil hurt, even though Margaret would die before let ing him know. She