‘He was an accountant who built model trains. Favoured the daughter who behaved.’
‘There you go. So now he’s convinced that the outside world sees him as weak because that’s how he sees himself. Won’t risk that humiliation, can’t bear it. But he craves to feel a sense of self-worth again, so how does he regain it? By being dominant and controlling in the one place he can — his home. Make sense?’
‘So he’s not quite faking it,’ said Kerry. ‘But he is being a bit of a bastard.’
‘You could look at it through that uncompassionate lens, yes.’
‘He’s not a man who inspires compassion. But I can cope because I’m being paid to,’ he said. ‘The one I feel sorry for is his wife.’
‘I could throw in another term I’m unqualified to use,’ said his mother. ‘And that’s “enabling”.’
‘Or she’s simply hit a brick wall too many times,’ said Kerry. ‘I’d really like to help her, but I’m afraid of making another, even bigger mess. Any unqualified suggestions on a way forward?’
‘You say he responded to being provoked?’
‘Well — much in the way Mr Tiddles responded to me poking him off the sofa.’
‘Always amazed me how fast that old cat could move,’ said Bronagh. ‘All right, if your man’s gig is all about dominance and control, albeit in a limited domestic sphere, then you need to interrupt that dynamic. Or rather, you need his wife to interrupt it.’
‘Go on.’
‘No, that’s all I have. Over to you now.’
‘Ma, come on! Help me out here!’
‘Jaysus, if you’re going to be this much of a sap, you’ve got no chance of liberating the poor woman from her oppressive yoke.’
Up the ladder, or go home.
‘OK, OK … So, what you’re saying is that I need to get Mrs Barton to put her foot down?’
‘And preferably keep it down.’
‘Then it’s both of them I need to provoke into action, isn’t it? I need to force them into an ultimatum situation, high noon at the Not-OK Corral.’
‘Now you’re getting it.’
‘That sounds so risky as to be potentially catastrophic,’ said Kerry. ‘And I’ve still no idea how to go about it.’
‘You’ll think of something,’ said his mother.
‘Glad someone has faith in me,’ said Kerry. ‘Though you know I’ll come crying to you if it all goes horribly wrong?’
‘Course you will,’ said Bronagh, happily. ‘I’m your ma.’
Kerry knew the flaws in his own personality were down to him; he’d fed and fostered his own weaknesses. One of those was his inability to deal with conflict. Whenever anger threatened — particularly from within — he leapt in front of it and performed like a circus clown, in effect beating it into submission with a rubber chicken and a nose that went honk. It was his signature move — the sidestep, the diversion. It was how he avoided any feeling that made him even slightly uncomfortable. Anger, shame, romantic commitment …
Kerry flipped to the back of The Gay Science and found it contained an appendix of thirty poems entitled Songs of Prince Vogelfrei. If that wasn’t a sign to act now, nothing was.
‘Have you finished?’
God, he’d been quiet too long.
‘No, just losing the will to live,’ said Kerry. ‘Friedrich may be one of the great thinkers of our age, but overall he’s a crashing bore.’
‘I’m not surprised you’ve found it above your intellectual capacity,’ said Jonty. ‘I can’t imagine you have it in you to reach even the end of a Wilbur Smith.’
His mouth formed a tiny smile — supercilious but also triumphant. He was enjoying the opportunity to let the insults fly.
That’s why Jonty had asked Kerry back: so he could knock him down again. Having got a taste for it in their previous encounter, he wanted more. He’d got bored with Meredith being unassailable and wanted the return of a target he could lay into, for fun and without guilt.
And, more importantly, without risk that the target would fight back. I own you, was the other message of that smile. If you want to keep your job, you’ll take the blows while tugging your forelock in servile gratitude.
Thing is, Kerry did have a choice, and that was to tell Meredith he was giving up. That, despite assurances, he’d failed to stick it out, and now she would have to take over again. Which, Kerry knew, she would accept with good grace but a heavy heart. He’d seen her mood over the past two weeks and it had not been a happy one. His guess was that Meredith liked reading to Jonty even less than he did.
A little bell in his head went ‘ding’, like an oven-timer telling him an idea was ready. To roll with the simile, the idea might also be half-baked. But it was the only one he had. Pretend Jonty is Mr Tiddles, it said. And poke away.
‘Oh, I meant to say — Mrs Barton’s all in favour of including your model train in our miniature tourist attraction,’ said Kerry.
Jonty’s smile vanished. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. She’s said nothing to me.’
‘Hasn’t she?’ Kerry was all wide-eyed innocence. ‘It must have slipped her mind.’
Watch those claws, now.
‘My wife will accede to my wishes on the matter,’ said Jonty. ‘You have been misinformed.’
‘There does seem to be some sort of misunderstanding, doesn’t there? Shall we call Mrs Barton in to clarify?’
‘Of course not!’ Jonty sat up. His dressing gown gaped to reveal flannel pyjamas, in a red tartan that Kerry was delighted to see belonged to Clan Macfarlane.
‘There is no misunderstanding,’ Jonty raged. ‘It’s perfectly clear. The train is not to be touched!’
The bedroom door swung open.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Meredith, her brown eyes anxious. ‘I heard raised voices.’
‘Take him away,’ Jonty ordered.
‘Why?’ Meredith frowned at Kerry. ‘What have you done?’
And thus the (in hindsight obvious) defects in the plan were laid bare. Kerry now had to admit that he’d been baiting Jonty with lies.
‘I told Mr Barton you’d no objection to the model trains being included in our project.’
‘Which is nonsense, of course,’ said Jonty, huffily. He wasn’t even looking at her, concentrating instead on refastening his dressing gown.
Meredith’s expression became as smooth as an icy pond. Kerry braced himself.
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I’m happy to give my — our — full support.’
Ka-boom! Pow! Two jaws hit the floor!
Kerry risked a glance at Jonty. It was like a cartoon, where a person’s head became a shrieking red whistle. Jonty was so discombobulated that all he could do was puff air.
‘But, but — those are my trains,’ he managed to say.
‘And Gabriel’s Bay needs them,’ said his wife. ‘I’m lending my doll’s house, and Charles Love is lending his battle scenes. I think the whole effect will be quite splendid.’
Then she said, ‘And if you don’t mind, I have some errands for Kerry to run. I’ll return at four to bring you your tea.’
‘But—’
‘Come along, Kerry.’
And Kerry trotted off obediently in her wake.
Meredith led them to the kitchen, and gestured for Kerry to take a chair. She, however, stayed standing and fixed him with a stern look. He was taken back to primary school, and Mrs Chorley asking for the culprit who’d thrown the paper dart to put their hand up, while staring, with accurate instincts, only at him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I backed myself into a corner.’
‘And had to lie your way out?’
‘Again, I’m very sorry.’
Meredith, much like Mrs Chorley when he was nine, did not look mollified.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For rescuing me.’
Was that a hint of a smile?
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ she said. ‘I did it for my own sanity.’
Kerry had no idea wh
at to say to that.
‘It’s astonishing what you can put up with because you’ve become used to it,’ she said.
Nor that.
‘It wasn’t until you took over that I realised the full extent of my loathing for the man.’
Right! He’d caught her drift! Probably …
‘Nietzsche?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
‘Just checking.’
‘If I’d told the truth back there, it would have been impossible for you to continue reading. And I couldn’t — I simply could not face it.’
Kerry decided not to mention that Jonty might actually prefer him to stay, owing to him being a wonderful target for scathing insults. This conversation was going much better than expected.
‘Well, thank you anyway,’ he said. ‘It was more than I deserve.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that …’
Meredith finally pulled out a chair, sat opposite him.
‘You put me on the spot and forced me into action,’ she said. ‘And that action has been long overdue.’
She briefly clasped her hands, as if in prayer.
‘I love my husband,’ she said, ‘but it’s time. Time to get him some proper help. I should have sought it long ago. I’m ashamed to realise how long I’ve let it go on.’
He couldn’t think of any words of comfort that didn’t sound false, so he kept quiet. Until a thought struck him.
‘Er, I suppose I should ask whether you do support the project?’ said Kerry. ‘Or whether that was just—’
‘A handy fib?’
She decided to put him out of his misery.
‘The train is by rights mine as well,’ she replied. ‘And, yes, I would like to see it part of this whole venture.’
‘That’s terrific,’ said Kerry. ‘Er, thank you yet again.’
‘When do you need it? Moving it will take some preparation.’
‘Oh, no rush,’ said Kerry. ‘The factory’s a way off being defished.’ He leapt up. ‘Let me make tea.’
It wasn’t a grand gesture of thanks, but it would have to do. This had been, thanks to her, a better day than most. Full of achievement and good news to tell his mother. And Sidney. He’d enjoy telling Sidney everything about today.
Sidney, Sidney, Sidney …
Meredith wasn’t necessarily the best person to ask, but she was right here. And, as his mother would say, better out than in.
‘Do you think Sidney likes me?’
Meredith’s eyes widened. ‘Likes you?’
‘You know — like that …’
‘Ah.’ Meredith nodded. ‘That.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Kerry. ‘Can’t tell.’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’ Meredith suggested.
Sound advice. Obvious advice. But when? He’d used up his quota of courage for today, wrung it dry like a rag. Tomorrow, then. Or after football? Or maybe on Friday … ?
His employer wore a faint smile, as if she’d gleaned the machinations of his cowardly mind. Which might explain Kerry’s strong impression that she wasn’t entirely laughing with him.
Chapter 22
Sidney
My God, Kerry could talk! Sidney had already pegged him as chatty, but this was chatty dialled up to eleven. Was he nervous or something?
All she’d done for the past hour was hand him tea and biscuits, and interject with the odd pertinent question. Mainly she nodded and smiled while he told her — everything …
Football training had gone well, no tantrums or casualties, and now nearly fifty per cent of them grasped the concept of how to kick a ball. Did she know there was a new indoor sports centre in Hampton? Maybe, one week, they could drive over and play five-a-side? Yes, there were only nine children, but they could play four-a-side with rolling subs. Yes, there was a fee. Not much, but — sure, only an idea, put it in the pending basket.
Lincoln’s mother came to pick the boy up as he had an orthodontist appointment, so that’s why he’d got to Sidney’s a bit earlier than arranged — sorry to have interrupted the tutoring. Nice girl that Ines, what was she, Spanish? Oh, Portuguese! Lovely country. Shame about all those British tourists. What was she studying? Renaissance art, eh? Had either of them noticed that the Botticelli Venus lacked shoulders? Seriously, her neck flowed right into her arms.
Yes, the Booths and Reuben were picked up by Mr Booth in a utility vehicle that looked like it had done a tour in Iraq. Genetics are strong in that family, aren’t they? Reuben seemed fine — Mr Booth put him up front in the passenger seat, girls in the back. Those dogs were a bit fierce. Pig dogs? Was that a breed? Right! That explained the scars.
Tea? Yes, lovely. Madison and the boys doing homework in their rooms, were they? Oksana was tut-tutting about her that very morning. Madison a bee-ootiful girl but only so much Oksana could do, not being a slave and all that. Dretful atmosphere in the Jensen house. Rick never home, and when he was, he slithered about like rat snake. Olivia like shishiga — Google says it’s a female goblin creature that harasses people. Accused Oksana of spending too much on rubbish bags. She’d better watch herself, or she’d find her Lindauer laced with Drano.
And in breaking news, Dr Love spent the whole of yesterday evening at the Barton house. Not clinical depression but extreme social anxiety, bordering on paranoia, was his diagnosis. Mental illness was a tough nut to crack, if she’d pardon the pun. His mother — his own, not Dr Love’s — said that even with medication and skilled psychotherapy, getting people back into the social swing was a slow business, and they should be prepared for setbacks. And Jonty wasn’t exactly Colin in The Secret Garden, now, was he? He wasn’t gagging to leap out of bed, frolic in the flowers with Mary and Dickon and the forest creatures. His legs must be wasted in a similar way, come to think of it, given all that lying around. Unless he was secretly doing calisthenics in between meals and Nietzsche? Now there was an image.
Shortbread! Wonderful. He would take two, ta muchly. Did she want a tour of the fish factory? Yes, it had been rather miraculous, hadn’t it? Maybe there was something in this petitioning the universe business? Beaming positive requests to the stars and letting the law of attraction reward you in kind? Right you are, yes, all bollocks, but that Australian woman made so much money from the idea, it boggled the mind. Yes, people were stupid and gullible, but there was something terribly seductive about the promise of free riches, wasn’t there? Ha, ha, yes, as all Nigerian scammers well knew.
Where was he? Oh, yes, fish factory and the generous old Italian owner. Sad, really, he was the last of a fishing dynasty, who’d given up on trying to sell. Had moved with his sons to Wellington, where the boys had set up a restaurant, doing well. Sons didn’t care what he did with the old factory, which was a relief — getting embroiled in an Italian family spat could be fatal. No, not from Sicily, Amalfi Coast. But the Mafia were everywhere, weren’t they? Yes, could possibly be influenced by those movies. Although The Godfather 3 was an abomination. One viewing was one too many.
Not bad inside the factory. OK, pretty bad. Would need quite a few willing hands to get it shipshape. What did she think of asking the rugby club to help out? Would she come with him to ask this Saturday night? OK, fair enough. He’d been in enough changing rooms to know that it wasn’t entirely a woman-friendly culture. But, you know, if they went together? No, he was not afraid! It was simply that they might respond better to a local. Yes, he had asked others. Gene was taking the girls to the movies in Hampton. Jacko was working. Devon was also working, and besides wouldn’t go near the place if you paid him. Mac laughed. A lot. And then she said no.
Please … ?
She was a star!
Yes, he owed her. Yes, agreed, big time.
Could he start to repay her by cooking dinner? He had time to shoot out and buy the ingredients from the Four Square. Yes, for them all, him included. If that was OK?
Great! He’d buy a bottle of wine, too. For later.
If staying later was OK?
/> Great!
He’d be off to the shop then.
Was that a shouted request for Magnums from the bedroom? Were they allowed Magnums? Did she want a Magnum? A Trumpet. Was that like a Cornetto?
Mint choc-chip, got it.
It was the least he could do. She was a star. Really. She was wonderful …
OK, then! Car keys? Ah, in his pocket.
Back in a tick!
Sidney closed the door behind him. Touched her cheeks, found them to be toasty warm. Had she imagined? He’d leaned in and for a second there, she thought he might—?
She shook her head, which only made her dizzier than she’d been while listening to Kerry in full flight.
‘Mum!’ came from the bedroom. ‘Mum, Rory’s kicking the wall and he won’t stop!’
‘Ow! You stop!’
Thank God, a distraction. Sidney marched off, praying both boys would put her red face down to irritation and not — whatever it was. Nothing. It had to be nothing.
Didn’t it?
Saturday night at the rugby clubrooms. Sidney had expected the worst and it was worse than that. God, what was it with men in packs? Men singly were generally OK. Apart from Rick Jensen. And Fergal at the end. And creepy Geoffrey Naylor. But then there was Jacko, and Gene, and Doc Love, Devon and Mr Phipps — all terrific human beings. Kerry, too, she allowed, though she still didn’t feel she knew him well. Even after Wednesday night. Especially after Wednesday night.
He’d cooked dinner — a simple pasta and tomato sauce, because the Four Square was, to put it mildly, a bit limited in its range. But the food was tasty, and the kids ate everything on their plates. And then instead of TV, he checked their homework, read to them from The Jungle Book, supervised their ‘ablutions’ as he called it, and got them off to bed after one last Mowgli story.
Then he and Sidney had sat, drank wine, talked some more — he paused for breath this time, proved to be actually quite a good listener. Around ten, he said he should go, and at the front door, he kissed her. And she kissed him back, and they stayed pressed together in the doorway for she wasn’t sure how long. She broke it off, not prepared to go further. He wasn’t put out, seemed hugely chuffed that she’d allowed him to go that far. They’d agreed he’d drive to her place tonight, walk together to the clubrooms, and they had made no plans beyond that, which had left Sidney in a tizz for the rest of the week.
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