The Punishment She Deserves

by Elizabeth George

  “You’re right, of course.” She smoothed her hand along the counter. It wanted a good dusting and she wondered if she would have to speak to the cleaners about it or, more probably, do the work herself as she’d already spoken to them twice about the cavalier attitude they had towards doing anything more than casually mopping the floor.

  “Yasmina, you must be able to see by now that what you’re doing is going to drive her away. It’s basic human psychology.”

  “What I’m doing is trying to keep her from ending up as someone she never intended to be in the first place and will hate becoming.”

  Timothy sighed. The money taken care of, he went to the drugs next. From the cabinet shelves he moved the opiates into the plastic baskets in which they were stored for depositing—along with the money—in the pharmacy’s safe. He said, “That’s just the problem. You act like someone who can see the future when you can barely understand the present.”

  “What I understand is my purpose as her mum, which is to help her set a course for her life. If you won’t recognise that as your purpose as her father, you put me into the position of having to do the entire job alone.”

  He let the implied accusation sit there. Yasmina thought his silence meant that he was thinking over what she’d said. But then he replied with, “It’s not my purpose or any part of my purpose to insist Missa do what she clearly doesn’t want to do.”

  “You seem to have forgotten that she wanted college. She wanted university. She had plans for her life and now she has none. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

  “It doesn’t, because I don’t agree with that picture of things in the first place.” He went into the back where the safe was. The sounds from the interior indicated he was securing the money and the opiates. In a moment he returned. He’d removed his lab coat, she saw, and now he stood before her. He was closer to her then than he’d been in months—save when he was sleeping—and she saw how drawn he looked, how the last years had aged him. Lines incised a path from his nose to the corners of his mouth and from there they etched downward to his chin. His hair was fast becoming more salt than pepper, and his eyes were no longer bright and engaged. They seemed to beg for the moment when he would take something pinched from the pharmacy to ease his way into oblivion. He couldn’t possibly want to engage with her just now, but he did so.

  “Missa has plans,” he said. “They may have changed from what they were originally, but you know what they are. You just don’t want to accept them.”

  “No one changes to this degree. It doesn’t happen, not without a cause.”

  “But she has changed, and there’s a logic to it. She tried college, and she found it to be not what she wanted. She decided she needed to take another route, which she told us last December. She wanted out and she wanted to be home. But you couldn’t accept that.”

  “It wasn’t a matter of accepting. It was a matter of clarifying. At her age—”

  “I don’t understand why you’re telling yourself such rubbish,” Timothy cut in. “Or why you’re rewriting your history with Missa. The facts remain the facts. You insisted she return to Ludlow after the Christmas holiday in order to give it another go. She’s always been a cooperative girl—and you and I might look at that at some point—so she did as you told her. But if you want the truth from where I’m standing now and where I was standing then, you browbeat her into cooperating, Yasmina.”

  Yasmina felt the insult as a suffusion of heat. “This is how you remember things?”

  “It’s how things were.”

  “Really? Has your brain become so addled because of what you’re ingesting every night that you can’t recall any basic facts about what’s happening inside your own family?”

  “Don’t go there, Yasmina.”

  She saw the tension in the muscles of his arms where they crossed against his chest. She said, “No. It’s time we spoke of this. Night after night you’ve been drugging yourself with what you’ve stolen from this pharmacy. You can’t see what’s in front of your face begging to be seen because when you’re not drugged you end up with memories of Janna, and you can’t—”

  “Yas, I’m telling you.” His right hand made a gesture telling her to stop.

  “—allow yourself to live through what the rest of us are living through because it’s hell, yes, that’s what it is and that’s what it was. And look at me, Timothy, the doctor, the bloody paediatrician, for the love of God, who didn’t see it, who didn’t catch it, who didn’t know what to think when her own child wasn’t well because to think and to recognise and to know what it meant . . . ? God, I would love to drug myself. Day and night I would but then what happens? What’s happened already, there’s your answer. Your eldest daughter is falling apart while you declare she must ‘be who she would like to be,’ whatever that means, because that absolves you of responsibility, doesn’t it? That allows you to drug yourself.”

  “I’m not listening to this.” He walked to the switch for the overhead lights.

  She followed him. “I’m beyond caring what you do, but I will not give up on Missa.”

  He swung back to her. “Which means what exactly?”

  She said, “Greta Yates is the counsellor at West Mercia College. She’s asked to have an opportunity to have a conversation with Missa so that she can understand what’s gone wrong. She’s also said it’s a simple enough thing for her to catch up with the work since she left, but they need to get to the bottom of why she left in the first place so they can help her.”

  His gaze fixed on her. “Do you ever listen to what I tell you?”

  “My first thought was that if you and I spoke to Missa together and presented . . .” She was finding it difficult to speak. She paused, told herself that she could do this, and then went on. “If you and I presented a united front—merely on the subject of Missa having a conversation with the college counsellor—she would do it.”

  “Yasmina, I’m having no part in this.”

  “Yes, indeed, she would do it, especially if she knows it’s merely a conversation with no expectations.”

  “Stop it, Yas.”

  “And I believe that Justin would be willing to make sure she got to Ludlow to keep an appointment there, especially if we approach it correctly. So I intend to speak to him as well. I’ve already had an initial word. I’m to meet with him, and I thought if you went with me—”

  “The world isn’t malleable,” he said. “I’m not going to be part of your attempt to mould it.”

  “Which I take to mean you’ve no interest in learning anything about what constitutes the why of life.”

  He barked a short, unpleasant laugh. “Whatever you say, Yasmina.”

  So she was left to alter the plan and do the rest on her own.

  Upon ringing Justin earlier from Ludlow, she’d been surprised when he explained that their meeting would have to take place on the site of the Jackfield Tile Museum. This stood in the hamlet of Jackfield itself, on the opposite side of the River Severn from Ironbridge, just southeast of the town’s eponymous bridge. The tile museum was a complex of buildings tucked to the east of an enclave of houses, on the upper part of a wooded acclivity that had long protected it from the periodic flooding of the river’s banks. Some tiles were still made here, hand painted here, and fired here, memorialising the heyday of Victorian and Edwardian decorative arts. The museum itself contained thousands of other tiles—the real thing—from those that together might form a scene of domestic life to those that stood alone to add beauty to a fireplace, a floor, a porch, or a piece of furniture.

  But there were more buildings than there was present-day use for when it came to making tiles, and some of them were let out for other purposes. Yasmina discovered that Justin Goodayle had taken one of these buildings, and he was waiting for her in front of it at their appointed meeting time.

  A young woman was with him,
her paint-splodged pinafore apron indicating that she was part of the tile making that still went on in the location. She was chatting Justin up with a fair amount of industry, from what Yasmina could see. Her flirting should have been obvious to Justin, but he seemed immune to her smile, her light touch on his arm, and the way she played with tendrils of her autumn-hued hair that escaped from the kerchief that held it away from her face.

  Justin waved happily as he saw Yasmina, and when she parked her car and joined him and his companion, he introduced the girl as Heather Hawkes. She dimpled and said she had to be off. She added, “Think about it, Jus. Missa’s invited as well.”

  “I’ll speak with her,” was his reply. “She’s not much for crowd scenes, though.”

  “Come on your own then.”

  “P’rhaps. We’ll see.”

  This seemed to please her. As she twirled and headed in the direction of the tile works’ paint shop, Yasmina said to Justin, “She’ll depend upon it, that one.”

  He smiled sweetly, that honest Justin smile of his that told Yamina he wasn’t sure what she meant. So she said, “She’d be quite happy to have you to herself, that girl.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Dr. Lomax. Me and Missa, we went to school with Heather’s sister. I’ve known Heather since she was in nappies. Come with me. I’ve got summat to show you before you and me talk.”

  He walked to the huge double doors of the brick building in front of which he’d been standing with Heather. As he did so, he dug in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a set of keys. One of them fitted the shiny Chubb lock on the double doors. He swung them wide so that Yasmina could see what was inside.

  It was a surprising setup, illuminated by a skylight high in the ceiling and by banks of fluorescent tubes that Justin switched on. One of these hung above a scarred workbench that sat along one of the walls. An array of tools were neatly arranged above it, and along the back of it large tins were labelled for various kinds of nails and screws. A rank of rolled papers sat at one end of this table, some of them tightly bound with elastic bands and others loosely formed into tubes. At the far end of the area stood several kinds of electric saws and to one side a stand on wheels where various sorts of hand tools hung. On the opposite wall from the workbench, shelves held tins of paint and brushes and rollers, with more fluorescent lights above them.

  The scent in the air mixed sawdust and fresh paint, and it seemed to relate to what was in the centre of a very large working area. This was a wooden structure fashioned not unlike an extremely high-end garden shed. Painted blue with pristinely white trim, it featured French windows in the front of it as a means of gaining entry. Over them hung a miniature trellis suitable, Yasmina reckoned, for wisteria, grapes, or climbing roses.

  “What d’you think?” Justin’s eagerness made him seem even younger than he was.

  “It’s extraordinary.” Yasmina approached it, wondering who on earth would ever want such a fanciful structure for stowing a lawn mower and bags of potting soil.

  “Here, let me show you the rest.” He passed her and swung the French windows open. “This is my demonstration model. It’s meant for show. See for yourself.”

  She saw that the structure contained a neatly made full-size bed, along with a small table and two chairs. Above the table on the wall was a hanging rack for plates and cups and on the table an electric kettle stood. From the ceiling hung a brass chandelier. From the wall on either side of the bed, brass anglepoise lights for reading had been fitted.

  It was beautifully done, Yasmina thought. She had no idea what it was for, however. She said, “It’s lovely. What’s it called? I mean, does it have a name?”

  “You mean like ‘Shady Bower’ or summat?”

  She smiled. “I mean like garden shed.”

  “Oh! This one’s meant to be for glamping, but they’ve other uses as well.”

  “Glamping?”

  She walked through the French windows and stood at the foot of the bed. The headboard was fashioned from wrought iron and painted the same white as the exterior trim, while the interior of the place was painted a soothing shade of yellow and the counterpane on the bed was speckled with flowers of the same hue.

  She turned to him. “This is extraordinary, Justin. I’d no idea . . .” She didn’t add what she’d been thinking: she’d had no idea he was so good at something. But, then, why wouldn’t he be?

  “Most people don’t know about it.” It seemed he’d let her no idea refer to glamping. “It’s a step above camping. Or p’rhaps three steps above. See, camping means that someone shows up at a site—say a farmer’s paddock in the Lake District?—either dragging a caravan behind the car or getting ready to set up a tent. It rains or it blows and the tent gets knocked about. But one of these is steady and sturdy, and it’s already there when the campers arrive. It’s called a pod. It’s generally on wheels so town councils and English Heritage and whatever can’t say the farmer’s put a permanent structure where one’s not allowed.”

  She said, “You mean he can move it here or there, in the paddock or wherever.”

  Justin nodded. He went on to enthuse about how a pod could be fitted with electricity and even be plumbed if it was allowed to stay in one place. Each was big enough to accommodate two adults and, should fold-out cots be added to the pod, two children as well.

  “They can be used for everything, the pods,” he continued. “I’ve done one for a lady who’s made it her painting studio, and another’s being used as a miniature tea house in a good-size garden. They do a fine job as beach huts as well—’course, they’re a little high end for that but you can see what I mean—and they can be used as shelters if the weather gets rough. A gent outside of Shrewsbury wanted one to make his fishing ties in and to stow his gear, and I built that one half-timbered. Here. Let me show you.”

  She followed him to the workbench upon which the rolls of paper lay. He took one of the loose ones, unrolled it, and weighed it down with the tins that held the nails and screws. She saw that this was a detailed drawing of one of his little buildings, only this one looked like a miniature barn, and it was accessed by a Dutch door that, in the drawing, hung half open.

  “I had no idea your talents stretched to this,” Yasmina said. “I mean, of course, I know about how well you do with blacksmithing, but working with wood like this . . . I’m very impressed.”

  He ducked his head in pleasure. “I won’t ever set the world on fire with my brain, but I’ve got ideas that my hands can bring off easy as anything. Mum’s always said that following one’s talent is the ticket, so that’s really all I’ve done. The others? I mean my brother and sisters? They’re the clever ones. ‘Justie’s our dumb one,’ Dad would say, but Mum said once I worked out what I was meant to do, she’d see I had the means to do it.”

  “How long have you been at this?”

  “Near three years. I’m working on saving for me and Missa. Once I get enough money together . . .” He looked suddenly bashful. “You know.”

  Yasmina was grateful that he’d given her an entrée into the talk she needed to have with him. She said, “Missa can also contribute to the life you have together, Justin.”

  “’Course,” he agreed. “And she will ’cause we both want a family and we mean to start at that straight off. Not an over-the-top family, mind you. But p’rhaps three little ones. Three’s a good number. We’ve talked about it, her and me. Mostly the when of it, mind. When’s a good time for both of us, is what we’ve asked each other. Now Missa’s settled back into Blists Hill and now I’ve got this business here off the ground and I’ve got my blacksmithing as well, any time is a good time is the way I see it. Mum agrees. She says have your babies while you’re young enough to chase them round. And then when they’re grown and on their own, you’ll still have the rest of your life in front of you to do what you want with. Missa thinks Mum is right.”

 
He spoke with such openness that Yasmina had a moment in which she reconsidered: not the end—for really, there could be only one—but instead the means. Justin was a very nice boy. Indeed, he was a very decent young man. He worshipped Missa. But a marriage between them was both unthinkable and unwise. She knew, however, that she couldn’t tell him that. For that would be to court his refusal to help her—Yasmina—in what she needed him to do.

  She said with an attempt at seeming to think things over, “I do see your point. It’s a very good one.” Justin beamed at this, so she hastened to add, “But another point to consider is making certain both of you have careers so that should something happen to either of you, you’ll have a source of income to fall back upon.”

  He beamed a little less. “Like what? I’m not sure what you mean, is what I’m saying.”

  “You have your blacksmithing and now this business you’re starting, but Missa ought to have something as well.”

  “Oh. I intend her to keep the books for me as we go along and the business grows. She can do those while the little ones nap and later on while they’re in school. That way she’ll be at home for them.”

  “But if something happens to you . . . ? Missa won’t be able to build the pods. And she’s not a blacksmith. What she’ll be is a mum and a housekeeper for you and perhaps a candlemaker at the Victorian Town, but you must ask yourself if that’s actually enough to support your children, you, and herself should you be in need of her becoming the main breadwinner.”

  He frowned, apparently sorting this out. “But why would she need to do that, Dr. Lomax? Long as I’ve got my hands—”

  “We never know what the future will bring. I mean, we don’t know what might happen to us. A sudden illness, a physical condition that we weren’t expecting, an accident. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Justin looked down at his hands. He was silent longer than Yasmina expected. She wondered if he was trying to sort through what she’d said in order to have some clarity, but he greatly surprised her with what he said next. “You want her to go back to the college. And then on to uni.”