The room had been painted dark pink and the curtains and sofa were of a faded and threadbare floral pattern. Some tartan rugs had been thrown about, to cosy things up a little, and the fireplace looked as if it had been used recently.
‘Hi, Owen!’ she called to her son, who was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a guitar cradled between his knees.
‘Listen to this,’ was his response and he strummed her a complicated-sounding chord sequence.
‘Brilliant,’ she told him, still taking in the room around her. The upright piano, three guitars and a framed collection of concert posters were the kind of belongings Annie might have expect Ed to have. The breathtaking, voluptuous oil painting of a nude woman was a little more unexpected.
The frilly ornaments and porcelain figurines clogging up the mantelpiece and windowsills were also out of keeping and Annie was guessing that Ed was still curating every single item that had once belonged to his mother.
The low ceiling above their heads dipped slightly in the middle. For how many decades had it been like that? she wondered. There was no denying the character of the place, even if it was a little dark and gloomy and in serious need of brilliant white paint. The doors all hung at a wonky angle, the floor squeaked and if she were to drop a marble, she suspected it would roll right towards the black fireplace at the side of the room.
As Owen played on, Ed came in bearing a little tray with two mugs and a teapot.
‘Please, take a seat,’ he insisted and as she settled herself into a saggy armchair, her amateur property developer’s eye fell on the buckled skirting board and the peeling sheet of wallpaper working itself away from it. Turning her head, she surveyed the rest of the stretch of skirting board, also buckled with blistering paint and peeling paper above.
‘Looks like you’ve got damp,’ she told him.
‘Oh . . .’ Ed landed on the sofa, close to Owen’s feet: ‘These old places’ – he waved a biscuit in the air – ‘always have a touch of something.’
‘No, Ed.’ Annie lifted the flap of wallpaper and saw across the back, as she’d suspected, a plume of black mould. ‘You’ve got damp and a serious mould situation and – ’
With perfect timing, Ed gave one of his spectacular sneezes, so she could tell him, very convincingly, ‘You’re allergic to it. Most people would be.’
‘You’re joking!’ he said and he came over to look at the paper she was holding up. He sneezed again as soon as he was up close.
Owen came too and declared the situation ‘gross’ but nevertheless went on to tell Ed in detail all about the dry rot ‘fruiting body’ which had been discovered in the basement of their previous home.
‘It was orangey-brown and huge and mushroomy, alive! It looked like it had just come down from outer space and was about to evolve into another life form,’ he told them in an excited voice, a smile on his face, eyes twinkly with mischief.
‘That’s just lovely, Owen. Maybe you’d like to come into my coal-hole and we’ll see if we can find something like that down there?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Right, well . . . something to look forward to for next week, I think.’
Owen’s face fell, so Ed cheered him up with the request: ‘Would you like to see if you can find Hoover and Dyson in the garden for me? My cats,’ he said in response to Annie’s raised eyebrows. ‘They’re the closest thing I have to a cleaner.’
‘Erm . . . there’s something I need to talk to you about,’ Ed began a little awkwardly, once Owen was out of the back door and into the garden.
Annie felt just a flicker of nervousness. She looked at this increasingly familiar, yet still quite unknown, man on the sofa just a foot or so away and couldn’t help but remember
kissing – very heated kissing –
in the stairwell.
Neither of them had ever referred to
it again but now her
toes were tightly curled at the thought of him bringing it up.
He sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, and looked directly at her, terribly seriously.
‘How’s it going in Upper Ploxley?’ he asked.
‘It’s fine,’ she replied. ‘Good,’ she added quickly but then followed it up with, ‘The commuting’s a bit of a pain, but we’ll get used to it.’
When he made no reply, but kept on looking at her questioningly, she felt compelled to add: ‘I suppose we’re all having some teething problems . . . settling in . .
. finding our feet. But I really think it’s going to work out for the best.’
‘Do you?’ he asked, still very serious. He leaned forward and looked directly at her. Oh brother, he was definitely about to mention the kissing, she knew it.
‘Look, Ed,’ she jumped in, ‘if this is about what I – what we . . . you know, in the stairwell . . .’ she stumbled. ‘Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t want you to
get the wrong idea. I was just very excited about Owen . . . and his solo . . . and I got carried away. I’m very happy with Gray,’ she said with emphasis.
Ed’s face seemed to cloud over. She’d tried to clear the air, but her words seemed to have had the opposite effect. He looked almost angry.
‘No, I wasn’t going to talk about that,’ he said, making her want to kick herself hard. ‘I thought I should tell you, in case you hadn’t noticed, that Owen is not happy. He’s stopped speaking in class and judging by how well his guitar playing is coming along, he must be in his room practising for hours every day. I’m delighted when pupils practise, but I don’t think that amount of time on his own can be very good for him.’
For a moment Annie didn’t know what to say, she was
so taken aback. Had she overlooked Owen? He’d seemed to settle into Gray’s home quite well, compared with Lana, but if he wasn’t talking in class again, that was a big setback.
‘Don’t you think it was a bit soon to move them?’ Ed asked her. ‘Don’t you think you’ve maybe rushed into things for your own reasons?’
That was too much. He had totally overstepped the line and she felt a surge of annoyance.
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business, Ed,’ she told him angrily, then added in a raised voice: ‘Don’t think that I don’t worry about the children, because I do! All
the time! Of course I only want what’s best for them. I made the move to give us all some more security. Saying I did it for my own reasons is just completely wrong!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ed replied, which took the wind out of her sails a little.
‘I’m helping Owen as much as I can,’ she added, voice not so angry now. ‘I hadn’t realized what was going on at school. You were right to tell me about that.’
His head was bowed and he was rubbing his hands together, agitated by this conversation.
‘Well, maybe this isn’t my business either,’ he began, not looking up at her, ‘but I think you should know that there’s about two thousand pounds missing from the
school’s charity fund-raising account. I haven’t spoken to Lana and her friends about it yet, but obviously I’m going to have to.’
‘Two thousand pounds!’ Annie repeated in astonishment. ‘How much is in the account?’
‘There’s over eight thousand left, but there have been three withdrawals which have added up to two grand. Only Lana and one other girl are signatories entitled to make withdrawals,’ he told her gravely.
‘Oh no!’ was Annie’s stunned reaction. Immediately she wondered what Lana was planning to do with the money. Run away? This was her first panicky thought.
‘Ed? Can you give me the chance to speak to Lana about this first?’ Annie asked. ‘She’s being so difficult at the moment. She doesn’t like it at Gray’s, her boyfriend’s dumped her, she’s missing her friends . . . It looks like she’s done something totally out of order, but can you just give me a couple of days to pick the right moment and find out what she knows about it?’
And if she’s got £2,000 on her, she could just take off
were the words Annie didn’t add.
‘Right, well . . .’ Ed stood up. ‘I’ll see Owen at the weekend then?’ He was referring to the long-planned camping expedition.
Annie got up too and felt awkward, now that Ed had landed all these difficulties on her: ‘I will understand if you don’t want to do the trip any more,’ she told him.
He looked at her with surprise. ‘Why wouldn’t I want to do it? Owen would be gutted.’
Chapter Twenty-six
Owen’s camping pyjamas:
Socks (Asda)
Pants (Asda)
Jogging bottoms (Asda)
Long-sleeved top (Gap sale)
Est. cost: £12
‘Yeah . . . Too many beans.’
Owen was uncomfortable in his sleeping bag. He felt too hot, too tight and too bundled up. Also, his right thumb, carefully wrapped in a clean plaster, was starting to throb.
Opening a family-sized tin of beans with his penknife turned out to have been a bad idea. The tin had opened easily enough, but the knife had left a cruelly jagged edge, which had ripped his thumb open as he was tipping the beans out into the pot.
For a few moments, Owen hadn’t registered the pain and his blood had dripped noiselessly down onto the beans. But as soon as he’d uttered his first ‘Owww!’ Ed, on cooking duty at the camp along with two dads and four other boys, had sprung into action.
The cut had quickly been assessed, cleaned with disinfectant wipes and held up high to stem the blood flow. Once the plaster had been expertly applied and soothing words administered, they’d both gone back to the gas stove to check over the beans.
There was a small, but unmistakable puddle of blood sitting on top of them.
‘Do you think we should throw them out?’ Owen had asked.
‘No, no, no,’ Ed had heartily assured him. ‘Of course not – as long as they get a good boil. Extra iron for everyone.’
He made several jokes about it to jolly Owen along: ‘Bloody great beans . . . I’m bloody hungry . . . these are going to be bloody delicious,’ and so on.
But the cut finger had been Owen’s third injury of the
day and he was beginning to feel like the clutz of
the
camp. During the stick-whittling session, he’d accidentally whittled his left index finger, so now he had a plaster on both hands.
Drystone dyke building hadn’t gone much better; he’d struggled with a stone which was too heavy, and it had slipped from his hands and landed on his toe.
‘Never mind,’ Ed had assured him when he was assessing the damage to a tearful Owen. ‘You’re going to have a really cool black toenail. Very Ozzy Osbourne.’
Ed had sat next to him at supper, chatting with him and some of the other boys, telling jokes, playing some
of the clever word games he was so good at. When
Owen’s yawns had come thick and fast Ed had suggested he head for his sleeping bag in one of the boys’ tents.
This is where Owen, overdressed in socks, pants, jogging bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt, now wriggled uncomfortably.
On one side of his stomach there was a slightly sore patch – too many beans, he suspected.
Then he found he couldn’t help thinking about his dad, a cheerful and extrovert farter who’d had about fifty different words for the process, Owen’s favourites being ‘humming’ and ‘letting off steam’.
And he was thinking about the other thing and worrying quite a lot more. He’d thought he’d be able to keep it to himself, make it his own little project, but now he wasn’t so sure.
Then he saw Ed, in cord trousers and a frazzled old
stripy pyjama top, coming into the tent with an old-fashioned storm lantern in one hand and one of Owen’s books in the other.