She was a little early, so she rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. Her smoke swirled in the cold, dank air.
Bruno was lucky in not having been through an uncomfortable stage. He seemed to move seamlessly from childhood to adolescence without spots or awkwardness, retaining that eerie, unchildlike composure. She could all too clearly imagine the hanky panky of which he stood accused.
‘Hey – are you alright?’
The question came from a tall, beautiful girl wearing a Crombie overcoat over frayed pyjama bottoms and DMs, who was standing in the chicken run with a plastic bowl, idly scattering seed.
‘Yes, thanks,’ replied Charity. ‘Just waiting – I’m early.’
The girl continued to scatter while keeping her eyes on Charity. ‘Who for?’
‘Bruno Blyth.’
‘Oh, right …’ She emptied the rest of the bowl with a sweeping gesture and came out of the run, closing the gate behind her.
‘I don’t suppose you could spare one of those, could you?’
It took less than a nanosecond for Charity to conclude that this was neither the place nor the moment for prissiness. She held out the packet.
‘There you go.’
‘Cheers.’ The girl took a box of matches from her coat pocket and lit up with exaggerated relish. ‘Christ … thanks!’
She had a natural, go-hang charisma. Fox-brown hair hanging in long, wavy hanks, pale bony hands with rings on the thumb and forefingers, a mouth with a slightly pouting upper lip. Charity liked her looks.
‘You know Bruno, do you?’
The girl nodded on a long exhalation. ‘Everyone knows everyone here.’ She looked directly at Charity. ‘How do you know him then?’
‘I’m his sister.’
‘Fuck me, really?’ She gave her head a little shake. ‘You know he’s been bad?’
‘Yes. That’s why I’m here.’
‘To see Mac?’
‘And take Bruno home for a fortnight.’
‘Jammy bastard.’
‘Yes.’ Charity smiled thinly. ‘I did wonder if that was much of a punishment.’
‘And all for groping Annelind in the sluice.’
‘Sluice?’
‘Toilets … cloakroom.’
‘Annelind?’
‘She works in the kitchen. She’s nice actually, but let’s just say she won’t have put up much of a fight.’
This time Charity laughed out loud. ‘Sorry, what’s your name?’
‘Paulina. Hi.’
‘Charity.’
They shook hands, a curious note of formality under the circumstances. Paulina’s hand was icy. Charity looked at her watch. ‘I suppose I’d better go in and face the music.’
‘Ach!’ Paulina took a final drag and ground the butt beneath her boot. ‘Mac’s a pushover. But he has to draw the line somewhere and shagging the staff is where.’
‘Did he actually – shag her?’
‘You know Bruno.’ Paulina quirked her mouth and flashed Charity a sidelong look. ‘What do you think?’
‘OK.’ Charity closed the car window and got out. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Paulina.’
‘And you. Thanks for the fag.’
As Charity headed for the main building a group of teenagers who’d been hanging around by the prefab began drifting towards Paulina, doubtless for the de-brief. One of the boys lifted his chin in a ‘Hi’ motion. Charity lifted her chin back, suppressing her automatic shouldn’t-you-be-in-class reflex; that wasn’t how this place worked. Everything was voluntary and self-regulating.
Or, she thought grimly, almost everything.
The door of Macfarlane’s room (never referred to as the office) was standing open, and to her surprise Charity could see Bruno already there, perched on the edge of an armchair with his hands hanging between his knees. He looked remarkably relaxed in an oversize plaid shirt, baggy jeans and Timberlands. She always forgot how good-looking her brother was, with his thick dark hair and furry lashes – and as if good looks weren’t enough he was armoured, like Felicity, in the smooth, watertight self-confidence that so often accompanied them.
She couldn’t see Macfarlane, but as she tapped on the open door with her knuckle he appeared from behind it, carrying a book.
‘Ah – good morning. Charity, is it?’
‘Yes.’ She submitted to a brisk, powerful handshake. ‘Hello.’
‘Take a pew.’ He gave the door a push, enough to half-close but not shut it. ‘Won’t keep you long.’
The room was not much warmer than the air outside. The sullen glow of a coal fire was too small and too far away. Charity sat down in one of the other armchairs. There was a sofa, mostly covered in books and magazines, and a desk in the far corner similarly heaped high. Having placed the book on the desk, Macfarlane lowered his bulk into the free space on the sofa. Bruno twitched a hand.
‘Hi Sis.’
‘Hello.’
Sis? Sis? Where had that come from? The little toe-rag needn’t think she was going to enter some sort of conspiracy of cuteness with him. This would be all business if she had anything to do with it, and as brief as possible.
Macfarlane was a big, tall man, probably in his mid-seventies, but his age in no way detracted from the impression he gave of real strength. His shabby tweed jacket was the sort that might have been worn in an early assault on Everest. As well as being physically impressive he had an air that was at once pleasant and wholly authoritative. Even – Charity considered – sexy, a deeply inappropriate reaction in all the circumstances.
‘Now then. Charity. I take it you know the score?’
‘My mother outlined it, yes.’
‘And you drew the short straw.’ His gaze rested on her benignly.
‘I was due to drive this way anyway …’
‘… and your parents have been before.’
‘Our father’s away.’
‘Of course.’ Macfarlane’s eyes moved to Bruno. ‘Bruno, perhaps you’d like to tell your sister why we’re all here. Just so we’re all clear.’
Yes, thought Charity. Let’s hear it in your own words, sunshine.
Without hesitation Bruno said, ‘I made a pass at Annelind.’ He didn’t sound or look in the least discomforted, any more than did the head. ‘Worthy of each other’s steel’ was the phrase that came to mind.
‘I see.’
‘It was a little more than that,’ suggested Macfarlane. ‘Remember I’ve spoken to Annelind and she gave a full account.’
‘Sure,’ said Bruno. ‘It was a successful pass.’
His brazen cheek – the sheer bloody chutzpah – took Charity’s breath away. Her face was burning and she hoped she didn’t look red, but Macfarlane appeared unaffected.
‘She said as much.’ He turned to Charity, cutting Bruno out of his next remark. ‘And you don’t need me to list the several ways in which that is completely beyond the pale.’
‘No,’ muttered Charity. ‘Indeed.’
He continued to talk to her. ‘As you may know, it’s our aim to deal with anything and everything that comes up here, at Brushwood, and in an open and democratic way. But not, I’m afraid, this. We would like Bruno to be off the premises for at least a fortnight, and for his parents – your parents – to impress upon him how wrongly he’s behaved and do whatever they think is right. Obviously they can talk to me at any time.’
‘I understand.’
‘Is there anything you want to ask now?’
Charity had to press her foot to the ground to stop her knee trembling. Be appropriate. ‘How is Annelind?’
‘Alright so far as I know. She’s left, of course.’
‘May I say something?’ Bruno looked from one to the other.
‘Certainly.’
‘About Annelind. She led me on. She was coming on to me for weeks.’
Charity studied her fingers, spread out on the still-quivering knee. But if Bruno was a cool customer, Macfarlane was cooler.
‘She was we
ll aware such a thing should never have happened. What exactly is your point, Bruno?’
‘She wanted it alright. It was fifty-fifty.’
A painful pause spread like spilled water, during which Bruno glanced from one to the other of them with an air of aggrieved impatience.
‘Here’s what I suggest,’ said Macfarlane, folding his arms across an impressive chest. ‘You go home with your sister, have a talk to your parents and a bloody good think, and come back here in due course if that’s what you would like. If, on the other hand, you want to take your A Levels at home, that can be arranged.’
There was another silence. Charity said, ‘Bruno …?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Limited,’ said Macfarlane, ‘as I’ve just outlined.’ He turned to Charity. ‘Is there anything else you want to know? It’s a great pity your parents couldn’t come, I’m afraid you’ve been put in a rather invidious position.’
‘There is one thing.’
She had the attention of both of them.
‘How did this come to light? Who told you?’
Macfarlane looked mildly at Bruno. ‘Would you like to answer that?’ Bruno shrugged. ‘Another member of staff overheard Bruno talking about the incident. She told me, and I followed it up with Annelind.’ He slapped his knees and stood up. ‘No harm done, except to Brushwood’s reputation.’
‘Thank you,’ said Charity.
‘Right.’ Macfarlane went to the door. ‘Bruno, have you got your bag?’
‘It’s in the Long.’
‘Go and fetch it. You can meet your sister outside.’
He watched Bruno go before starting to walk in the direction of the main door. Paulina and the other youngsters Charity had seen outside were still hanging around near the prefab, but paid them no attention.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Macfarlane. ‘People assume that because Brushwood is a free-thinking school that anything goes, but that’s not the case.’
‘I completely understand.’
‘May I ask what it is that you do?’
‘I’m an academic.’
‘In what field?’
‘My subject’s prehistoric icehouses.’
His tone and expression didn’t change and she liked him for that. ‘Of which I’m almost completely ignorant.’
‘You should come to one of my lectures.’ She smiled wryly. ‘There’s always room. But the teaching subsidizes my writing. I’m writing a book for what is an extremely niche market.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Well’ – she stopped by the car as Bruno was advancing with his rucksack – ‘this is me.’
Macfarlane held out his hand. ‘I hope we meet again in slightly less disobliging circumstances.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I’ll look forward to hearing from your parents.’
Charity had arranged to stay at Heart’s Ease for a few days so there was ample opportunity to watch, with a kind of rapt scientific interest, as Bruno finessed his way out of trouble. Of course he had already established that he had made a successful pass, and that Annelind had been not just older, but willing, nay enthusiastic. And Charity recalled Paulina’s comment that Annelind ‘wouldn’t have put up much of a fight’. She rather wished she’d quizzed the girl a bit more while she had the chance, but it hadn’t felt like the right moment.
Marguerite put on her seldom-used serious face and established that two weeks at home did not mean a fortnight’s holiday. It would fall to Hugh when he got back to have the Big Talk, first with Bruno and then Mac, but he was supremely ill-qualified for the role of heavy father and Charity hadn’t the least doubt that whatever the outcome it would go Bruno’s way.
‘The thing is, Daisy,’ said Hugh, ‘I can remember all too well what it was like to be that age.’ It was the night after the Big Talk and they were in the family room with the television on to cover their voices.
‘We all can,’ said Marguerite.
‘But you were a girl. It’s different.’
‘How would you know?’
‘Because I’m a bloke.’ This much was irrefutable. ‘There’s a period of about two years when it’s easier to count what doesn’t give you a stiffy than what does.’
‘I bet you never molested the staff when you were at school.’
‘No, but then I’d never have had the confidence.’
‘Hugh!’
‘It’s true.’ He laughed. ‘There was an under-matron we all fancied ferociously.’
‘Poor woman.’
‘She knew, she loved it. Anyway, I’m just saying I feel a bit of a hypocrite playing the heavy arbiter of teenage morals when I know the seventeen-year-old me would have been mad with envy.’
In bed, Marguerite lay awake a long time pondering on this. In the small hours she heard something – the displacement of air to which mothers are attuned – that meant someone was moving about elsewhere in the house.
With no lights on inside, it was possible to see someone sitting in the loggia. Marguerite opened the door.
‘Bruno?’
When there was no answer she went over to him. ‘Darling?’
‘Oh Mum!’ To her astonishment he turned and put his arms round her, burying his face in her dressing gown. When she clasped his shoulders she could feel them tense, and tremble.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!’ He rolled his head from side to side. Marguerite held him awkwardly for a moment and then reached for another chair and pulled it over. She sat down, waiting while he swiped at his eyes and nose with his cuff.
‘Bruno, sweetheart … Come on, it’ll be alright.’
His eyes, still wet with tears, met hers.
‘Will it?’ he asked. ‘Really, you promise?’
Marguerite’s heart contracted. He was after all just a boy – her boy.
‘Promise.’
Surprisingly it was Honor – who apart from the parents was Bruno’s biggest fan – who was the most upset. She knocked on Charity’s door when she was getting some reading done and came straight in, wearing an expression of almost comical shock.
‘This is so awful! What can he have been thinking?’
Charity kept a finger in her page. ‘I don’t suppose he was. Or not with the bit most of us think with.’
Honor flopped down on the bed. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘It’s not up for debate, Honor.’
‘Will they have him back?’
‘Yes. In two weeks – provided he sees the error of his ways.’
Irony was wasted on Honor in her current frame of mind. ‘Do you think he does?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Charity. ‘Take my word for it.’
Hugh took Bruno back to Brushwood just over a week later where he was given a hero’s welcome by his peers and went on to get irritatingly good grades in his A Levels.
Hugh, Marguerite and Honor were all delighted and gratified that their boy had put the incident behind him and shone through in his true colours. Charity and Felicity, if they’d discussed it at all, would have found that they were of one mind. Bruno had as usual got off lightly.
However, Charity found that she would be driving south again in early July and would be able to collect her brother from Brushwood at the end of his school career.
Seven
‘It’s just till he finds somewhere,’ said Marguerite. The fingers of her free hand – the one not holding the phone – were firmly crossed. ‘Hugh and I’d be so much happier if we knew he was with you and Robin.’
‘He’ll have to behave himself,’ warned Felicity. ‘Our nanny’s only twenty-two.’
Marguerite laughed gaily. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake! All that’s long past.’
‘Dream on, Ma. What will he be like with the whole of London to choose from?’
‘He’s young, he deserves some fun.’
Even to Marguerite herself this sounded pretty lame, and her daughter’s incredulous tone left her in no doubt.
�
��Deserves? Ma, please.’
‘Darling …’ Marguerite kneaded her brow. ‘I’d deem it a favour, I really would. You can set house rules.’
‘Oh I shall, believe me.’
Marguerite closed her eyes on a silent prayer. ‘Do I hear a yes?’
‘I’ll need to talk to Robin.’
‘But basically you’d be happy with it?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But I would like to help you out.’
‘Thank you!’
‘Don’t thank me just yet. Let’s see what Robin says.’
‘You worry too much,’ said Hugh. They had walked along the prom, and were now sitting on the shingle at the end of the spur of beach that overlooked the river estuary and the rocks on the other side.
‘I worry,’ said Marguerite. ‘I don’t know about too much. You don’t worry at all.’
‘I try not to. It’s the most useless and pointless of all emotions,’ said Hugh gently, covering his wife’s hand. ‘Someone has to stay away from it.’
‘You don’t think Robin will veto the idea, do you?’
Hugh chuckled. ‘I’d be amazed. Depends on how Felicity presents the case.’
‘Well quite …’
‘But he’s the second most uxorious husband I know.’ Hugh gave her hand a little shake. ‘And he’s devoted to you as well. I think we can rely on him to do the right thing.’
Robin, walking back to the office from an exceptionally convivial client lunch at the Bonne Femme, was suffering a slight attack of cold feet. Two weeks from today, instead of returning in the evening to the peaceful delights of his well-run home and family, he would have only uncertainty to look forward to, in the form of his wife’s teenage brother, with whom even ‘a short while’ might prove too long.
He realized he’d been press-ganged, however elegantly. Felicity, when she’d raised the topic, had clearly already made her mind up that it was something they should do. The fact that she didn’t relish the prospect any more than him just made it harder to refuse – if she could do it, so could he. They had the space, and the resources, why shouldn’t his brother-on-law (a sensible grown-up title which somehow didn’t suit Bruno) stay for a couple of weeks while he found his feet in London? It would have been churlish to object. This was a favour to the wider family – to Marguerite in particular – and should be performed with a good grace.
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