‘Out,’ said Jonty quietly. Which was, of course, more unnerving than if he’d shouted.
Kerry knew when to quit. Well, he didn’t really, but now seemed as good a time as any.
‘Of course.’
He stood, placed Ecce Homo gently on the bedside table, for whoever was to read next. Odds were high that it would not be he.
At the bedroom door, Kerry decided on one last, no doubt fruitless and ill-judged, appeal.
‘Will you at least think about it?’ he said. ‘It will cost you nothing, but the wider benefits could be truly significant.’
Then he scarpered downstairs, his mind working now how to explain this to Meredith. On the plus side, he’d got Jonty talking. On the downside — well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it, and if he ran across it really fast, he might get over before it collapsed.
He took the last stairs at a jump, landing in the hallway just as the phone rang. Meredith was out, gone to the plant nursery to pick up her order for the hanging baskets.
‘Barton residence,’ he said.
‘Not you again,’ said the voice he now knew belonged to Sophie Barton, younger daughter and, putting two and two together, unsuccessful artist.
‘No, I’m his evil twin,’ said Kerry. ‘We job-share. How can I help?’
‘Is the old bat out?’
‘If you mean Mrs Barton, then, yes, she is not at home.’
‘ “Mrs Barton”. God.’
‘I call my own mother Ma,’ said Kerry. ‘And she calls me collect. Being a poorly paid nurse and all.’
He could practically hear the rattle of eyeballs rolling back in a skull.
‘When’s she back?’
‘Later on.’
Kerry felt disinclined to be more helpful.
Instead of the click of her hanging up in his ear again, Kerry could hear breathing.
‘I’ve got a show,’ she said.
A show of what? Hands? Oh, right. Of her art.
Kerry was struck with sudden pity. She was so desperate to tell someone, she’d called a mother she didn’t really get on with, and now had to resort to sharing her news with a person she’d never met. He wondered who else there was in her life.
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Where?’
‘You wouldn’t have heard of it.’
‘I’m foreign,’ said Kerry. ‘Ninety-nine per cent of this country is unknown to me.’
She named a place that, after further questioning, turned out to be a town fifty kilometres on the other side of Hampton. It was even smaller than Gabriel’s Bay, but had established a reputation as an artists’ enclave. Two of the country’s leading painters had their studios there, and a medley of arts and crafts practitioners had gathered around them, so that a visitor could now buy anything from an abstract landscape worth many thousands to chunky ceramic mugs featuring cartoon kiwis giving a thumbs up. Sophie’s work fell somewhere in between, though when she talked about fellow artists’ work being ‘the sort of leaves and hearts shite that’s always called “Aotearoa Flax Dreaming” or some bollocks’ it wasn’t a stretch to infer that she wished to be nearer the top end.
Her exhibition was scheduled for the three weeks leading up to Christmas. It came with a residency on-site, which was a neat solution to the issue of her having no fixed abode.
‘Will you spend Christmas at home?’ Kerry asked.
Sophie, who’d been softening to the point where she could almost be called chatty, snapped back into hostile mode.
‘Home? That’s a laugh.’
‘Do you not feel welcome here?’
Kerry knew full well that he was trundling into a minefield, but it was turning out to be that sort of day.
‘My mother’s a critical control freak who thinks I’m a complete loser, and my father is lord of the arseholes,’ said Sophie. ‘What do you think?’
The sound of a car. Meredith. He could always tell — even the way she drove was courteous and restrained.
‘Your mother’s home,’ said Kerry. ‘If you’d like to hold, I’ll tell her you’re on the line.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Sophie. ‘Just tell her about the bloody show. Actually, don’t bother about that, either. It’s not like she’ll come.’
And, once more, she hung up in his ear.
If I ever have children, thought Kerry — and he certainly would like to one day — I hope we will stay friends. Then again, if they’re born with the personality of a medieval siege weapon, perhaps, even with top-flight, textbook parenting, there’s nothing you can do.
He went outside to help Meredith unload the car.
‘Are these what my mother calls Busy Lizzies?’ he said, ferrying pink-blossomed plants to the verandah.
‘No, those are petunias. Busy Lizzie is a common name for impatiens.’
‘That’s my darling mother,’ said Kerry, cheerfully. ‘Common as muck.’
Meredith gave him a reproving look. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘She wouldn’t care. Once, her family lived grandly, but those days are long gone. Now, she ribs my father for posh pretentions when he orders his fish crumbed instead of battered.’
He didn’t see if she smiled or not, being engaged in lugging a bag of potting mix that insisted on arching its middle, much like a toddler unwilling to sit in its pushchair. With relief and a hint of revenge, he dropped it hard onto the gravel by the verandah.
‘How was your morning?’ said Meredith.
He could prevaricate now, put off the full confession until later. Or never. Never sounded good. But that felt like a backward step, a letdown after he’d taken a great leap forward in bravery. Up the ladder, or go home.
‘He spoke to me. Mr Barton.’
Meredith paused, a frizz of sphagnum moss in her hand.
‘What did he say?’
‘He told me Nietzsche ended up in the loony bin. The bin of Binswanger, which I found amusing,’ said Kerry. ‘Then he called me frivolous. Then I asked if we could open up the model train to the public. And then we mutually agreed that our reading session was at an end.’
‘I see.’
No doubt she did — right through his best casual delivery.
The sphagnum moss was being picked at, tendrils floating down like curls at the barber.
‘The model train to the public …’
Her voice had a ruminating quality to it that could go either way but probably wouldn’t. Kerry braced himself to be summarily fired.
‘Where on earth did that idea spring from?’
‘Er, it was more of a collation of ideas,’ said Kerry. ‘The train, your dollhouse, and Doctor Love’s battle-game sets. Which I haven’t seen but gather are—’
‘Very detailed,’ said Meredith. ‘Doctor Love is quite the craftsman.’
‘And I’ve been thinking about how small towns boost tourism.’
‘Rather limited appeal, don’t you think? Terribly old-fashioned?’
‘I disagree,’ said Kerry. ‘The appeal is timeless. Takes us to a perfect world, where everything works, and everyone’s tiny but happy.’
‘You have been thinking.’
That sounded very nearly positive.
‘We needn’t do it at Woodhall,’ said Kerry. ‘We could find a space in town, an empty shop, or warehouse. Display everything so that people can see but they can’t touch, unless supervised. Staff it with volunteers on a roster. And—’
Too far? No — up, up!
‘—I also wondered if we could rope in locals to contribute. Finish the model train set, make new objects for the dollhouse, paint new soldiers. The more people we involve, the greater the commitment. It won’t work half as well if the town doesn’t get behind it.’
Meredith glanced down at the pile of moss fronds at her feet, ceased picking.
‘Am I the first you’ve told? Apart from my husband, of course.’
‘Erm, I may have floated the idea past Sidney,’ Kerry admitted. ‘And possibly Jacko R
eid and Gene Collins …’
‘Gene?’ Meredith’s eyebrows rose. ‘Was Gene supportive?’
‘In principle’ seemed a safe and not entirely mendacious answer.
‘But my husband was not?’
‘To be fair,’ said Kerry, ‘I rather sprung it on him. I mean, one minute, Nietzsche, and then — whammo — his beloved trains being goggled at by the great unwashed. Though we could always place those little bottles of hand-sanitiser by the door.’
Was that the tiniest of smiles?
‘Frivolous may have been an understatement,’ she said.
Prompted by a sense that it was now or never, Kerry stepped closer.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I know I joke about, I know I play Mr Quippy far too often, but I’m very serious about this. I believe it could work. I believe it could be fun.’
Meredith arched an eyebrow. ‘Mr Quippy?’
‘I’ve never laid claim to good jokes.’
‘The project would require funding. For promotion at the very least.’
‘Maybe. Maybe all we need is good free publicity.’ He shrugged. ‘I am half Scottish.’
The petunias on the verandah were rosy pink and pale yellow. Tasteful. Not garish. Meredith Barton did not take risks with her colour schemes.
‘Let me also think about it,’ she said to him.
Good enough. A lot better, in fact, than being fired.
There was the small matter of her husband possibly not wanting Kerry to darken his bedroom door again, but that could wait. Never hurt to quit while you were ahead.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’
A nod. Then a frown.
‘Aren’t you due at the school, for coaching?’
Yikes, the time!
His watch showed five to three. He’d have to motor.
‘Go on,’ said Meredith, as he hovered. ‘You mustn’t let the children down.’
The list of those he mustn’t let down, Kerry mused as he drove at a speed just shy of illegal, was growing all the time. And it was always possible he’d taken on more than he could manage. Letting people down might be inevitable.
The radio, as if it knew, began to play ‘Radar Love’. The Fielder’s tyres protested on a corner, but he did not lift off.
He’d made the top of the ladder. Now to muster the courage to slide.
Chapter 17
Sidney
Seven minutes late. Not that bad, Sidney supposed, but late was late. And when it was children waiting, to them even one minute seemed like forever.
It was lucky she’d decided to come — the group had already turned feral. The Booth sisters winding up Lincoln; Dylan and Aidan hacking each other’s ankles under the guise of going for the tackle. Rory bossing Madison and Peter. And Reuben, now that Kerry had arrived, struggling to release his hand from hers.
He was the reason she’d arrived after school. Sidney knew Kerry had not talked to Reuben or his teacher, which meant a snowball’s chance of the boy returning to practice today. She’d grabbed the teacher before school, asked her permission to talk to Reuben, gained his reluctant agreement to let Sidney meet him after the bell and escort him to practice. He’d probably thought she wouldn’t turn up — not a lot of adult reliability in Reuben’s life, she guessed — but she had, and now she tightened her grip on his hand, bent to put her face level with his.
‘You’re really good at football, Reuben,’ she said. ‘And we all want you here.’
His expression was a heartbreaking mix of adult ‘Yeah, right’ and eight-year-old ‘Really, truly?’
‘We want you here,’ Sidney assured him. ‘Go on.’ She let go of his hand. ‘Go and meet Kerry at the car.’
He ran off. Kerry greeted him with a high-five, and Sidney held her breath until it was returned. Arm around the boy’s shoulder, Kerry led Reuben over to the group, and began, not a minute too soon in Sidney’s opinion, to take charge, call order. Good thing he had a knack with children, or his lateness might have put him at too much of a disadvantage. With children, an authority vacuum usually means anarchy. And why not? If the grown-up can’t be bothered turning up on time, then why should they bother following rules?
Sidney’s crabbiness at Kerry began to ebb when he turned to look at her, mouthed ‘Thank you’. And it eased away entirely as she watched how he brought Reuben back into the fold, let him choose the first training exercise, used him as an example of how to kick a ball correctly.
She wasn’t needed now, should be getting on home. She had a new student starting tomorrow, who wanted help with both Art History and English, and Sidney could use some quiet time with her ancient copy of E.H. Gombrich’s The Story of Art.
But she lingered, her eye now on Madison, who, for once, was not coming to Sidney’s house, but being picked up after training by Rick, who was now spending more time at Stonelands, ‘to tidy it up for sale,’ according to Mac, ‘which is a euphemism for finding a giant rug to sweep all the crap under.’
Sidney hated that her first reaction to this information from Madison had been scepticism. Hated the sinking feeling, the worry about Maddie being let down. It was little comfort that she’d be back to run the Booth sisters and Reuben home, and so could ensure that Madison walked to the Boat Shed with Aidan and Rory if — inner cynic corrected to ‘when’ — Rick failed to appear.
Lately, Olivia and Rick had been upping their use of Sidney’s home as free after-school care for their daughter, and it was starting to grate. Today was the first afternoon in a week that Madison wouldn’t be eating dinner at Sidney’s. The first she’d see either of her parents before seven, sometimes even eight at night. For so many reasons, that simply wasn’t right.
OK, so scrabbling around for money and keeping creditors at bay must be a full-time job for Rick. But Olivia, from what Sidney could tell, had diddly squat to occupy her. All she did was lounge around at home, or treat Rainer and Elke’s place like her local bar. She’d even stopped driving to Hampton, and God knows how food got in the house because the only stop she ever made in Gabriel’s Bay was Dr Love’s surgery. Patient confidentiality prevented Mac spilling the beans about why, but Madison had once mentioned ‘Mummy’s pills’, so odds were Olivia was on Prozac or some such modern-day nerve tonic.
A small part of Sidney felt a twinge of guilt. If Olivia actually was depressed, then that was rough, and could explain why she rarely went out any more. But the rest of Sidney wasn’t prepared to be sympathetic. The rest of Sidney, quite frankly, believed both Rick and Olivia were taking the piss. They took flagrant advantage of her good nature because they knew that Sidney would never do anything to hurt Madison. How could she tell that sweet, darling child that she wasn’t allowed to come over anymore? That she couldn’t play with Aidan and Rory, who, while not being the most compatible playmates, were Madison’s only real friends. How could Sidney banish Madison to a life of absent parents, both physically and emotionally, where the only person to look after her was a fierce Russian in her sixties, who, by all accounts, was a gnat’s chuff away from quitting her job.
But it cost her money to feed another mouth, and though Rick and Olivia might be in a financial hole, they were hardly paupers. And yet neither of them had offered to contribute a brass razoo for petrol or food, or even to say thanks for Sidney’s time. Not only that, but they mucked her around by changing plans last minute, were never on time, and never, ever properly apologised!
Damn it. Sidney couldn’t tell whom she was most angry at: Rick and Olivia for their chancing, rude slackness, or herself, for not putting her foot down and insisting enough was enough.
Oh, well, at least she could take comfort that Madison did have her support. Not that she ever complained about her home life, the angel. Look at her there, dribbling balls between cones with such concentration. She always did her best, always gave wholeheartedly, even when the recipients might not deserve such generosity.
‘Penny for them?’
Kerry beside her, faintly s
weaty, which — Sidney cursed the primitive power of pheromones — smelled better than she would like it to. The kids were now taking turns to kick balls into the ‘goal’ (a breeze-block wall with unevenly drawn chalk lines).
‘Sorry I was late,’ he added. ‘Thanks for holding the fort. And Reuben.’
‘I thought you were going to make sure he came?’
His mouth twisted, guilt at being caught out.
‘I was,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get onto it. I should have.’
‘They need to be able to rely on you.’ Sidney fought an urge to become shrill. ‘This is important to them.’
He rubbed his face. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Again …’
Sidney’s urge this time was to slap him about the head, slap some reliability into him. But that segued straight into a mental montage of every male cinema hero in history subduing protesting females with a kiss. Honestly, what was with her brain? Was it lying on a sofa watching soaps and scarfing marshmallows?
‘I need to go,’ she said, briskly. ‘But I’ll be back to do the up-country run. You’ll take Lincoln home, won’t you?’
Peter and Dylan were within walking distance, too, but Lincoln lived out Woodhall way, with parents who didn’t really know what to do with him, but who fortunately had a large back garden in which he could zoom around for hours and not bother anyone.
‘I will,’ said Kerry, adding, ‘I will!’ when she gave him a look.
Then he said, ‘I don’t suppose I can entice you out for a drink tonight?’
What kind of drink? Friendly? Date-y? Not that it mattered.
‘No babysitter.’
‘Right. Er, what if I brought the drink to you?’
Friendly. No doubt now. Men on dates didn’t want to be within a mile of children with inconveniently sharp hearing.
‘Sure. Why not? If you want a quieter house, come around at eight.’
His smile flashed broad and — she should stop using this word — charming. But watching him head back to the children, she allowed herself a frisson of anticipation. How long had it been since she’d spent an evening with a man, even if he only wanted to talk about himself? Men liked to tell Sidney their problems, despite the fact she usually told them to buck up and get it together. Being a bit round and averagely pleasant-looking, she gave out motherly vibes. Certainly didn’t give out sexual ones. Kerry was the first bloke who’d asked her out for — ‘a while’ was the only unit of time she could bear to admit.
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