Hartsend (28 page)

‘‘I stink of garlic,'' Harriet said. ‘‘I've been making meatloaf.'' She sniffed her fingers.

‘‘No more cooking after tonight. No more cooking after tonight.'' She made it into a song as she went to the sink, rocking her hips. Without the slightest idea of the effect she was having on him. She had a very pert little bum. Tight denims might have been invented just for her.

‘‘I can't wait to see what she's brought for us.''

‘‘You are so greedy,'' he told her.

‘‘I am not. Everybody likes getting things. Anyway, Mum took Christmas presents for all of them, so they'll be sending stuff for us.''

She was too fond of stuff, though. He'd have his work cut out trying to make her less materialistic. He thought of old Crawfurd, sitting up there on the hill with all his beautiful stuff, like the Crawhall original on the landing that was probably worth thousands. ‘‘They're only things, Ryan,'' he'd said. ‘‘They don't bring any comfort when the cold wind blows.''

‘‘Anyway, I made this for you. For your Mum coming home,'' he said, taking a roll of paper out of its cardboard tube. He let it unroll across the floor.

‘‘Wow! It's brilliant. Thank you so much. I love all the gold bits.'' She fingered the letters. ‘‘Is that bubble wrap?''

‘‘They never throw anything out. They have a whole room stuffed with things they're never going to use. He told me to help myself.''

When he'd explained to Crawfurd that he wanted to make a ‘welcome home' banner, and who it was for, Crawfurd had said, ‘‘A nice girl, Harriet.'' With a thoughtful expression, as if he was thinking, ‘‘Too nice for you.'' Or maybe he was thinking, treat her properly, which was ok, because that was exactly what he intended to do.

He didn't completely get Crawfurd. He'd been treated decently from the moment he'd been brought in from the shed, more than decently, but in a kind of hesitant way, as if Crawfurd wasn't sure he was allowed. It was like how Chrissie looked round to see who was watching when there were plain biscuits and caramel wafers on the plate.

‘‘It's so-o-o good. Should we hang it inside or outside?'' Harriet asked. She knelt to roll it up.

‘‘I would say inside, but it's up to you. OK, then. Phone me later?''

‘‘But you just got here,'' she stood up. ‘‘And I want you to meet Mum.''

That's going to happen, he thought, but not right now. He'd seen photographs. She was an older, plumper version of Harriet, with darker hair. There was no way of knowing how she'd jump. Weeks of absence, a long flight. Better not to make his entry this week. He thought he'd be pretty much ok with Mum but only if he kind of tiptoed into her life. And more like a dancer than a burglar.

He had his excuse ready. ‘‘I'm moving back home soon. I haven't packed my stuff yet.'' Not that there was much to pack. And not that he wanted to go, but he could feel his mother's silence getting louder every time he saw her.

‘‘There's loads of meatloaf.''

It was tempting. The Crawfurds lived on microwave stuff, It was ok, but it came in microscopic quantities. Hand on the door, he turned. ‘‘Phone me soon, ok?'' He tried standing on his toes. Not so easy. He laughed at himself.

Harriet flung a towel at him. He laughed again, threw it straight back and closed the door behind him.

 

Well, that was something, she thought. Usually it was hard work just trying to make him smile. Even though good things were happening, the bad things were still pulling him down. He'd passed his first assessment, despite all the time missed. The graffiti on the pavement outside his house had been cleaned off, and his mother had moved back from his sister's. Someone from the Community Council had even come round to see what else they could do for her. But none of the big things were being talked about.

‘‘Kid gloves,'' her Dad said, meaning, don't ask questions, let him talk about what he wants to, when he wants to. She was trying, but it was hard. She hadn't realised how much her life depended on being direct with people, and expecting them to be direct back. Being gentle with people wasn't in fact her strongest point.

The potatoes were on the work top, waiting to be peeled. She put Ryan's three back in the vegetable box, and looked at the clock. It had occurred to her that it would be a noble and generous thing to let them have time to themselves. She'd invented an excuse to conceal her generosity. ‘‘I hate waiting, Dad. It drives me crazy.''

‘‘You'll be waiting here. Longer.''

‘‘I can tidy up a bit. I might go to bed and read. You should get some flowers,'' she told him, ‘‘but not the ones at the petrol station. Get them at that Sainsbury's on the way.''

Thank goodness she had given up the Hospice shop. No early rising tomorrow. She wondered if Mum would sleep all day, or if she had slept on the plane. It occurred to her that their bedroom might be a better place to hang the banner, but when she went upstairs she couldn't go in. She hardly ever went into their room. Hardly ever needed to, but it was more a feeling of respect that stopped her. It was their space. She would have died rather than open any of the drawers. If they had secrets, she didn't want to know, not ever.

She went into the downstairs study to find something to read. There was a lot of nostalgia in here. The penguin puppet who'd once starred in a holiday club, an aerial photograph of their old house in Peterculter, school photographs of Kerr and herself, and the beloved motorbike poster. Dad had given up the bike when she was small. Kerr remembered it, said it should have been kept for him.

She'd heard it used as a sermon illustration more than once. Giving up something you loved for something you loved better, Dad said. Mum had a different interpretation. He wasn't very good, she said. He fell off quite a lot, especially in the rain at traffic lights, so it was really self preservation.

He'd be less grumpy and smile more with Mum home. Exercise had helped him work off his grumpiness, but he'd stopped going to the gym now. He hadn't said why, but it was clear as the nose on your face. He was so angry at being taken in by that man. It made her skin creep. Only once he'd talked to her about it. She'd been in bed, with the light off and the radio still on. He'd opened her door.

‘‘Time you were asleep, love,'' he'd said.

‘‘I can't. I'm really really tired, but I'm not sleepy.''

‘‘It might be easier without Radio One.''

She couldn't see his face. ‘‘Are you alright, Daddy?''

‘‘Not really.''

‘‘Can I help?''

‘‘You do help, Harriet. You help me all the time.''

‘‘Are you thinking about … That man.'' She couldn't bring herself to say, ‘‘Dr Gordon'' or ‘‘your friend''. It was unbearable to think that her father could have been friends with such a person.

‘‘At least you never brought him home,'' she said.

He stood in the doorway for a long while.

‘‘Try to sleep, darling,'' was all he said, as he closed the door.

It had been well below zero during the night; the pot-holes in Lesley's back lane were frozen over. He drove very cautiously, trying to avoid the worst ones. She had evidently been watching from the house, and was at the back gate waiting for him. Well-wrapped up, he was glad to see.

‘‘D'you have a wheelbarrow?'' he asked, unlocking the car boot.

‘‘It's very rusty. I can carry one bag.''

To prove it she wrapped her arms round one of the seed-filled plastic sacks, shouldered the gate open and made her way to the old boiler house. Duncan followed with the other sack, the box of suet balls and the bird feeders.

Now that the heavy mist had cleared, pale sunshine had melted the frost on those parts of the ground not shaded by the house. The garden looked sadly neglected. A
hamamelis molis
was doing its best but the snowdrops and pink hellebore were practically hidden by weeds, creeping ivy, and withered beech leaves.

They opened one sack and filled the two bird feeders.

‘‘You want to have these where you can see the birds, but they can't see you,'' he advised. He suggested a lilac bush near the dining room window. Together they tied them on, at a height where Lesley would be able to refill them without standing on a stool.

She suggested coffee. He accepted. The yellow kitchen tiles seemed uglier than ever in the morning light. He shivered, recalling what she had said about hating them.

‘‘Go through and sit beside the fire,'' she told him. ‘‘And by the way, that's yours,'' She pointed to a small square parcel on the table. ‘‘Don't forget to take it this time.''

He remembered this room from the day of the funeral. Apart from the rearrangement of chairs, not much had changed. The previous year's calendar still hung next to the fireplace at the December Page. The Rialto Bridge Under Snow. A
vaporetto
, interior lights on, passengers muffled behind steamed-up windows was emerging from beneath it. Dark water reflected pale gold light from shop fronts. In the foreground the intricate tracery of a metal gate opening onto the canal was powdered with white.

He cleared his throat carefully before calling to her in the kitchen.

‘‘Lesley, could I perhaps have tea?''

‘‘Of course. I thought you were a coffee drinker.''

‘‘Well, I am sometimes,'' he said, turning to look at the feeders. It would take a little time for the first birds to come, but the message would soon spread.

She brought through the tray. ‘‘I hope you don't mind sitting in here. The front room is temporarily occupied.''

‘‘Occupied?''

‘‘Fish tanks,'' she said.

‘‘Fish tanks.'' Had he missed something? Mother's cryptic reference to a gentleman visitor had never fully faded from his mind. He had settled on a cousin eventually, a distant and not very welcome caller, too insignificant for Lesley to mention at the time and of no importance whatsoever now.

‘‘It's a long story. Walter next door bought new tanks to breed fish, but Ruby won't let him, so the tanks are here till he works out what to do with them.''

Why would anyone want to breed fish? His sympathies were entirely with the wife.

‘‘What kind of fish is he wanting to breed, flesh-eating piranhas?''

‘‘Guppies.''

He was none the wiser. ‘‘Well, it's very generous of you to store them. I hope he appreciates that.''

‘‘I'm not going to be generous indefinitely.''

He was glad to hear it. ‘‘Why doesn't he build a shed? He's got the same amount of ground as you have. Plenty of room to put a big shed back to back with his garage. He could sit down there with his fish, put in a little TV set, some curtains and a kettle, and be out of her way completely.''

‘‘Oh dear,'' Lesley said. Her lips curved in a proper smile.

‘‘What's the matter?''

‘‘Nothing.'' She stirred her tea. ‘‘Sometimes I think I'm a very bad person. I have very bad thoughts.''

This he could not believe, but he kept silent. He had kept silent quite a lot recently in moments of female distress. He felt he was beginning to understand women.

‘‘Talking of sheds,'' she began, ‘‘I meant to tell you, I asked Ryan Flaherty why he took refuge in yours that night. How is he, by the way?''

‘‘He seems fine. He passed that essay I helped him with. I rather enjoyed it. He knows what he wants to say, but he's not terribly logical. I suspect he may be dyslexic. What did he say?''

‘‘About the shed? He used to come to your house after school when Mrs Flaherty was cleaning. When he was in Primary school. Your gardener gave him Buttered Brazils and let him sit and play in the shed.''

‘‘Mr Mackenzie. Odd I never noticed him.''

‘‘Well, you would be at work. Your mother must have known.''

He supposed so. Perhaps she had assumed that as long as the boy remained outside the house he was not a nuisance.

‘‘How is she?''

‘‘Mother? Fine. Well, a bit fragile. She said the strangest thing to me this morning. You know we put him in the back bedroom, downstairs. Now that he's gone home, she told me she'd felt safer with him there, because he would hear anyone prowling around in the garden, or trying to break in. Marjorie McKinnon comes round quite often but I'm wondering whether I might ask Mrs Flaherty to come in more, that is, on more days to make up the same hours, just to keep an eye on her. What do you think?''

‘‘I think that would be good. Mary needs to be busy. Did he ever talk about his father?''

‘‘Not to me. Dr McKinnon spent a while with him, but I don't know what was said.''

Dr McKinnon had come to talk to Ryan several times. He must have known for a long time what the rest of the village was now coming to terms with. It seemed the little girl had run away that night, and that her death had been accidental, The new doctor's suicide was generally talked of as a ‘‘good thing.'' Duncan preferred not to listen. He had only met the man once after all and could barely remember his face. Lesley's response troubled him. She had been incredulous at first, and she was still quite strange about the whole business. She would go to Dr Gordon's funeral, she said, when there was one.

‘‘You can't possibly,'' he'd told her, but had left it at that. She would see sense and change her mind when the time came.

She was looking at his cup. He'd taken a couple of sips, and no more.

‘‘I know why you asked for tea,'' she said abruptly. ‘‘We've never had anything but instant. You could have said, Duncan. I'll buy some proper beans and a percolator. But you'll have to tell me what to get.''