by Jojo Moyes
Ruth wished she wasn't wearing the brown skirt. It made her legs look stumpy. 'Oh, yes. I remember now. Stroke, wasn't it? Hmm. Not recovering quite as fast as they'd like. Are you . . . happy with her continuing to stay? I know we originally thought this would only be a couple of weeks . . .'
They exchanged another look.
'Strictly speaking, once you've gone beyond six weeks, we should undertake a review, perhaps consider a special guardianship order, which would give you some parental responsibility.'
'There is one possible complication,' Mrs Macauley said. 'We'll be selling this house fairly soon. In fact, we've accepted an offer on it.'
'And will there be room for Sarah in your new home?'
They didn't look at each other this time. The man spoke first. 'I'm not sure yet.'
'You want her to become a looked-after child? To transfer responsibility back to us?' Please don't say yes, Ruth willed them silently. I've got a backlog of care requests as long as your arm. And, believe me, not many homes for those kids that look like this.
'We're trying to work it out. It's just we haven't yet decided where we're - ah - going, have we, Tash? But she's definitely okay here for the next few weeks.'
A few weeks. Anything could happen in a few weeks. Ruth relaxed a little. 'Let's hope she's back with her grandfather before long.' She smiled, looking around her at the living room. 'It's a lovely house. I'm sure you'll be sorry to leave it.'
Neither spoke. She placed her hands on her files and leant forward. 'And how are you both doing? If you're not used to living with young people they can be surprisingly hard work.' She addressed her comments to Mrs Macauley, who had spoken least.
'It's fine,' Mr Macauley said.
'Mrs Macauley?'
The woman thought before she spoke. Ruth noted from the document in front of her that she was a lawyer. No surprise there. 'It's been - more tiring than I'd expected,' she said carefully. 'Then again, I don't really know what I thought it would be like.'
'Any particular problems?'
She considered this. 'No,' she said finally. 'I think . . . it's largely . . . a different way of seeing things.'
'Teenagers are a different kettle of fish.'
Mr Macauley grinned. 'You can say that again.'
'They bring their own challenges. But the school says she's a lot more settled.'
'She's a nice kid,' he continued. 'She's got drive.'
'Perhaps if you ever considered fostering again, you'd be happier with younger children. Do you think you might consider becoming registered foster-parents?' No point emphasising the financial benefits, Ruth thought. These two didn't look as though money was a problem. 'There's a huge shortage in this area,' she added. 'Lots of children in need.'
'I do know that,' Mrs Macauley said, her voice low.
As Ruth watched, her husband nudged his wife's hand with the back of his own. A gentle gesture. Supportive. Curiously, she blushed. 'We'll give it some thought,' he said. 'At the moment we're just taking each day as it comes.'
There was a message under her lock-up door. She kicked it open, picked up the piece of paper and opened it, noting the unfamiliar scrawl.
Howdy, Circus Girl, Sorry I couldn't tell you in person but I got to go back to the States. My sister Arlene got sick, and being as how there's no one else in our family (fool woman done frightened off three husbands), I got to see she's okay.
Maltese Sal has keys and he's gonna feed my animals, but you keep an eye out for me, OK?
Tell Captain I'm real sorry not to get up there this weekend, but I'll be back in a week or two. Gonna bring him some Jimmy Beam too, if I can get it past those Nazi nurses.
CJ
She folded the note neatly and put it into her pocket, feeling oddly shaken by the prospect of John's absence. She had known he had a sister in America - he made constant jokes about how ugly she was - but the few times he had disappeared to see her, Papa had always been left in charge. Now, without his presence or John's, the yard felt rootless. It wouldn't be long, she told herself. Everything would be sorted out soon.
It began to drizzle, and the cobbles were faintly tacky where someone had not swept up the wisps of hay and spilt feed. She put her coat on the peg, and changed into Papa's old overcoat, the one he used to protect his clothes. Knowing, instinctively, that activity would ease her anxiety she checked Sheba's water bowl, then set about the horses, straightening skewed rugs, making sure the stable doors were firmly shut. She mucked out Boo, replaced his hay and water, checked his feet, shooed away the chickens and a new, unidentified goat, then stopped for a brief chat with Ranjeet, from the Raj Palace, who had come to purchase some eggs. Finally she returned to the lock-up to change back into her school shoes.
It was as she was about to close her padlock that she remembered the money in the envelope. She reached into her pocket - and jumped as a hand landed softly on the back of her neck. She spun round, ready to strike out.
'What's the matter? You think I'm a crazy man come to get you?' Maltese Sal was highly amused, the gold tooth in the corner of his mouth just visible in the gloom of the lock-up as he wagged a finger in front of her.
She shivered, her hand creeping to her neck.
'You leaving me a love letter, Circus Girl?'
He took the envelope from her, his other hand holding a lit cigarette, his feet planted firmly apart, as if emphasising his ownership of the place. The scent of aftershave and tobacco smoke now overshadowed the subtle sweet scents of hay and forage. 'You know you can always tell me in person.'
'Money,' she said, embarrassed by the way her voice cracked as she spoke. 'It's your money.'
'Ah . . .' He took it from her, his fingers brushing against hers.
'I've got to go,' she said, picking up her bag, but he held up his palm.
He peeled open the envelope and peered inside. Then he frowned and held it out to her. 'And this is?'
'My rent money. Two weeks. And for the hay and feed.'
Outside it was raining harder. Sheba slunk in behind them, her shaggy coat glistening with jewelled drops. Under the railway arches, one of the horses called, his hooves scuffing on the concrete floor.
'And?' He looked at her expectantly. He was smiling, but it wasn't a real smile.
She swallowed. 'I haven't got it.'
'The arrears?'
'Not yet.'
Maltese Sal hissed through his teeth and shook his head. 'You know, you're lucky I held that stable for you. Two weeks ago you come and get the horse, take him away and never even give me notice. You think that's good manners?'
'It wasn't my--'
'I kept that stable open for you, Sarah, even though I could have let it to twenty other people. Then you just turn up back here with him like nothing's happened. Not even a thank-you.'
'But, like I said, it wasn't my fault. It was--'
'Sweetheart, I don't give a monkey's whose fault it was. All I'm thinking now is, how do I know you're not going to disappear again? With all that money you still owe me? You got keys. You and your horse could be planning to go halfway to Timbuktu tomorrow for all I know.' He had moved a step closer to her, his shirt collar level with her eyes.
She found she couldn't swallow without making a really obvious noise. 'I won't,' she said quietly. 'I always pay my debts. Papa always pays his debts. John knows that.' We never had any debts before this happened, she thought.
'But John ain't here. Your papa ain't here. And this is my yard now, not theirs.'
She couldn't answer him.
A train rumbled over the arches, the lights from the carriages briefly illuminating the little yard, a thousand people passing overhead on their way to their homes, their safe, comforting lives. Sal cocked his head as if considering something. Then he took another step towards her. He was closer now, too close. Her breath stalled in her chest.
His voice lowered: 'Your papa's sick, Sarah.'
'I know that,' she whispered.
'Your papa's real
sick, from what John says. So you need to tell me something. How are you going to pay me back what you owe me?' His voice was soft, musical, as though he was singing, as though it would disguise the menace beneath. He was so close now that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, could smell the musky scent of his aftershave, his leather jacket, underlaid by something male and unknown.
She tried to keep her eyes down. She had heard dark rumours about Maltese Sal. You didn't mess with him. He had spent time in prison, had bad friends and an interest in things you shouldn't ask questions about.
'So?'
'I told you--'
'You told me nothing. Like I said, I thought you'd upped and gone. Now I got to know I'm going to get paid.' His eyes burnt into her. 'We got to work something out, Sarah.'
She blinked at him, trying not to let her breath tremble.
'We got to work out some way of you returning my investment.'
Don't you understand, she wanted to say to him, that that's all I want too? This debt hung over her, twisted her gut into a knot of anxiety whenever she totted it up. It coloured every trip she made to see her horse so that there was increasingly little comfort in simply being with him. Yet there was no one she could safely confide in about it. No one but Maltese Sal who could lift that burden.
'I could muck out for you,' she blurted.
'I got boys to do that, Sarah.'
'Then I could look after the yard at weekends,' she whispered.
'But I don't need you to,' he said. 'You selling eggs, going up and down with a broom, holds no value for me. You understand that? The concept of value?'
Sarah nodded.
'I'm a businessman. That said, I've tried to accommodate your special circumstances. I've tried to be understanding. Anyone else, Sarah . . .' He shook his head. 'I'd have lost patience long ago.'
He glanced behind him, out through the archway, to where the rain was now running down the cobbles and towards the gates, gleaming under the sodium lights. For a moment, she thought he was going to leave. That that was it. But he turned back to her.
He took another silent step forward so that she was backed against her door. Then he raised a hand, and gently picked a hayseed from her hair, holding it in front of her before flicking it away with strong, calloused fingers.
She kept her eyes straight ahead, trying not to flinch. Maltese Sal smiled, a long, slow smile, his eyes telling her that it was okay, he understood. Then, as she tried to smile back, he placed that hand on her right breast, running his thumb slowly across the nipple. This was done so lightly, and with such casual certainty, that it took her two seconds to register what he was doing.
'Doesn't have to be about money, Sarah,' he said softly. Then, with a quick smile, he removed his hand before she had a chance to lift her own in protest.
Her skin burnt with its imprint. Her cheeks flamed. Air locked in her throat.
'You're growing up fast, sweetheart,' he said, pocketing the envelope and shaking his fingers, as if he'd just touched something hot. 'Always a way through for a pretty girl. You just let Sal know.'
And he was gone, whistling, through the wire gates as she stood, frozen, her bag dangling limply from her hand.
'I'm out this evening.' They had finally closed the front door on Ruth. As she departed, she had given Mac one of those smiles - the slightly too wide ones that women always gave him - and, despite herself, it had irritated Natasha. She thanked God she had arranged to meet her sister.
'Okay. I promised I'd take Sarah to the hospital after school anyway. But I'll be out tomorrow, if that's okay?' He didn't volunteer where.
'Okay.' Natasha stepped forward, but he didn't move out of the way. 'I've got a meeting, Mac, and I'm late already,' she said. He was wearing the jeans she had once loved, she noticed, a deep indigo, soft and buttery, faded where he always insisted on carrying too much in the pockets, despite her entreaties. She remembered resting against him during a weekend away several years previously, the wind stinging her ears, her hands thrust deep in those rear pockets.
'I bought you something,' he said. He reached behind him, and held out a large bag of mixed bulbs. 'I know it's only a start, but . . . you were so sad.'
She took them from him. The mesh bag left little bits of soil on her hands.
'I'll help you, if you like, next weekend. I can fix the fencing, at least.'
She swallowed. 'It'll all grow back. Eventually.' She lifted her eyes to his and smiled. 'But thank you.'
She had a sudden vision of Mac, laughing and chatting, his tool-belt hanging from his waist, herself tenderly replacing the lost plants. Is this wise? she wanted to ask. Haven't our paths wound too closely already?
They stood in the hallway, each lost in thought. When Mac spoke, it was clear that their minds had headed in different directions. 'We haven't really talked about this, Tash, but what do we do if the old boy doesn't get better?' He leant against the front door, blocking her way out. 'He's not good, you know. I can't see him bouncing back quickly.'
Natasha took a deep breath. 'Then she has to become someone else's problem.'
'Someone else's problem?'
'Okay. Someone else's responsibility.'
'But what do we do about the horse?'
She pictured the animal, treading carelessly over her patio, a path of strewn debris in its wake. That day, it had stopped being a thing of grace and beauty to her.
'Mac, the day we leave here we stop being a family. We stop being able to offer her a home, horse or not. Your job won't allow for full-time guardianship and you know mine certainly won't. We're struggling through every day as it is.'
'So we let her down.'
'It's the system that lets her down. It doesn't have the flexibility or resources to deal with someone like her.' Seeing his expression, she tried to soften her voice. 'Look, they might be able to find the horse a temporary place at a sanctuary or something until a new home can be found for her, perhaps in the countryside, if she's that desperate to keep it. It might work out better for her.'
'I don't imagine that's very likely.'
'Well, I can ask around. See what the options are. Without giving anything away.'
He still didn't move from the door. Natasha's watch told her she'd be late for her meeting.
'Do you want her to go?'
'I never said that.'
'But . . . you don't seem to like her.'
'Of course I like her.'
'You never say anything nice about her.'
She rifled through her bag to hide the colour that had risen in her cheeks. 'What am I supposed to do? Don't make me out to be the bad guy here, Mac. She was a stranger. I've offered her my home - and, might I add, misled Social Services in the process about our relationship. I've paid out hundreds of pounds to move her horse to Kent and back. I've sacrificed my beloved garden--'
'That's not what I'm saying.'
'Then what are you saying? That we should be bonding over makeup tips? I've tried, okay? I've tried to take her shopping. I've offered to do up her room. I've tried to make conversation. Have you ever considered the possibility that she just doesn't like me?'
'She's a kid.'
'What? So she's incapable of disliking someone?'
'No. I just mean it's an adult's job to overcome it.'
'Oh. So now you're the expert on child-rearing.'
'No. Just someone with a bit of humanity.'
They stared at each other.
She placed the bulbs on the hall table and picked up her document case, her cheeks scarlet. 'It must be nice being you, Mac. Everyone loves you. Hell, that bloody social worker was nearly sitting on your lap. And, for whatever reason, you have the same effect on Sarah, and that's great for both of you.' She grabbed her phone. 'But don't attack me for not having the same effect, okay? I'm doing my best. I'm giving up my home. I'm sacrificing my relationship simply by having you two here every day, by playing happy bloody families. I'm just struggling through, day to day. I'm d
oing my bloody best.'
'Tash--'
'And STOP calling me TASH.'
She pushed past him, wrenched open the front door and was off down the steps, still hearing his voice above the thumping of her heart and wondering why tears had sprung to her eyes.
'Okay. You're clinically insane.' Jo peeled off her rubber gloves and walked to the kitchen table where Natasha was nursing a glass of wine. 'Mac? Your ex-husband Mac?'
'But that's the point, isn't it? He's not properly ex yet so he does have a claim on the house.'
'Then you should move out. This is insane. Look at you. You're a wreck.'
Dottie, Jo's youngest, walked into the kitchen chewing a dog's rubber bone. 'No, sweetie. You'll get worms.' She removed it from the child's mouth, which she plugged with a piece of dried apricot even before Dottie had a chance to protest. 'Do Mum and Dad know?'
'Of course they don't. It's only going to last for a few weeks.'
'You've got to get out. Go to a hotel. You were a mess when you were living with him. This isn't going to help you move on, is it? For Chrissakes, Tash, you only really started to get your life together in the summer. BED, you two!' she yelled, at the distant sound of fighting from the front room. 'I really should get this one down too. Are you okay for a minute if I plonk her in now? It's a quarter to eight.'
'Fine,' said Natasha. She was secretly relieved when the adorable Dottie, with her plump, jam-smeared face and talcum smell, was removed from the room. The older children had somehow lost enough of their babyness to seem like people. Dottie was an acute, piercing reminder of something that should have been hers. An absence to which she was still not quite reconciled.
'Say night-night to Aunty Tash.'
Natasha steeled herself for the kiss, forcing herself to look casual.
'No,' said the child, burrowing her head in Jo's legs.
'Dottie, that's not nice - you say night-night to--'
'It's fine. Really.' Natasha waved her away. 'She's tired.' She knew her sister would see this brisk response as yet another sign of her defective maternal gene.
'Give me five minutes to read her a story.'
Jo had put on weight, Natasha thought, watching her hoist the child on to her hip with the fluid ease of long practice. She moaned constantly about having no time, about how children had ruined her figure, all the while dunking another digestive into an ever-present mug of tea. 'Blood sugar,' she would explain. 'Stops me shouting so much at tea-time.'
