Years of Sunday-school teaching meant Kate read well: this evening she gave it her all. If anyone were going to baby-sit these two in the future, it would be Kate they demanded.
It was nine before the two children were settled, and Kate switched on the television, which set out to prove that Elly’s strictures were right: nothing worth watching. But wouldn’t Kate Potter watch anyway? She’d hardly work her way through the Guardian crossword, already half-completed by someone. Mrs Vernon? Gary hadn’t struck her as a Guardian reader, let alone a Guardian crossword freak. Come on, she was a baby-sitter. For a start, she’d better stash the tumblers and snack dishes in the dishwasher. No, she wouldn’t. Kate Potter would wash them meticulously by hand. Then she’d leave the living room even tidier than when she’d arrived.
And, of course, she’d check on the children from time to time. Peter was so deeply asleep she could scrape all his Lego into its box, but he stirred at the rattle of plastic on plastic. Had she woken him? She sat beside his bed, reciting nursery rhymes in the quietest voice she could manage. There. Sound asleep again.
Elly’s room had been even messier than Peter’s. Arms akimbo, she surveyed it, sighing at the prospect of trying to bring order to the chaos, when she realised Elly’s eyes were open.
‘My teacher says that girls shouldn’t think they have to be cleaner than boys, or tidier, because it’s all a matter of—soci…sterry… Something,’ she concluded defiantly.
‘Gender-stereotyping?’ Kate prompted, nonetheless bundling up dirty socks and knickers and T-shirts—nearly enough for a washing-machine load. ‘Or socialisation? In any case, some of the tidiest people I know are men. It’s difficult for whoever does the vacuum-cleaning if a room’s as untidy as this.’
It took Elly a moment to digest that. Then she sat up. ‘But you must be gen-whatever you said,’ she objected. ‘You wouldn’t be a cleaning lady otherwise.’
‘How about calling me a cleaner? You can have men doing my job, too, you see.’
‘You can. But Daddy says you’re the best cleaning…the best cleaner he’s ever had. And he says you’re far too clever to be stuck in a dead job.’
Kate knew what he meant! But she must be careful not to get too much of a reputation for cleverness. That wouldn’t fit Kate Potter at all. ‘Dead end,’ she corrected Elly gently. ‘Of course I am. But I never worked at school, not properly, and then when I • tried to study afterwards, my wrist got bad. When I can afford it, maybe I’ll go to night-school—that’s classes in the evening.’
‘Does it cost a lot of money?’ Elly rubbed her face: Kate ought to make her lie down and go to sleep.
‘More than I’ve got at the moment, anyway. Now, seeing as it’s girls only now, how about I read you one more bit of Milly-Molly-Mandy? So long as you promise to close your eyes while I’m reading it. That way you’ll he able to see the mushrooms she’s picking in that field…
When she carried down-her spoils from Elly’s bedroom, Kate discovered in the utility-room a basket full of shirts ready to be ironed Would it be over the top to start on them Not for Kate Potter. But while she soon ran the iron to earth, she couldn’t locate the ironing board, and didn’t like to snoop around. Stupid woman: that’s exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. Not baby-sitting, but checking these extremely desirable premises for something, anything, incriminating. Oh yes, hunting for an ironing board would be the perfect excuse for sifting the papers on Gary Vernon’s desk. At least, in Craig’s eyes it would be And Craig’d be right this time They wouldn’t have surveillance cameras in their own home, surely. She bloody well should be sifting through Vernon’s things. Now was a perfect opportunity. But it was so close to ten that she’d be risking discovery.
She couldn’t do it. And it wasn’t fear of their early return that stopped her either. It was something much deeper.
At last, not sure whether she was angry or upset with herself, she did what she used to do when she was a student—she laid a thick towel on the kitchen table. She might as well switch on the radio. It was tuned to Classic FM, which suited her and which she could more or less justify on the grounds that Kate Potter wouldn’t have the temerity to retune it. But she had it on very quietly, and kept the door open to listen for the children It wasn’t them she heard, though, but the older Vernons letting themselves in, just as she tackled the second shirt. Thank God she’d not tried to find Vernon’s files.
Gary came into the kitchen first. ‘Kate! What on earth are you doing?’——” ‘Well, I didn’t want the TV on in case I couldn’t hear the little ones. They were ever so good: no fuss at all about bedtime.’ She rested the iron on its heel and looked up at Mrs Vernon, who came in returning her smile. ‘Both fast asleep. And the wonders you’ve, worked in—Oh, Kate: you didn’t have to do those.’
‘Well, I found them when I was shoving stuff into your washing machine. Young Elly and her idea that being tidy is too girly!’ She shook out another shirt, contriving a glance at Mrs Vernon. She looked more than tired: she looked quite ill. ‘I hope those shirts are all right, Mr Vernon—I couldn’t find your ironing board.’
‘Julie had this brilliant idea of having one in a cupboard. You open the cupboard and out comes the ironing board, spring-loaded. Look!’
Round-eyed, Kate gasped, ‘Ooh, what a lovely idea. Saves all the business of getting your fingers caught and your shins barked.’
‘Until you try and put it down again. It’s got a life of its own then,’ Julie said. ‘Many’s the nail I’ve had sliced off. I think putting it away’s man’s work.’ She glanced at her husband, but he was busy in another cupboard.
‘I could finish these before I went, if it’d help? There’s only a few more. I mean, you’re back really early, and I haven’t anything to rush back for.’
The Vernons looked at each other. ‘So long as you let me pay for another hour,’ Julie said at last. ‘Oh, yes please!’ Vernon had produced a corkscrew and a bottle of wine. ‘What’ll you have, Kate?’ Julie sank down on to a chair opposite Kate, puffing her back straight with an obvious effort.
‘I wouldn’t want to put—’
But Gary was already puffing the cork. ‘No trouble.’ He produced three large glasses and sloshed red wine into them.
Kate didn’t need to read the label to tell it was good: the bouquet sprang right across the table at her. ‘Only a drop please, Mr Vernon. I’ve got to get back to Newton, haven’t I? Don’t want anything to go to my head!’ She finished the shirt she was on before she picked up her glass Not the moment for a July Goolden sniff and savour. But she stopped before her first sip ‘Ooh, this smells nice. My friend in Birmingham, she gets me to drink white wine. I’ve never had anything like this.’
The others leant towards her to touch glasses.
‘Cheers—and here’s to many more evenings of your sitting for us!’ Gary said, with a little sideways smile at his wife.
‘Cheers—and thank you very much.’ Kate put down her glass to fold the last shirt.
So it was a satisfactory evening all round. There was only one thing to worry her: the familiar smell now sweetening the kitchen. Which of her kind hosts had been smoking pot?
Chapter 13
Steady rain. Steady, root-reaching rain. A day for staying in. But not, for God’s sake, staying in closeted with Craig. If only she were in Birmingham: on a day like this she could have found plenty to do: lunch with friends, potting bulbs up for winter, tennis at the indoor centre.
Better still, she could have spent time with Rod. After a sexy dawdle in bed and a leisurely breakfast, music on his hi-fi and the Sunday papers spread across his carpet. Well, she could nip out for the papers at least. Oh, no, she couldn’t. No mailer how under-educated the bright Kate Potter might be, she wouldn’t buy the Observer or the Independent—the cost, apart from anything else. So the answer was: no quality Sundays.
Was the rain easing? Was it any lighter to the west?
If Rod had been working, what else would
Kate Power have done in Birmingham? She herself might well have been working, of course. Whatever she’d been up to, she’d have tried to see Cassie. She sometimes resented having to visit her so regularly. But in some way the old woman gave a shape to Kate’s spare time—even filled otherwise empty corners. If she could have seen her, today it wouldn’t have been a chore. It would have been a pleasure to sit with her and hold the knobbly, arthritic hands and remind her about Milly-Molly-Mandy’s adventures. It must have been Cassie who’d read them to her. Her mother had never had time for such luxuries as reading aloud. No: she probably hadn’t had time to do a lot of the things she’d have liked to do—working mothers didn’t, did they? An old dear her dad might be, but he’d never been much of a husband—or much of a father, come to think of it. He could have taken some of the domestic chores, even played with the children. But he was always busy helping a mate take a gearbox out of a car or re-felt a roof.
So perhaps it’d been not Mum but Cassie who’d got rid of the book But now its twin had come back to her. Grabbing a bowl of cereal, she padded back to her room, sitting cross-legged on the bed. She’d read as slowly as ,a child, savouring the little drawings of the girl with dots for eyes.
Then Craig got up, thudding across to the door, to the bathroom. Idyll over any moment now. She dressed quickly—pants and jeans on before she stripped off her dressing gown. And the quickest dive into bra and sweater she could remember.
No. It was all right. Craig was going back to bed, puffing his door closed after him so the catch made its loudest noise. That, if nothing else, would have woken a deeper sleeper than her. There was one noise she hadn’t heard, though. Oh, the antisocial bastard. Couldn’t even be arsed to flush the loo, could he?
She was just going to abandon Milly-Molly-Mandy in her sweet dormer windowed cottage when the house phone rang Cursing economy—could a house be civilised with only one phone and that in the kitchen?—she legged it downstairs. Whoever it was would ring off, sure as God made little apples.
‘Took your time, didn’t you, Kate?’ Earnshaw had evidently forgotten that she was supposed to be fond of her quasi daughter-in-law. She had also forgotten that people lay in on Sunday mornings. Not necessarily asleep. But unwilling to answer the phone. Earnshaw the DCI wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But Earnshaw with an undercover son might have done. On the other hand, Kate couldn’t blame her for failing to imagine Craig and her having a friendly Sunday bonk.
‘Hi, Ma,’ Kate said pointedly. ‘Yes, I was upstairs reading.’
‘Reading! Oh, well. Now, I’m treating you both to Sunday lunch. Twelve thirty. Where would you fancy?’
‘Up to you, surely, Ma, if you’re paying.’
‘Hmph.’ Earnshaw’s memory must be fading fast. Or had the word ‘treat’ been a violation of the Trades Descriptions Act?
‘Is Dad coming?’
‘You bet he is.’ Earnshaw’s tone suggested he’d have little say in the matter. ‘Luton. There’s a nice pub at Luton. Wonderful steaks. Twelve thirty.’
‘Bye… Love to Dad,’ Kate added ironically to a silent phone.
So where was Luton? Not in Bedfordshire, that was certain. Come on, Kate. You should be able to place it instantly. Yes! Near another hamlet called Ideford between the A380 and the B3192. She flicked her fingers in irritation. The name of the pub! No, that was gone.
‘Fuck off, will you? Just fuck off.’
Craig withdrew to the cocoon of his duvet, hunching into it so far that his feet stick out the far ‘end. They were not over-clean. ‘I’d be delighted to. But we’re due for a session with your Ma and Pa in just over an hour and I thought you might welcome the chance to shower and shave. Oh, and to flush the loo.’
‘What’s it to do with you?’
‘Everything, since I have to share it with you. I don’t want the bathroom reduced to a stinking urinal. As for the shower and shave—’
‘I thought I told you—hey, shut the bloody window! And who told you to— Draw the fucking curtains, you bitch!’
‘Draw them yourself. Go back to your stinking pit of a bed, if you want. But if you’re not parade-ground smart and ready to drive me by twelve, I shall go myself. And explain why. Got that?’ His language got even fouler. Her message had clearly been received.
She’d had to let Craig drive, of course—though she suspected it’d be her turn after lunch so that he could drink. He’d had difficulty with the tight turn into the Elizabethan Inn’s car park, and had parked untidily in what were admittedly quite narrow slots. His ‘parents’ emerged from their car—a P reg Rover. Her heart sank. If they were being watched—and she’d no reason to believe they were, of course—they’d be found out straightaway. Some people managed not to look like police officers when they were in mufti, others didn’t Rod—though she was probably biased—might have passed for anything, just as she hoped she would. But even in what looked like his second-best gardening clothes, Chief Superintendent Knowles might just as well have worn an arrow pointing down at his head saying ‘cop’. Not even army or ex-army. ‘cop’. Maybe Earnshaw looked like a fierce matron, in the days when hospitals had such things not the new NHS incarnation, perhaps. Or just maybe the head of an old-fashioned girls’ school. Not motherly, that was certain. At least Craig passed the disguise test with flying colours. He hadn’t shaved, his jeans were deplorable for a man lunching with his parents: he personified a yobbish lout, scraping a dubious living that the taxman and the Job Centre knew nothing about. While Knowles brought over their drinks, his ‘mother’, settling herself at a square table in the bay window of the dining room, looked him up and down.
‘My fault for potty training you too young,’ she observed. ‘Still in rebellion, I suppose. Oh, for Christ’s sake, pour the stuff into a glass, not straight down your throat from the bottle!’
‘You keep on like this and I’m out of here,’ he snarled, grabbing Kate by the upper arm as if to drag her away too. His fingers tightened into a fierce pinch.
She shook him off, but couldn’t resist catching Earnshaw’s eye. Knowles stepped forward. ‘That’s no way to behave. Sit down. Kate, my dear, let me get you another glass of wine. Most of that seems to have ended on the floor.’
‘Thanks. The people I babysat for last night gave me some nice red,’ Kate said, conversationally. ‘My boss at the time-share complex,’ she added, sitting down next to Earnshaw. Goodness knows why they’d chosen this place—surely the tables were too close for them to have a confidential conversation.
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘He asked you to baby-sit? You must be making a good impression.’
‘I’m certainly going the extra mile—’
‘Short of getting on to the weekend roster!’ Craig put in. ‘I’d have thought baby-sitting was’—Earnshaw struggled visibly to get back into role—‘a big improvement on extra cleaning. Was it a nice house?’
Kate waited till Knowles was back from the bar before she said, ‘Absolutely lovely. In Exeter. The kids kept me busy all evening, of course.’
Craig sneered, ‘So you didn’t—?’
‘I did some ironing and I’m invited back,’ Kate cut in. ‘How did you get on yesterday, Craig? A good gardening day?’
‘None of your fucking business.’
Knowles, very forbearing, said, ‘I’d have thought it was, son. And you shouldn’t swear like that in front of your mother.’
Which they all knew was rich, since, when roused, Earnshaw could have won an obscenities competition hands down.
‘Didn’t the poor girl see you all day?’ Earnshaw demanded. ‘That’s not the way to get back together, is it?’
Kate averted her face. She’d have thought the more anyone saw of Craig, the less likely they were to stay together. Perhaps she shouldn’t have grassed him up like that, though. Still, he should be able to think on his feet.
‘Worked all morning—I was off before her ladyship deigned to get up.’
Which was a lie. But let that pa
ss. What else had he been up to? They were supposed to let each other know—just in case. Oh, in case of nothing, so far. But they ought to be building trust. Becoming a team. Perhaps she’d been mistaken about him and his contract gardening. Perhaps she should have made more effort. More effort for a man who bruised your arm like that?
‘Then I went off with my mates to the footie—Torquay United at home. Not a bad match, as it goes. And since I knew she was off on the razzle, I had a pie and chips and watched some wide-screen telly down the pub. Any harm in any of that?’
‘None, lad. Except you should be doing what the counsellor told you: communicating.’ ‘She buzzes off on a Saturday night, she can expect me to go out with my mates, can’t she?’
‘So earning good money’s-buzzing off on the razzle, is it?’ Kate shot at him: ‘Yes, I really like looking after other people’s messy brats and doing the ironing for an hour’s extra pay.’
‘Ironing? Not like you, Kate,’ Earnshaw chuckled. Yes, she was good at this, wasn’t she? ‘Well, I wasn’t sure what time they’d be getting back, so I didn’t want to get stuck into a TV programme or anything else,’ Kate replied, stressing the last three words enough to give them the message. ‘A good job too: they were back before ten.’
‘Was it an interesting house?’
‘I only saw the kids’ rooms and the kitchen, really. I didn’t see Mr Vernon’s office. His wife says to call her Julie, and I know he’s Gary. But I don’t like to call him by his first name. I fancy she isn’t very well. What is it people smoke pot for?’ Craig shot her the swiftest of looks. ‘MS, isn’t it? Poor woman.’
‘Or pleasure. People smoke it for pleasure, don’t forget that,’ Craig put in.
Hidden Power Page 12
