‘I’m Madison,’ she said. ‘Madison Jensen.’
He nodded. ‘Everyone calls me Deano.’
‘I’ll make sure I’m not in your spot next time.’
‘Nah, you’re welcome to it. I’ll find another. Know the bush round here real well. See ya,’ he said, and added, ‘Thanks for the biscuit.’
Madison watched him walk away. With his colouring and black clothes, he kind of blended in to the bush. ‘Yallery-brown’, like the fairy in the book Sidney had but which Aidan and Rory thought was too girly.
‘We’ll look at it together, then,’ Sidney had said to her. ‘Just you and me.’
Madison couldn’t hear Deano anymore. She was alone. The light was even greyer now, and she felt hemmed in by shadows and spikes.
She stuffed the book and lunchbox back in her bag, grabbed the blanket and folded it up over her arm without shaking it out, and then she followed where Deano had gone, doing her best not to run. Luckily, he’d been right about the sort of path, and she popped out of the bush into the fields that edged the vineyard. Rainer and Elke’s cottage was just over the fence, so she climbed it, and ran all the way down the driveway to home, where she found her dad’s car gone and no one — she double-checked — inside the house. Maybe her mum and dad made up and went for a drive together? Madison felt sad that she hadn’t been there to go with them.
But her room was dry and warm, and her bed comfortable, and after she’d put the blanket in the laundry and hung up her coat, she lay on her bed, eating dumplings and apple, reading all about Ged, and the terrible shadow creature he summoned by mistake, and which would follow him forever, intent on his destruction.
Chapter 19
Bernard
‘Come into the parlour.’
Bernard mentally added ‘said the spider to the fly’, and followed Elaine into what his mother would have called a sitting room. ‘Parlour is vulgar,’ she’d told him, ‘though not as vulgar as lounge.’
His mother would also have disapproved of the furnishings, for which the words ‘pink’ and ‘fussy’ seemed exclusively to have been invented. Verity Weston might even have hissed audibly at the tissues concealed within a dainty floral-painted wooden box with a slit in the top. The room had a strong antiseptic lavender smell about it, and when he took the over-stuffed chair Elaine offered him before bustling out to fetch the tea things, Bernard was startled by what sounded like a cat sneezing. Surreptitious investigation revealed that the noise, in fact, emanated from an air-freshening device perched amongst the Lladró figurines on one of the many side tables. He should have known it wouldn’t be a cat. Cat hair and claws would not be permitted within a mile of this immaculate and no doubt highly flammable furniture.
A chinking of china announced Elaine’s imminent reappearance. Bernard did not usually take sugar, but today he’d make an exception. If Elaine had summoned only him and none of the others, then he expected to be on the receiving end of a prolonged hectoring disguised as a rational and morally unassailable request for him to do his duty as chairman and accede to her wishes. Today would not be the first time. No indeed.
Elaine set down the tray — more dainty floral wood — and arranged herself, pantyhose-clad knees demurely inclined, on the adjacent chair. The tea set resembled the kind of wedding cake that always turns out to be inedible. Bernard received his cup of tea and braced himself.
‘And how is your dear mother?’ said Elaine.
As a destabilising opening salvo, this could not be bettered. Bernard had hoped by this time in his life to have his mother’s criticisms restricted to those dark, wakeful imaginings that inevitably occur at four in the morning. As it happened, at ninety-five, Verity was physically diminished and mentally anything but. She ruled the Iris Murdoch Rest Home in Hampton in the manner of seventh-century Empress Wu Zetian, who had her enemies kept alive as long as possible while they were dismembered piece by piece. Bernard had witnessed a retired army major, recipient of several medals for valour, cringe like a beaten dog when Verity passed him in the hallway.
‘My mother is very well, thank you.’ Bernard hoped his reply did not convey how fervently he wished the answer could be otherwise.
‘An example to us all,’ said Elaine.
‘Indeed.’
She offered a plate. ‘Lemon slice?’
‘No, thank you.’ There was already enough acid in his stomach.
Elaine took a slice, nibbled on one corner while Bernard once more reviewed the list of possible reasons he’d been summoned. He had his suspicions about the most likely, but Elaine was quite capable of surprising him. Patricia had owned a cat like that once. It would hide in the shrubbery, a different place each time, and leap out to sink its claws into his shins.
‘Now, Bernard, I’m sure you’re aware of this silly model town idea?’
It was clear she expected him not to be, and Bernard gave silent thanks to Dr Love. During a routine appointment last week, Charles had let slip the idea for the miniature tourist attraction. Mac Reid had intuited the situation the moment Bernard stepped out of the doctor’s room.
‘You blabbed, didn’t you?’ she accused her employer.
‘Mea culpa,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps you’d like to make Mr Weston a cup of tea and fill him in on the details?’
And he’d beckoned in the next patient, apparently oblivious to the daggers being directed at him from the reception desk.
Mac Reid said, ‘Do you want one lump or two, Bernard? I’m referring to the tea, of course.’
He’d made an exception to his no-sugar rule that day as well.
But that surprise initiation meant he was now well prepared to converse on the subject with Elaine. He even held a secret trump card, to be played if required, possibly with a flourish.
‘I am indeed aware of the model town idea,’ Bernard told Elaine. ‘I will reserve judgement on its “silliness” until I have more information.’
Ever resourceful, Elaine tried another tack.
‘But you surely can’t support the pressure that it puts on poor Meredith?’
‘Is she feeling pressured?’
‘Of course she is,’ said Elaine. ‘She has an infirm husband and a large house that requires considerable upkeep. How can she devote time to this nonsense?’
‘But she also has help now,’ said Bernard. ‘From that young British chap — what’s his name? Macfarlane.’
His wife, Patricia, had been true to her word and visited Woodhall. She reported back that Meredith had introduced her to the new employee, while narrating her mistake regarding his gender with her usual self-deprecation.
‘He has a hint of the travelling snake-oil salesman about him, and could talk the hind legs off a chesterfield sofa’ had been Patricia’s impression. ‘But he’s a charming young man, and I believe Meredith is quite happy to let herself be charmed.’
Bernard had been perturbed by how much his hackles rose at that last comment. Charmed indeed! Surely Meredith had the perspicacity and good sense to see through that veneer?
However, he could only agree with Patricia’s view that, ‘Even if he proves impractical as a helper, it will be good for Meredith to have some spark and humour around the place. Jonty’s illness, Nicola’s death, Sophie’s — well, whatever you want to call that behaviour — all that blackness must weigh on her terribly.’
But the hackles rose again, when his wife added, ‘To be honest, I’m amazed at her fortitude. If I was in her place, I’d be tempted to pack it all in and hightail it to Marrakech.’
‘Meredith would not even contemplate abdicating her responsibilities,’ he protested. ‘She is a woman of character.’
‘Of course she is, dear.’
Patricia’s voice, he thought, held a suggestion of weariness, but her expression was, as usual, mild and affectionate.
‘She’s never been anything less.’
Yes, indeed. Patricia had that entirely right. Meredith was a woman of character and fortitude. She was not
the weak, incapable creature Elaine was attempting to paint her as. She was her own woman, who made decisions on her own terms. And he would say so.
‘I sincerely doubt Meredith would agree to anything she didn’t care for,’ he said. ‘Nor would Charles Love.’
‘But it isn’t up to either Meredith or Charles, is it now?’ Elaine responded, smoothly. ‘This is a proposal that needs to go through the proper channels.’
The moment had arrived. Time to play the trump card.
‘Well, in fact,’ said Bernard, ‘I have received a submission to include it as an agenda item for our upcoming meeting. Which I am bringing forward a week, by the way, due to work commitments.’
That was not entirely true. He had brought the meeting forward because Mac Reid had told him to.
Fortunately, Elaine cared more about the agenda item than the meeting itself.
‘A request from whom?’
‘As it happens, from young Macfarlane himself. And Sidney Gillespie and Mac Reid.’
‘Oh, well.’ Elaine exhaled the last word in a derisive puff. ‘A foreigner who probably doesn’t even have legal residency status, a solo mother on the benefit, and—’
Bernard understood the hesitation. Mac Reid defied simple categorisation. Plus there was always the lurking suspicion that she might somehow be listening in.
‘And what nonsense, anyway. A display of miniatures. How childish.’
Bernard forbore from pointing out that (a) children were often the main target for tourist attractions, and (b) model towns and railways, not to mention Queen Mary’s dollhouse, were still drawing crowds worldwide. There was an extraordinary model railway display in Hamburg that he was dying to visit, and no trip to England would be complete without several hours ambling around the Bekonscot model village. He wouldn’t even begin to mention Legoland.
To be fair, it was not what he personally had pictured for Gabriel’s Bay, but he could admit that his vision of becoming a UNESCO centre of literature or, at the least, twin to some bookish overseas town like Hay-on-Wye was almost certainly unobtainable. His own library was, in his eyes, magnificent, but his eyes were the only ones he’d allow to view it. The state of the books Patricia brought home from the Hampton library — notes penned in margins, jam and crumbs and who knows what else adhering to pages. And the folded corners! Bernard shared the opinion that there were only two types of reader — those who used bookmarks, and monsters.
Elaine was going on now about — he wasn’t sure — dust, possibly? The displays would gather dust; that was a fact. However, there were volunteers who’d relish dusting — Sheila Swanson, Chester in the video store, who had one of those obsessive-compulsive disorders …
But enough. Elaine had one reason and one reason only for objecting to the idea — it was not hers.
‘I, for one, feel the concept has merit,’ he said. ‘I appreciate that we will have much to work through before it becomes a reality, but it’s different, it appeals to a wide range of ages, and it’s something with which the entire town can be involved. Young Macfarlane has already spoken to some of our local artisans, and they are keen to contribute. Even if it fails to boost the town’s coffers, it will, at the very least, boost town morale.’
He reached for a piece of lemon slice, ate it while Elaine gaped.
‘And since you are so concerned about Meredith,’ he said, wiping his hands on a lacy napkin, ‘I will talk to her myself before the meeting. If she is being pressured, then, rest assured, I will act accordingly. If not, then I intend to receive the proposal with an open mind. And that is all I have to say on the matter.’
‘Bernard,’ said Elaine, after a short but resonant silence, ‘you surprise me.’
If she’d been on form, decided Bernard as he drove home, she would have added, ‘What would your mother say?’ For the first time in their twenty-plus-year acquaintance, he had put her at a disadvantage.
But she would regroup. She would recruit allies. That bloody awful Geoffrey Naylor for one. Maureen, probably. Tinker was confused at the best of times, so he’d be easily led, as would Wendy. Nicholas and Derek could go either way, but even if he gained their support, they’d be grievously outnumbered.
More dangerously, she might agitate amongst her colleagues at the Hampton District Council. Bernard made a note to tell young Macfarlane to approach the influencers quickly, before she had a chance to poison the well.
Gaining wide support from within Gabriel’s Bay would also be crucial. If the whole town rallied behind the idea, surely even Elaine would not try to prevent it?
Bernard observed the speed limit on the eighty-kilometres-an-hour stretch that led towards his home, where Patricia would be waiting, eager to find out how he had fared with the woman she insisted on calling ‘Elated’, ‘because she is always so very pleased with herself’.
But in his mind, it was not Patricia to whom he recounted his, albeit temporary, triumph. It was Meredith, her brown eyes sparkling, as she sat amused and, yes, charmed, by his tale of besting the manipulative she-beast in her own lacy, pink lair.
Chapter 20
Mac
Ashwin Ghadavi. Twenty-eight. Born and brought up in Ahmedabad, Gujurat province of India. Received primary medical qualification from University College of London. Foundation training at — yada, yada. Considered paediatrics, decided on general practice — obviously. Reason for applying — it’s a big, beautiful world out there, time to break free from the shackles of filial duty and stride like Ulysses into a new adventure!
Not his exact words, but that was the gist. A good boy, an obedient son, who’d probably wanted to be a writer instead of a doctor, and who now wanted to live life on his own terms, and as far away as possible from his family.
Mac read the application through again. He might be a bit a soft, bit of a Mataji’s boy. Ngaire would run rings around him. And how the heck would he cope with Shania Birtwell and the fetal tragedy she was about to unleash? Doc Love might be compassionate, generous, thoughtful and all those good things, but he did not shirk from telling it straight. More importantly, he detached himself from the outcome — if his patients chose to ignore his advice, then he’d keep giving it, but he wouldn’t let their idiocy keep him awake at night. Dr Ghadavi — young, earnest, by the book — might fret more, might try cajoling, begging and, if he were bold enough, demanding. None of it would work, and then he’d fall into despair. His virtuous, teetotal, vegetarian habits would fall by the wayside, and he’d end up hanging out with Ngaire, swigging cheap vodka from a lemonade bottle and staining his lovely white teeth with cadged smokes.
Or he might be totally fine. Impossible to tell without a proper interview. Skype, preferably, so she could stare him down. And that interview couldn’t happen until Mac knew she had a job to offer him. Well, it couldn’t happen ethically.
Nope. Time for a sit-down with Dr Love.
His last patient for the day had departed, but he had not. No time like the present.
Mac rapped on his door and opened it up. It was ajar, so she knew she didn’t have to wait for him to permit her entrance. He was at his desk, thumbing through a war-gamers’ magazine. On its cover was a painted figure of Queen Victoria holding what appeared to be a brass-trimmed bazooka.
‘Looks like Aggie Robotham,’ said Mac. ‘Only less corseted.’
‘I suspect Victoria in her later years had a figure that resisted corseting.’
‘What’s with the weaponry? Did Prince Albert come back as a zombie?’
‘Steampunk,’ said Doc Love. ‘A science-fiction subset inspired by the costuming and technology of the Victorian era.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Mac. ‘In other words, an excuse for moustaches, monocles and misogyny. I can see how that might appeal.’
‘An absence of tanks is the barrier for me.’
‘Are you still coming with us to the Progressive Association meeting?’
Doc Love blinked at her over the top of his magazine.
; ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
Mac sucked her teeth. ‘I could think of fifty reasons why anyone, including me, would want to back out.’
‘I’ve said I’ll be there, so be there I shall.’
His eyes returned to the page.
Mac stood there, strangely unable to speak the words queuing in her head. Why? She knew she wouldn’t offend him — couldn’t offend him. Was it that the prospect of his retirement bothered her more than she wanted to admit? The prospect of watching patients, people she knew and mostly liked, receiving substandard care. Not that his replacement would be incompetent, but who could reach the bar that he’d set? And how would she get on with a new person? Would she have the patience to learn a whole new set of habits and quirks? Would they cope with her quirks, or whatever term more accurately described her personality? After twenty-two years she might be out of a job, and no one else, not even Jacko, would take her on. The Love Bus — even that might have to stop, because who’d pay for the petrol if she wasn’t earning?
She’d been so focused on finding a replacement that she’d failed to put any thought into what life with that replacement might be like. How irksome.
‘Was there something else?’ said Doc Love.
‘Yes,’ said Mac. ‘Do you have any tips for getting a man to come in for a check-up?’
‘Do you have a specific concern about his health?’
He knew exactly which man she meant.
‘More a free-floating anxiety,’ said Mac. ‘He’s fifty-five. He smokes. He works too hard. His father died youngish of a massive heart attack.’
‘How about I call in one morning? Pass the time? Observe?’
Mac shook her head. ‘No, he’d spot that ruse a mile off.’
‘Then why not invite us all to your place after the Progressive Association meeting?’
‘Good call,’ she nodded. ‘Even if all you do is quietly put the fear of God into him.’
‘It isn’t God we fear,’ he replied. ‘It’s loss. Diminishment. Being less than we were.’
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