by Jo Bannister
As they left an hour later he said, ‘We’re having another go at opening the museum tomorrow afternoon. You will come, won’t you?’
SEVEN
Hazel didn’t share that particular detail with Ash when she saw him the next morning.
Thinking about it afterwards, she wasn’t sure why not. Their friendship in no way precluded personal relationships with other people. When she first met him, Ash had been deeply wedded to the memory of a wife he believed was dead. Hazel herself had had a number of suitors, casual but hopeful, and saw no reason not to enjoy the company of men who interested her when the opportunity arose.
So it was unclear to her why she didn’t want Ash to know about Oliver Ford. Because she feared his disapproval? It wasn’t for Ash to approve or otherwise of any friendship she might care to make; and she didn’t think he thought it was. Ford was older than her, but twelve years isn’t that much between adults. He was a celebrity – but that wasn’t what attracted her to him, and Ash knew her too well to think it might have been.
Finally she decided it would just give too much importance to a casual acquaintance to talk about it, even with a good friend. When he finally managed to cut his ribbon, and his latest series was in the can, Oliver Ford would go back to London or wherever his next project took him, and she might get a postcard but she might very well not. She imagined a man like Ford made a lot of these temporary friendships as he travelled round: pleasant companionship for a drink or a meal but never intended to last. A month from now he would struggle to remember her face.
And that was fine too. Hazel had no claim on him, was happy to enjoy his company for a few days and then wave him off back to his work. But she didn’t want to find herself explaining to Ash, or to anyone, that she was not a jilted lover. Much better to say nothing. She stopped thinking about it and paid attention to what Ash was saying to her.
Only to find that he’d finished and was waiting patiently for a reply.
‘Sorry, I wandered off there,’ she admitted. ‘What were you saying?’
Ash was ironing. Hazel had shown him how to do it: how tackling a shirt in the right order – collar first, then yoke, cuffs, sleeves, front and back – meant you weren’t constantly having to go back and iron out the creases you’d just ironed in. He’d never done ironing before the boys came home. First he’d had a mother, then a wife, then the kind of clothes that didn’t need ironing because nobody cared what he looked like, not even him. He was making an effort now as part of his drive to appear thoroughly normal.
He said patiently, ‘I was asking if you’d pick the boys up from school. Since you’re not going in to work.’ He managed not to add, Again, but Hazel heard it just the same.
‘Today?’
Ash nodded. ‘I’ve got a meeting in town with the social workers. I think they deliberately arranged it for three o’clock to see what I’d do when I needed a bit of help.’
For five months, any time he’d needed any kind of help, Hazel had been his first port of call. He hoped he hadn’t imposed on her too much, although he suspected he had. But Hazel had never objected. She’d taken him under her wing initially as a charity case, but then a friendship had developed that had enriched both their lives. And, at times, made them much more complicated.
‘Gabriel, I can’t,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to ask someone else.’
‘Oh.’ He was as taken aback as if it had been settled weeks ago. ‘Er …’
She explained about the second attempt to open the Wittering museum, only coming to feel halfway through that no explanation had been necessary.
‘Surely Meadowvale can send someone who is deemed fit for duty.’ He heard the note of criticism in his own voice and winced. It was one thing to ask, another to argue when she refused.
‘They are doing. Oliver wants me there as his guest. He thinks it’ll be good for both of us. Like getting back on the horse that threw you.’
‘Oliver?’ Shut up, he told himself. Just shut your mouth and stop making things worse!
‘Oliver Ford,’ she said evenly. ‘The man I saved from the mad arsonist. The man who treated me to the sharp new haircut. Which, incidentally, you haven’t yet said you like.’
Ash put the iron down. A moment later he snatched it up again and put it down, correctly, on the heatproof plate rather than the back of his best shirt. ‘Of course I like it. I’m sorry, I’m a bit distracted. You look terrific. The haircut, the singed eyebrow, the red cheek – the lot. You look like a hero. I am immensely proud of you.’
At which her other cheek grew red, too.
‘What time will you be finished?’
He wasn’t sure. ‘Five o’clock, maybe?’
‘Saturday could pick the boys up before he goes to work.’
‘Saturday?’ If she’d suggested that Sweeney Todd, or King Herod, could baby-sit his sons, Ash could hardly have sounded more horrified.
‘Certainly Saturday,’ said Hazel firmly. ‘Why not? He’s put his neck on the line for both of us before now. You think he can’t keep your boys out of trouble for a couple of hours?’
That was exactly what Ash thought. But she was right. When they first knew the youth they called Saturday – his name was Saul Desmond – he was a homeless criminal-fringe sixteen-year-old with no family, no friends, no possessions, no future. But his life had changed as much in the last five months as Ash’s had. He was seventeen now, had a regular job, had a room in Hazel’s little house and paid his rent religiously every Thursday night. He looked after himself, stayed the right side of the law – so far as Hazel could ascertain, and she didn’t just take his word for it – and made occasional forays into housework. He was better with an iron than Ash was.
‘I don’t want to make him late for work,’ Ash said lamely, looking for an excuse.
‘He doesn’t leave till seven-thirty. I’ll be home before that – if you’re going to be late, call me and I’ll take over.’
Saturday was another of Hazel’s little projects, and Ash could see no way of refusing that wouldn’t offend her. He accepted with as much grace as he could manage. ‘Unless, of course, he has other plans.’
‘If he has other plans he can rearrange them,’ said Hazel briskly. ‘Leave it to me.’
Saturday had no other plans. Still he received his orders with as much enthusiasm as any other teenager tasked with minding a couple of under-tens. ‘What am I supposed to do with them?’
‘Take them to the park,’ suggested Hazel. ‘You’ll have Patience too, she’ll keep them amused. Then take them home and make them beans on toast. It’s only a couple of hours, Saturday – Gabriel will be home around five.’
‘Do I get paid?’
‘Of course you do,’ said Hazel, although she wasn’t sure whether Ash had yet realised baby-sitting was a service you had to pay for. ‘So you’ll do it.’ It wasn’t really a question.
‘I suppose so.’
‘Don’t blow this, Saturday,’ she warned him. ‘If anything happens to those boys, Gabriel will have your guts for garters. And you don’t even want to know what part of your anatomy I’ll be coming after.’
The youth snorted a little laugh, his humour restored. It always amused him when Hazel Best talked like one of the Sopranos.
Oliver Ford picked her up at noon. They had lunch at The Royal Oak again before driving on to Wittering.
He took his eyes off his meal long enough to steal a sideways glance at her. ‘Are you nervous about this?’
‘Of course not,’ she said; but it wasn’t entirely true. She hadn’t been. She hadn’t even asked herself if she was going to be until they were on their way. Over the soup, though, she started to feel the quiver of anxiety.
‘I am,’ Ford said honestly. ‘I thought it was only to be expected. Now you’re making me feel like a wimp.’
Hazel chuckled. ‘All right, then – yes. But it’s stupid. It was incredibly unlikely that anyone would try to fire-bomb the opening ceremony of a little local museum
the first time. What are the odds that anything similar will happen again?’
Ford nodded, reassured. ‘Like taking your own bomb on an aeroplane.’
‘What?’
Straight-faced, he explained. ‘The odds of boarding an aeroplane with a bomb on it are a million to one. The odds of boarding a plane with two bombs on it, carried by people with no knowledge of one another, are a billion to one. So the moral is, Always carry your own bomb.’
He topped up her wine, dutifully refraining himself. Then he reached into his pocket and put a little cardboard box on the table between them. It was so small, and so plain, it had to contain something valuable.
‘I want you to have this.’ His voice had dropped to where only she could hear him. ‘You’re going to tell me it isn’t necessary. I know it isn’t necessary. But just saying Thanks isn’t enough. I need you to know how very grateful I am for what you did. It was way beyond the call of duty. I won’t be around forever, but I want you to know that wherever I am, I will always know how much I owe you. This is a very small token of that. Open it.’
Astonished, Hazel went on looking at the little box and made no move towards it.
‘Hazel, open it.’
So she did.
If she’d thought to wonder, she’d have guessed his taste ran to statement jewellery. Big pieces that glittered and gleamed and said Guess how much I cost. This wasn’t like that. It was tiny, a little golden bird on a fine gold chain. It had chips of ruby for eyes. She held it up close. The detail was remarkable, making up in the skill of its execution what it lacked in size. Even so she was puzzled.
‘A chicken?’
Oliver Ford laughed out loud, a bell of a sound. All around the restaurant, heads turned. There were murmurs of recognition. ‘It’s a phoenix. You know – rising from the ashes?’
She understood. She blushed and returned her gaze to the little pendant.
Ford was vastly amused. ‘I thought it was perfect. I pestered jewellers up and down the country looking for one. And you thought it was a chicken!’
Hazel put it back in the box. ‘I can’t accept this.’
The laughter fell off his face as if a tap had been turned. ‘Why not?’
‘I was doing my job,’ Hazel said simply. ‘I get paid for it. I can’t take private rewards as well.’
Ford appeared genuinely nonplussed. As if he had never considered the possibility that she might refuse his gift. ‘You think this is a bribe? You think other people will think there’s something dishonourable about it?’
She realised she’d hurt him, and for that she was sorry. ‘Of course not, Oliver. It’s just … there are rules. We can’t be seen doing anything that might raise questions of fear or favour.’
‘Hazel – you saved me from a mad bomber! Damn right I’m in favour of that! And I can’t see that I’m doing anything very terrible by showing my gratitude. It’s a trinket, not a villa in the Algarve!’
‘You’re doing nothing wrong,’ she assured him. ‘It was a generous thought. But I’d be doing something wrong if I accepted it.’
He sat back, astonished and displeased. After a moment he returned the box to his pocket. ‘All right. Well, perhaps it’s time we were moving.’ He signalled the waiter. ‘Unless you’d like to pay? You know, so no one can think I’m corrupting you.’
The sudden change of mood, the unexpected sourness of his tone, left Hazel floundering for a moment. Then she said, ‘As a matter of fact, I would. You bought lunch yesterday, I’ll buy it today. This is, after all, the twenty-first century,’ she added lightly. ‘Equality that doesn’t cut both ways can hardly be described as equality.’
She expected him to argue, even to fight her for access to the card machine. Instead he sat quiet and aloof while she settled the bill. But he made a point of holding the door for her as they left.
EIGHT
Despite his objections, Saturday embarked on his task full of good intentions. It took ten minutes to walk from Railway Street to the Norbold Quays Junior School where the Ash boys were now pupils. He allowed an extra five minutes to present himself at the principal’s office and have the children formally delivered into his care. No one was taking any risks with Ash’s sons. They might not have been kidnapped before, but that was no reason to tempt fate. Being paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.
The three of them were not strangers. But it was still too early in their acquaintance for them to claim to be, or perhaps even want to be, friends. The boys were still getting to know their father; their father’s friend’s friend was, for now, a bridge too far.
It hardly mattered. Saturday didn’t need them to like him. He just needed them to stay out of trouble for a couple of hours. How difficult could it be?
Patience led the way to the park. Where they crossed the road she waited until her small flock – or perhaps she saw them as a litter of unruly puppies – were gathered together before escorting them through the traffic. Locals who were used to seeing the white dog walking her owner were amused to see her transfer her shepherding skills to his family.
‘What do you want to do?’ asked Saturday. ‘Swings?’
‘Swings!’ agreed Guy happily.
Gilbert invested the same word with a wealth of scorn. ‘Swings?’ Ash’s sons approached the business of living from diametrically different directions.
Saturday shrugged. ‘Slide, then. Or the roundabout. I’ll push.’
Gilbert looked down his nose at the teenager. Since Saturday, no giant himself, was significantly taller than an eight-year-old, this involved tipping his head backwards. ‘Nobody,’ he declared with hauteur, ‘is actually called Saturday.’
This kind of non sequitur is familiar to anyone with young children. But Saturday had no experience of anyone younger than himself, and was momentarily floored. ‘Er – I am.’
‘No,’ said Gilbert, shaking his head decisively. ‘You don’t call people after days of the week.’
‘What about Man Friday?’
Robinson Crusoe is no longer required reading for young boys. Gilbert looked at him as if he’d made it up. ‘Who?’
They were at the swings. Guy clambered up. ‘Push me!’
‘I’m pushing, I’m pushing.’
‘Push harder! I want to go over the top!’
‘And I want to see my eighteenth birthday,’ growled Saturday. ‘This is high enough for anyone.’
‘I’ve been over the top,’ declared Gilbert, an untruth so obvious – and so obviously designed to stir up trouble – that Saturday felt a surge of dislike.
‘Yeah? Well, when your dad’s here you can do it again.’
Gilbert shrugged and turned his back. ‘Swings are for little kids, anyway.’
Saturday gritted his teeth and kept pushing. ‘So what do you want to do?’
‘Football.’ This was almost certainly another lie. Gilbert, like his father at his age, and since, had minimal interest in ball games.
‘Fine. Then we’ll play football next.’ A slow suspicion grew to certainty. ‘Did you bring a ball?’
‘No,’ said Gilbert in quiet triumph.
Patience had brought her ball. Toys were a new departure for her: she had never shown much interest in running after things – except rabbits: she was after all a lurcher – until she’d had the boys to keep amused. But recently she had discovered the charms of Fetch, and now she presented her soft-spiked, jelly-pink ball hopefully to Gilbert. After a moment’s consideration he shied it down the park, and Patience hared off in pursuit, jaws wide, ears flying in the slipstream. But by the time she’d brought it back he’d lost interest and was kicking the iron frame of the swings as if determined to wear out his shoes before he outgrew them.
Saturday looked at the dog and the dog looked at Saturday. He could have sworn she rolled her eyes.
‘All right,’ decided Saturday. ‘You’ – he stabbed a finger at Ash’s first-born – ‘push your brother. For five minutes. Then we’ll do someth
ing else. I’ll throw the ball for Patience.’
Reluctantly, Gilbert did as he was told. ‘You’re supposed to be entertaining us,’ he complained.
‘No, I’m supposed to be keeping you safe. And I am,’ insisted Saturday. ‘I’m restraining myself from kicking your tiresome little arse round the swings, round the cricket pitch and halfway across the arboretum. Now push. And don’t even think of pushing your little brother over the top.’
Gilbert grunted. The swing creaked. Saturday threw the ball. Patience raced after it and brought it back. Guy giggled happily. The swing creaked. Saturday threw the ball. Patience raced after it and brought it back. The swing creaked.
Saturday threw the ball. Patience made no attempt to chase it. She was staring at the swings. With a sick surge of foreboding, Saturday turned to see why.
The swing was creaking back and forth of its own accord. The boy who should have been riding it and the one who should have been pushing were nowhere in sight.
By the time Hazel got there, fear had rendered Ash incapable of rational thought. He was prowling the playground like a cage-crazy tiger, shouting his sons’ names in a voice worn hoarse. Anxiety had carved deep trenches down each side of his face, and filled them with tears. Hazel thought he was unaware of this. He had ripped off the tie he’d donned specially for his meeting and was wringing it savagely between his hands.
‘Gabriel. Gabriel!’ She tugged his sleeve until he stopped prowling long enough to look at her. ‘Calm down. Tell me what happened.’
‘It’s happened again! They’re gone! Someone’s taken them …’
‘That isn’t what happened before,’ she reminded him firmly. ‘They were with Cathy. They were always safe.’
‘Cathy? You think Cathy has them?’
‘I didn’t say that …’ But he wasn’t listening – seemed incapable of listening, his attention span reduced to seconds by the shock. Hazel turned to Saturday. ‘What really happened?’
White and visibly shaking, the youth told her everything he knew. It didn’t take long. ‘When I couldn’t find them, I called Gabriel. I couldn’t think what else to do. He called the police.’
