by Jo Verity
‘When I was thirteen, I played for the first time with a good orchestra. They were amateurs but they were excellent musicians. The programme – it was Mahler and Brahms – was tricky and I played badly. But, sitting with that orchestra, making my small contribution to something so magnificent, I knew that it was what I wanted to do. From that evening on, scales no longer seemed so pointless.’
‘I don’t suppose all your pupils experience such an epiphany.’
‘No. And that’s a shame for them. But maybe we have enough French horn players already in the world.’ He manoeuvred himself backwards on his buttocks until his large frame was clear of the tent. ‘I will be home in time for dinner. See you later.’
‘Can I leave you two to your own devices for a while?’ Diane asked. ‘I’ve got a few things to sort out if that’s okay with you.’
This was the first time that Elizabeth had been faced with the task of occupying Jordan. Until now every moment of his time had been taken up with meals and strolls and lie-ins and tents. She glanced at him. Whilst she and Diane had been talking, he’d edged to the far side of the tent and was fiddling with the zip that sealed off one of the bedrooms. Before she had a chance to cross-examine him, he crawled into the sleeping compartment and zipped himself in.
Elizabeth shrugged. ‘In that case, I think I’ll go for a walk.’
At the end of the street she turned right, away from the main road. She walked slowly, in no rush to get anywhere, trying to focus on pleasant events like the jaunt to Copenhagen she and Laurence were planning for October. But she kept returning to the morning’s revelation.
Diane’s problem was entirely of her own making. The more she thought about it, the more irritated she became. By her ill-conceived (and possibly illegal) marriage, she had boxed herself into a ridiculous corner and then compounded her difficulties by doing nothing to extricate herself. And what on earth had made her decide, out of the blue and completely against her nature, that she wanted to settle down with Carl Ritter? He was a loving, caring, gentle man. The ideal uncle, brother, best friend. He was manly but, to be honest, un-sexy.
She had watched dozens of men – and at least one woman – fall for Diane. This couldn’t be explained by her physical attributes. Her features were unexceptional. She was flat-chested, skinny-limbed and had no hips to speak of. She wore her hair boyishly short and was not much over five feet tall. Yet she possessed that intangible … something. Charisma. Chutzpah. Sex appeal. ‘D’you think Di’s sexy?’ she’d asked Laurence after an evening out with Diane and whoever had been her current bedfellow. ‘I suppose she is,’ he’d replied, ‘but sex isn’t everything, is it? Not at our age.’
Diane Shapcott and Carl Ritter? It was like teaming Keira Knightley with Johnny Vegas.
She arrived at a road junction and was on the point of crossing when a car horn sounded, sending her scrambling back to the safety of the pavement. The car – a sleek, dark-blue something-or-another – slowed and the driver shook his head in mock incredulity then accelerated away. Heart thumping, she looked both ways before scurrying across the road.
Not long ago, she’d been coming out of the dry cleaner’s when she’d witnessed an accident very similar to the one she’d almost had. The pedestrian – a woman of about sixty – appeared to step, intentionally, in front of a car which was turning out of a side street. The car was travelling at no more than five miles an hour and it had pushed rather than knocked her down. Passers-by helped her onto the pavement where she sat, clutching her handbag, examining bloody knees through lacerated tights. Potatoes and sprouts lay in the gutter, broken glass littered the road and the stench of vinegar tainted the air. The woman, surrounded by the ingredients of a meal she would never cook, had looked more embarrassed than anything else.
She wandered on through the quiet suburb, on the lookout for something to capture her interest. House names – The Mooring, Treetops, Keeper’s Cottage, Lamorna – incongruous in this landlocked suburb, spelled out longings and aspirations. Here and there, caravans blocked driveways. How on earth did the postman get past? The names were subliminally familiar – Elddis, Fleetwood, Swift – unsurprising considering the hours she’d spent behind them in crawling traffic. And look, there was another Elddis identical to the one parked alongside Tanglewood.
Caravan spotting? Definitely time to head home.
She’d always had an excellent sense of direction – Laurence said that she was more reliable than sat-nav which she took to be a compliment – and she set herself the challenge of finding an alternative return route. Keeping the afternoon sun on her right shoulder, she stepped up her pace, confident that she was going the right way.
She continued along the nondescript streets, picturing herself as the ‘blip’ moving steadily across a radar screen. She sensed that she must be very near her target when, to her right, she noticed a pair of stone pillars hung with ornamental iron gates, flanking the entrance to what she guessed must be a largeish house. She paused, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the building, her attempts foiled by the laurel bushes that bordered the drive, concealing whatever lay beyond. Could this be the Rain Man’s house? It had to be somewhere around here.
The iron gates stood wide and welcoming. She would take a peek and then retreat. Where’s the harm? As she rounded the curve of the drive, a house came in to view. Dressed stone, blue-grey slate roof, slender chimney stacks. It was the Rain Man’s house. And that was probably the Rain Man’s sleek blue car parked in front of it.
10
MONDAY: 6.55PM
‘I’m sorry if Jordan’s messed up your catering plans.’
The two women stood in the kitchen preparing a vegetable curry and sipping white wine.
‘“Catering plans”. You’re joking.’ Diane paused. ‘I assume he eats curry.’
‘Doesn’t everyone? Except my parents, of course.’
Diane pointed to the tent. ‘What d’you think he’s doing out there?’
‘I’m trying not to. Think, I mean.’
Diane took a handful of green beans and began chopping them up. ‘It can’t be much fun, being a teenager in the twenty-tens.’
‘Being a teenager isn’t supposed to be fun. They’re supposed to suffer. We did, and it—’
‘Never did us no ’arm, eh luv?’ Diane raised her eyebrows.
‘Think of all the technology they’ve got to ease them through teenager-dom. Mobile phones. Bebo. Twitter. Everything they need to share their misery with the entire world, tortured second by tortured second.’
‘If you think about it, I twittered to you years before it was invented.’ Diane tossed a handful of beans into the colander. ‘God, I must have been a pain in the arse. Me, me, me. I didn’t give you a chance to get a word in, did I? But I have to say, in my defence, you were always so … self-sufficient, so independent. You were born to listen.’
And you were born not to.
‘I didn’t have much to talk about. Nothing that would have interested you, anyway. My troubles amounted to having size eight feet and over-anxious parents.’ Elizabeth grimaced. ‘I think I just disproved my theory of universal teenage suffering.’
It was true. Her teenage years had been, if not entirely trouble-free, pretty plain sailing. She’d been au fait with the problems – they’d be termed ‘issues’ today – that blighted the lives of so many girls. Diane, Coronation Street and numerous agony columns provided her with the grisly details. She might not have an unemployed father, or a mother with a taste for British sherry, or a semi-delinquent brother; she didn’t shop-lift or smoke or get beaten by a stepfather – but she knew exactly what it would be like if she did. Although her first proper improper relationship with a man wasn’t until university, by the time she was fifteen she had read Lady Chatterly’s Lover and The Group so knew exactly what sex was all about. And what it could lead to. Sometimes she’d asked herself What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me? When the death of the family’s dog was all that
sprang to mind, she felt more than a little cheated.
‘Do I have time to check my email?’ Carl asked on his return.
‘We’re eating in ten minutes so don’t get embroiled in anything,’ Diane warned.
He tilted his head to one side. ‘Embroiled?’
‘Involved,’ Diane explained.
‘Ahhh. You see Elizabeth, I have much still to learn. No, I will not get embroiled.’
‘What might he get embroiled in?’ Elizabeth asked when he’d gone.
‘Chess. He plays internet chess. For hours on end. His opponents can be anywhere in the world. Japan. Chile. South Africa. Basingstoke.’
‘Could be worse.’
‘Worse than Basingstoke?’
Elizabeth noticed that clothes line was empty. ‘Did you bring Jordan’s washing in?’
‘Washing? No. D’you want to fetch him in for supper?’
The centre section of the tent, previously open to the fresh air, was now zipped shut and, without external features to animate it, the structure looked slightly menacing – a gigantic blue slug lurking on the grass.
Elizabeth crossed the lawn. ‘Jordan? Supper’s ready.’ There was no sound but she knew he was in there, separated from her by a single layer of blue nylon. ‘Jordan?’
‘Okay.’
She listened whilst first inner, then outer zips were undone. Jordan emerged and fastened the flap back, his face flushed and his hair darkened by perspiration.
‘Isn’t it stifling in there?’ she asked.
He challenged her with a steady gaze. ‘No.’
She could see past him into the central area of the tent, where his rucksack was lying on the groundsheet alongside a pile of folded washing and a pair of trainers.
‘You’ve brought your things out here, I see.’
‘Yeah.’ He tugged his hair down over his forehead. ‘I might sleep out here tonight.’
That’s what he was up to. Having wrong-footed her with a neat bedroom and a day’s compliance, he was now going on the offensive.
Her sons used to do this all the time. They’d agree a set of rules then attempt to renegotiate the deal, nibbling away at the boundaries. It usually involved a curfew – ‘Muuum. Just another half-hour.’ Or the clothing budget – ‘The Levis are only an extra five pounds. Dad earns that in five minutes.’ It became extremely wearing.
‘I can’t see what difference it makes to you,’ he pushed.
‘No. I don’t think so, Jordan.’
‘But why not?’ he moaned.
Because I said so, her father snapped across the years, so let’s hear no more about it.
Why had she said no? Did she fear for his safety? How risky could it be for a fifteen-year-old boy to sleep in a fenced garden, no more than ten paces from the house? If she were honest, her ‘no’ had little to do with concern and a great deal to do with control.
‘Okay. You can sleep in the tent on one condition.’
‘What?’
‘You forgo today’s fifteen pounds.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘What?’
His disbelief was gratifying. ‘Being paid compensation for suffering is one thing but you’re obviously not finding things here that unbearable. I don’t see why I should pay you for enjoying yourself.’ Glancing at her watch to give the impression that there was a time limit on her offer, she pressed her advantage. ‘Make your mind up.’
He looked over his shoulder, staring into the tent, as if expecting its yawning opening to advise him which way to jump.
After quite a long interval he croaked ‘Okay. Only today, though.’
‘What did you do this afternoon, Elizabeth?’ Carl asked.
They had finished their meal and were in the living room, half-watching a television programme on spider crabs.
‘I went for a walk.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Oh,’ she circled her hands in the air, ‘around.’
‘And how about you, Jordan?’
Jordan was cross-legged on the floor, peering at the screen of his mobile phone, thumbs twitching, face blank.
Elizabeth nudged his thigh with her toe. ‘Carl asked you what you did this afternoon.’
He looked dazed as if roused from a deep sleep. ‘I was in the tent.’
‘And, if it’s okay with you, he’s going to sleep out there tonight.’ Elizabeth smiled brightly.
‘Of course. I will dig out a sleeping bag.’ Carl and Diane were sitting together on the sofa and he squeezed her knee. ‘Didn’t I tell you? It’s a great tent.’
‘Maybe Jordan should go camping with you.’ Diane’s retort was sharp, and Elizabeth noticed her pull away from him.
By nine o’clock Jordan was ensconced in the tent, complete with torch, emergency whistle – Di’s memento from the 1993 Notting Hill carnival – and enough snacks to last a week.
Elizabeth, guessing that Diane and Carl might appreciate some time to themselves, stood up and stretched. ‘I think I’ll have a bath.’
While the bathwater was running, she trickled in something from the assortment of toiletries on the shelf, swishing it around to encourage bubbles. The label on the dusty bottle promised that this miracle substance would encourage restorative sleep, nourish the skin and lend bath time ‘the romance of the South Seas’ – all for one pound ninety-nine.
She undressed and, lowering herself into the soft water, leaned back. This bath was shorter and narrower than the one at home, the slope of its back too acute. It was an unpleasant peachy shade, as were the rest of the bathroom fittings. The wall tiles – a paler peach – were set at a disorientating forty-five degrees to the horizontal and whoever had gone to Tiles ’R Us had been persuaded that picture tiles – dolphins, shells, sea horses – dotted here and there would jolly things up. The taps and shower-head were of gold-coloured metal. Naff. Bland.
If Diane owned this house, the bathroom would be done out like an ocean-going liner or a south-sea island but as far as she knew (a proviso with which it might be wise to preface all Diane-related statements from now on) her friend had never owned property. Renting was the only option for someone with Diane’s peripatetic lifestyle and irregular income. Even after she started teaching, she’d never stayed in one place for long. A year here, two years there – buying would have meant a recurring nightmare of estate agents, solicitors and broken chains. Laurence, naturally, disagreed. ‘Renting is as good as pouring money down the drain. She really should get on the property ladder. Acquire some assets.’ It depended on what you wanted, didn’t it? Freedom and flexibility, or stability and limitations. As for assets – they weren’t so important if there were no children to take into consideration. And, as far as she knew, neither Diane nor Carl had children.
Voices rumbled in the sitting room below. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but, in the same way that she needn’t understand Mandarin to know that a Chinese couple were having a set-to, she could tell Diane and Carl were engaged in earnest discussion. Surely Diane hadn’t chosen this moment to tell Carl about Vexler? Not now. Not when there were visitors in the house.
A telephone rang, bringing an end to the exchange, and Elizabeth realised that she had been holding her breath. Flexing her neck, she exhaled slowly, raised her knees and sank lower into the water. It’s a funny old world, as Laurence was prone to say when stumped by something. She’d anticipated that Jordan Fry would be the one to blight her visit, not Diane’s mysterious (absent and possibly fictitious) husband. To be honest, Jordan and the wretched tent were providing a welcome diversion. If Charlie’s grandfather, poor man, hadn’t got himself murdered, she’d be here on her own, the spectre of Marin Vexler looming larger by the minute.
‘Lizzie?’ Diane was at the bathroom door, ‘Got everything you need?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
It was true. She did have everything she needed. A kind husband. A nice home. An okay job. And more than enough money. She was extremely fortunate.
‘Will yo
u be coming downstairs or going straight to bed?’
‘What’s the time?’ she hedged, waiting for a clue as to how she should respond.
‘Barely ten.’
Barely ten. So Diane wanted her to go down. How adept the British were at wringing every nuance from the English language, how skilful at never quite saying what they meant. She’d been discussing this very thing with Maggie last week. Her neighbours had hosted one of Simon’s American work colleagues and, on his arrival, Maggie had asked the man if he ‘wanted to go upstairs’. ‘He looked panicky,’ Maggie laughed, ‘and I suddenly realised he thought I was suggesting we go to bed.’
‘Okay. Give me five minutes,’ Elizabeth said.
When she went down, Carl was nowhere to be seen and, for a moment, she wondered if he’d been banished to the tent with Jordan. Diane answered her unspoken question. ‘Dafydd phoned. He needs a puncture repair kit so Carl’s popped round with his.’
‘He’s repairing a puncture at this time of night?’
‘Typical man. No forward planning. They’re going cycling first thing in the morning and he’s just noticed that he’s got a puncture.’
‘I won’t be seeing him doing his stuff on the TV tonight then?’
‘No. He’s got the week off. That’s why his girls are here.’
‘They don’t live in Cardiff?’
‘No. They’re usually in London with his ex-wife. She’s a TV producer or something like that. He’s got a son, too. Tomos. He’s ten. He’s on holiday with her and her new man.’
‘You seem remarkably clued-up about Dafydd Jones’s domestic arrangements.’
‘Only taking a neighbourly interest.’
By the time Carl came back, they were drinking hot chocolate laced with brandy. Whatever had passed between him and Diane appeared to have been set to one side.
‘Dafydd has invited us for a drink tomorrow evening. I told him that we had guests and he insists that you come too,’ Carl said.
