‘I haven’t even seen it yet! Neither, of course, have you explained your glum face.’
He sighed. She’d pitched it wrong.
They walked on in silence.
‘Tell you what,’ he said at last, ‘there’s a really nice cookery shop you ought to see. Be lovely for stocking your new kitchen. Tomorrow lunch-time, maybe.’
‘You’re on. Just to look at this stage, mind. Nowhere to put so much as a teaspoon at the moment.’
Silence again. They were in Corporation Street, and he’d speeded up, only to come to a halt in front of a window display. The suit, presumably. There were several.
‘Selby. It has to be Selby,’ he said. ‘Every bloody time it’s Selby that gets the course. Computers, this time. I mean, he’s a Neanderthal, doesn’t know his Apple Mac from his arse, and now he’s off at Tally-Ho! being taught all sorts of clever gizmos.’
There was a sensible observation to make: that Selby was clearly in need of a course. But that would have been the wrong one. She groped feebly for something else. ‘At least with Selby we’ll get living proof of the old computer adage: GIGO.’
‘He only puts garbage in so he’ll only get garbage out?’ He managed a pale grin; but she hadn’t expected much more. ‘That turquoise one over there: it’d set off your hair something lovely.’
‘Hmm. Trouble is, that skirt’d set Selby off something shocking!’
She called into what she ought to call home before going on to the Manse. She’d asked Maz if she could put a load through their washing machine while she baby-sat, she was so short of clothes. The workmen were just locking up.
‘Glad I caught you,’ said the foreman. ‘Only I’d like to talk to you about that back door.’
Nodding, she gestured him ahead of her.
‘Rotten, you see.’ He jabbed with a horny nail. ‘And if the rest of the place has been double-glazed it’d be a sin just to lick paint on this and forget it. I’d organise it myself but you’d probably get a better deal from the firm that did your windows.’
He was middle aged and could probably have done with the money.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Tell you what, I know it’s the wrong time of the year, but how are you on fences? Look at that!’
‘Flapping like a line of washing, isn’t it? Now, are you asking me as part of Buildsure or you asking me?’
‘Alf, I’m asking you.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks. Now, tell me one thing. Why don’t you ever open your mail? Me and the lads are putting it safe, but –’
‘Where?’
‘In the front room. On the fireplace. There you are.’
She pounced with more glee than manners.
‘And I’ll let you have a quote, like, for that fence?’ he prompted her.
‘I’m so sorry. Yes please!’
She shoved the whole bundle into a carrier ready to take to the Manse. She couldn’t spoil their evening by keeping them waiting. And there was the washing to sort and bag, too. Five minutes of frantic activity, three carriers of laundry, one of post and one of clean clothes for the following day – she’d promised to sleep over so Maz and Giles could make a night of it if they wanted – she was ready. OK, so it was Saturday – a whole weekend – ahead, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be at work by eight: she’d give Cope not the slightest excuse to rebuke her. And if that meant putting in a twelve-hour stint so that she could legitimately take time off on Sunday, so be it.
‘There’s a list –’ Maz flapped her hands frantically
‘Kate, there are dozens of lists,’ said Giles. ‘How to operate the washing machine. Medication for Lynn. Prayers. TV programmes they may and may not watch. It’s my fault. We don’t get out often enough together and Maz has got to the stage where she’s convinced the world will end if one of us isn’t there to tuck them up.’
‘A palpable hit,’ Maz conceded. ‘OK, there’s the remains of a casserole: all you have to do to work out the microwave –’
‘One of the kids’ll show me, won’t they?’
‘Look – we’ll never be able to park if we don’t go now.’
‘So go! I can cope, honestly. Tim’ll help me with the washing first, because he and I are going to operate his trains – that’s right, isn’t it, Tim?’ She remembered in her Latin lessons at school – were there any schools left in the country that still routinely offered Latin? – that there were some questions that were open, and others that, by the speaker’s choice of words, suggested an answer. Her question clearly demanded the answer ‘yes’, though by his face Tim was not specially keen to give it. She’d always pretended to Robin’s children that she needed help with technology, though she always showed she was quick to learn: stereotyping herself as the useless blonde had never been part of her remit. She adopted the same technique for Tim.
‘So I’ve got some white things that want a hot wash, and some coloured ones that might run. So what do we do?’ Maybe she’d qualify for parenthood one day. Not something to undertake lightly in this job, though. And certainly not singly, not as far as she was concerned.
The washing machine was programmed and a ball of liquid solemnly placed on top of the shirts; Tim switched it on. No problems. Nor with the microwave: he even showed her how to microwave a couple of potatoes to go with the casserole.
Lynn floated in at this point: ‘Mum said to help you cook your tea. And show you how to use the washer.’
‘I did it.’
‘You don’t know how.’
‘I do!’
Et cetera.
‘OK, kids. Your dad said something about TV. Is it worth watching or shall I eat my tea in peace in here?’
‘But what about my train set? There’s only half an hour before bed-time.’
She’d come to play trains: play trains was what she had to do. She followed Tim to his bedroom leaving her supper on its plate on the table.
‘What we’ll do,’ Tim said, ‘is this. You see all those carriages: we’ll shunt those into that siding. And then we’ll couple the British Rail livery ones to Flying Scotsman. And we could have a goods train, too. We could shunt some wagons together. You see that little diesel shunter: you could use that.’
Kate had seen that coming. ‘I couldn’t use this one instead?’ She pointed to a maroon steam loco.
‘Duchess of Hamilton! No! She’s a passenger locomotive. Tell you what, you could have my new loco if you like.’ Tim switched some points and turned on the power. A pannier tank bowled out of the engine shed. Great Western livery. Very smart.
‘You haven’t got a Thomas the Tank Engine?’ Kate asked.
Tim looked shocked. ‘You mean with a face? That’s kids’ stuff! Mind you,’ he conceded, ‘I call this one Duck, although it’s in the books, because –’
‘Duck? Did you say Duck?’ She tried not to shout.
But he was wide eyed.
‘Tim: please – tell me about Duck.’
‘That’s what he’s called in the engine books. The Reverend Awdrey. And I thought – well, it sort of suits – I know it’s a bit babyish.’
‘Babyish? But it’s a sort of duck shape, isn’t it?’ She picked it up and traced the outline with her finger. ‘The water tanks look like a duck’s wings. And with no cylinders to conceal the wheels when you’re looking at it from the front, maybe it waddles a bit. Let’s set it off. Yes, those big hub things going up and down, up and down on opposite sides – it does waddle! It’s GWR livery, isn’t it?’ She was trying not to talk too fast, trying not to yell with joy at finding what she suspected was a vital piece of the Darren Goss jigsaw. And there was nothing she could do about it now, not while she was supposed to be putting Tim and his sisters to bed. And who to tell anyway? Cope would laugh in her face, or worse.
‘Yes. Which trucks do you want?’
Kate chose idly, her mind still racing. ‘That Kit-Kat one. And the Cadbury’s.’
Tim laughed. ‘You do like chocolate! Would you like some of mine?
It’s all right. It’s allowed. So long as I’ve eaten my tea and so long as I clean my teeth.’
‘Which you’ll be doing soon anyway. Let’s have a couple of chugs round the track first. I’ve hardly seen anything moving, yet.’
‘We could eat the chocolate while we watch.’
This was indisputable. It was good chocolate, too. Swiss.
‘Uncle Paul gave me this. He always buys nice sweets.’
‘You don’t think he’ll mind your sharing with me?’
Tim considered. ‘Not if you don’t have too much.’
At last the locomotives and the rolling stock had completed their adventures, going through level crossings and over what looked like an old Triang bridge. There were a little mirror lake, and farm and a fire and ambulance station. Plots of what might become a village were roughly sketched near the fire station: Tim had clear priorities.
And then it was bed-time. Absolutely.
‘Right: we’ll shunt the wagons into those sidings, and then you can run the passenger train just once more. And then it’s a wash and your teeth and bed!’
So there he was, in his pyjamas, snuggling under his duvet. A couple of teddy bears rapidly joined him. He looked so cute, she wanted to hug him. When she kissed him on the forehead, he solved any problem of what she should do by putting his arms round her neck and hugging her. He smelt warm and clean, slightly minty from his toothpaste. She hugged him back.
As she backed out of the room, ready to switch off the light, something caught her eye. A ball. And her heart contracted. There was a family over in Newtown with no child to tuck up tonight.
Washing. Better put the next load in. And then the post. And all the time, the question buzzing in her head: what to do about Duck?
Chapter Twelve
And then there were the girls. She’d ignored them, believing that with one theoretically asleep and the other doing homework all would be well. Perhaps just checking would allow somewhere in her mind to throw up some answers on the Duck problem. She tiptoed into Jenny’s room: seraphically asleep. Possibly. But quiet and breathing and alive. Lynn was tapping away at the computer in the study when she finally ran her to earth. Not a game: there was a lot of text which disappeared from the screen as soon as Kate hove into view.
Coughing gently, Kate raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘It’s all right. I’ve saved it.’ Lynn was defensive, dismissive.
‘School work?’
Lynn said nothing.
‘I reckoned you’d got another half hour before your parents wanted you in bed.’
‘That’s OK. I’ll have a shower and read in bed.’
‘And you’ll need something to eat with your antibiotics? Hell! I never ate that casserole! Or the baked spuds! I got caught up with the train set. D’you fancy a baked potato? I can do another one for me.’
Lynn’s expression was opaque, but since she removed the disk from the computer, pocketing it, and closed the system down for the night, perhaps this was an affirmative.
Still no ideas. If she spoke to Cope the idea would be ridiculed or mysteriously lost. Blast Graham Harvey and his wretched course. And damn him for not leaving a contact number: bullying and crime weren’t going to take a holiday just because he wasn’t there.
The baked potatoes were cold, but she warmed them. Without speaking, Lynn burrowed in the fridge, producing a bowl of coleslaw.
‘Home-made,’ she said briefly.
‘Smells good. No thanks, I don’t think it’ll go well with the casserole.’ But she didn’t want to stop Lynn communicating, so she said, ‘I know Jenny wants to join the Girls’ Brigade and equally Tim refuses to join the Boys’. I don’t remember whether you were a member.’
‘For a bit. But I had too much work for school. And I’m not keen on badges and things.’ She added some butter to the potato and coleslaw. She took a few desultory scoops. ‘Right. I’ll go and have my shower. Goodnight.’
‘Hang on. The antibiotic. Here you go.’ Kate undid the childproof top with difficulty. ‘My God: you wonder how they chose their colours. Best to have a swig of water. Don’t want you coughing and shooting someone.’
Lynn nodded briefly to acknowledge and dismiss her attempt at humour, picked up a book from a pile by the phone and went off.
By now Kate was ready to tear her hair. All the silly stupid demands on her time. Washing. To hell with the environment: she’d have to tumble it dry, and make sure the rent she intended to pay the no doubt unwilling Maz covered the electricity. And she’d have to put another load in. And she was hungry: the smell of the wasted supper proved that. And there was the post. God, she’d like a drink. They wouldn’t begrudge her a gin. Or two.
She slammed the microwave door harder than necessary. Potatoes and casserole coming up.
Post. The envelopes slithered on to the kitchen table from the carrier. She checked inside it. Nothing left. OK. Sort them into piles. Bills, junk and others.
Bills. Thank goodness for telephone banking. Except she didn’t like the sound of her balance. Junk. They kept a carrier in the pantry for paperbank paper. And now the proper mail: just three interesting-looking envelopes.
The microwave pinged as if on cue. She couldn’t expect the casserole to endure another reheating, so she reached the plate out, forgetting the steam would scald.
Nothing serious. Nothing to come between her food and between her and the mail.
‘That smells wicked.’
She nearly shoved the fork down her throat. ‘Tim! I had this idea you were in bed.’
‘Can’t sleep. I’m – he looked at her plate – I’m hungry.’
‘And you fancy a bit of a natter? Look, we had a great time with the engines, but you should be in bed. Here, get yourself a plate, and you can have a little chicken and half a potato. Then it’s clean your teeth again and bed. OK? And not a further whisper. Or I don’t ever come back and play with your set. Not even to drive Flying Scotsman. Get it?’
Tim got it. But he ate the chicken so enthusiastically she was tempted to believe his claim that he was hungry.
‘There’s some of Mum’s semolina pudding left.’
Since when did kids like semolina? But there was something odd about this one. She sniffed it as she reached it from the fridge. ‘Hmm. This smells good.’
‘It’s Mum. She’s got this really bad recipe with coconut milk. Try some.’ He produced two dishes, two spoons, knocking one of her letters on to the floor.
She tasted. ‘Brilliant. Now eat up and push off. I’ll be up in three minutes to check you’ve cleaned those teeth again. And I don’t remember hearing you say your prayers.’
She finished her semolina slowly, and opened the first letter. Yes! At last, a long-term let. And the possibility the tenant might want to buy, she liked it so much.
The next one was junk dressed up as genuine. Her garage asking her if she’d like a new car and reminding her a service was overdue. Service? It was all she could do to park the car within walking distance of her house, let alone think of driving it enough for a service. In any case, she’d better find a garage in Birmingham. Someone at work would be able to advise.
There was a scream from upstairs. Going up two at a time, she reminded herself that children did scream, even for things like spiders or broken hair slides. But then there was another, and another.
Jenny’s room. It said so on the door. She burst in, ready to kill anyone so much as touching her. But Jenny was still asleep, if very restless. Now what? Wake her? Or let her settle?
Lynn sauntered in, hair damp, dressing-gown tied tight. ‘Having one of her dreams, is she? She’ll be all right. Gives the rest of us the screaming habdabs, and never wakes up herself. Look, she’s back to normal now. Tell Tim he can clean his teeth now, will you?’
Exit Lynn, leaving Kate holding a teddy bear and her temper. If Lynn was like this at eleven, what would she become when she was a fully-fledged teenager?
Tim was reading, of cours
e. An adult book about diesel engines.
‘Go on. Clean your teeth, there’s a good boy. And not another peep, then.’
‘Can’t I even scream, like Jenny?’ He smiled, scrabbling from the duvet.
‘Especially not scream like Jenny.’
OK, no gin, but certainly a coffee. How on earth did parents with full-time jobs cope? Especially when the phone started ringing when you were halfway down the stairs. She took the last few at a gallop, only to have the phone stop as she reached the kitchen.
Which wasn’t surprising, because someone had answered it. The someone who was standing with his back to her, his right hand idly playing with an envelope.
The man was Paul and she had a nasty suspicion that the envelope he was now slitting open was the one she’d forgotten to pick up: certainly there was nothing under the table except a few crumbs.
Paul wrote down a message, repeated it to the caller, and replaced the handset.
‘Good evening,’ she said coolly. She’d had a lot of practice, not letting her voice quaver no matter how hard her heart might be pumping. At the moment she wasn’t sure whether it was the shock of finding him there, or the anger that he should still have her post in his hand.
‘Hi there! I thought you might need some moral support.’
‘I’d have liked some sort of warning you were here. Oh, and I’d like my letter, please.’ She stuck out a hand for it.
‘Not until you ask me nicely. Here I am with some hooch and a video and all you do is yell at me.’ He smiled in what was no doubt supposed to be a playful, indeed flirtatious way, and held her letter above his head.
‘What do you expect?’ No, better lighten up. ‘I come down here, find a strange man in Maz’s kitchen and get into combat mode, ready to defend her semolina pudding against all comers. Of course I’m yelling. But I would like my letter, please.’ Her hand stayed forward. She touched her thumb to her fingers a couple of times.
He held the letter higher. ‘Pretty please?’
‘Most beautiful please.’ And she sprang, wresting it from his grasp before he realised what she was doing. Thank goodness for netball.
Power on Her Own Page 10
