Dan shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. I’m in your hands, then.”
Two minutes later, they were out of the industrial estate and heading westward at speed in Katie’s bright red Volkswagen Golf GTI, having thankfully (for Dan’s head) by-passed the Vagabonds van in the car park. The day had got no brighter, but at least the dark clouds that shrouded the surrounding hills were valiantly holding back the sleet.
“Nice car,” Dan commented, not really wishing to make conversation, but thinking it would be rude if he just sat ruminating over his own incompetence.
“My little perk,” Katie replied. “Vagabonds has literally taken over my life the past few years, so I felt I deserved some sort of reward for all the effort.”
“I would have thought that you’d all have four-wheel drives up here.”
“They’re not necessary. If there’s a bit of snow, a normal car will cope just as well, as long as you drive carefully.” Katie smiled at him. “Is it not true that there are more four-wheel drives in London than there are in any other part of the country?”
Dan laughed. “I wouldn’t know the statistics, but yes, there do seem to be quite a number of them around.”
“Probably quite useful for getting over zebra crossings without getting stuck on pedestrians.”
Dan sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Do I detect a hint of sarcasm in your tone?”
Katie chuckled. “Maybe just a little.” She swung the car to the right and drove up a steep tarmacked gradient and pulled to a halt in front of a drystone wall, behind which Dan could spot every now and again the bobbing head of a child.
“Thank goodness! It’s break time,” Katie said as she turned off the engine. “Listen, I won’t be a moment. I’m just going to pick up my daughter, Sooty. She wasn’t feeling very well this morning, so I think a half-day off school might do her some good.”
“As long as Max doesn’t catch sight of you taking her away.”
Katie frowned. “What?”
“Or maybe he’s not at the same school.”
Her eyes suddenly lit with understanding. She pointed a finger at him. “Of course. The magazine. You know it all.” She pushed open the door. “You’re right. Max is here, but he can get the bus back later. I will endeavour to spirit Sooty away without causing a scene.”
Dan watched as she jogged across to the gates of the school and entered the playground. Finding himself alone for the first time since being given the news about the company, Dan now felt able to vent the pent-up rage at his own stupidity. He screwed up his eyes and knocked hard on his forehead with a clenched fist. “Shit. Shit. SHIT!” He thwacked a hand down on the plastic fascia, his voice resounding around the confines of the car. As he continued to rebuke himself under his breath, he witnessed a small pair of hands grasp the top of the playground wall and a carrot-topped head came into view, peering quizzically around. The boy caught sight of Dan, and then dropped behind the wall. Five seconds later, he appeared again, this time as if catapulted upwards. He swung his legs over the wall and sat staring at Dan, nonchalantly twiddling his thumbs.
At first Dan thought it best to ignore the boy. He pretended to play around with the catch of the glove compartment for a few seconds, but when he looked up, he still found himself fixed in the boy’s beady gaze. Maybe he should say something to him. He tried the electric windows, but they didn’t work without the ignition being switched on, so he opened the door a fraction, eager to keep the heat in the car.
“Hullo,” he said, trying to sound bright and friendly.
The boy nodded once.
“What’s your name, then?”
“Murdoch,” the boy answered in a drawn-out monotone.
“So how old are you, Murdoch?”
“Eleven,” the boy replied without altering the pitch of his voice.
“Right.” Dan heaved out a sigh at the effort of trying to continue this stilted conversation. “And do you enjoy school?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. “S’all right.” He tilted his head slightly to the side. “Was that you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was that you who called out ‘shit’?”
Dan bit at his lip in embarrassment. “Ah, well, yes, I’m afraid it was. Sorry about that.”
Murdoch thumped a fist down on the fingers of some unfortunate schoolmate who was grappling at the wall in an attempt to join him in his lofty position. “My dad never says ‘shit.’ ”
“Quite right too. It’s not a good thing to say.”
“He says ‘shite.’ ”
Dan cleared his throat. “Well, neither are very good words,” he said, his voice sounding oddly schoolmasterly. “Better not to say them at all.”
“No, probably not,” Murdoch replied quietly, slipping back into his monotone.
Dan gave the boy a wink, feeling quite pleased with himself that his short lesson in the avoidance of bad language had obviously penetrated the carrot-topped head.
Murdoch, however, looked menacingly questioning again. “What about ‘bugger’? Do you think that’s a good word?”
Dan was mercifully spared from answering the question by a male voice that boomed out from the other side of the wall. “Murdoch! Get yourself down from there and into your classroom.” The boy disappeared like a coconut that had been knocked off its perch in a fairground stall.
Dan was still staring at the vacant space when Katie, clutching the hand of a skipping girl with tousled dark hair, walked towards the car. She opened the door and pushed forward the seat, and the little girl clambered into the back.
“Sorry about that,” Katie said, as she got into the car. “You were right. There was a bit of a showdown with Max.”
“Not to worry. I was pleasantly entertained by a young man called Murdoch.”
The little girl in the back of the car made a noise that sounded as if she was being violently sick. “Murdoch is revolting!” she cried out. “He picks his nose and flicks it at people.”
“All right, Sooty,” Katie protested as she reversed the car. “I don’t think that we need to know that. Anyway, you haven’t said hullo to Mr. Porter yet.”
“Dan, please.” Dan turned around and smiled at the young girl who was struggling with the buckle of her seat belt. “Hullo, Sooty. Nice to meet you.”
“Where are you from?” Sooty asked without making eye contact with him.
“London.”
“I fought so.”
“Really? Now, how would you know that?”
“’Cos you sound as if you are off Eastenders.”
“Sooty!” Katie exclaimed reproachfully. “You mustn’t be so forward.”
“But he does.”
Dan laughed. “You’re right too. Mind you, my accent used to be a lot stronger than it is now.”
“Why has it changed?” Sooty asked.
“Probably working in the City all my life.”
“Why does that change your accent?”
“Well, in the City, you work with different people from all over the world, and sometimes they don’t speak very good English, so you have to make yourself understood as best you can. That means knocking out the accent a bit.”
“Do I have an accent, Mummy?”
“I’m not sure,” Katie replied. “Maybe you should ask Dan if you do.”
“Do I, Dan?”
“Well, yes, I can tell that you’re from Scotland. Your accent’s not nearly as strong as Murdoch’s, though.”
“Pleeease don’t talk about Murdoch,” Sooty moaned. “He makes me feel ill!”
Dan shot a grimace at Katie who returned a similar expression. “Murdoch’s father is a gamekeeper on one of the estates here,” Katie said. “The whole family’s a bit . . . well, how can I put it? A bit undisciplined.”
Dan nodded. “That would seem to figure.”
Katie stuck the car into third gear and edged out into the centre of the road to see if it was safe to overtake a large articulated lorry with foreig
n number plates and a logo of a fish on its tailgate. “So you work in the City, then?” she asked, accelerating past the lorry.
“I did, yes, for twenty years.”
“Doing what?”
“For most of the time, investment banking.”
“And now?”
“Nothing . . . at present. Just waiting for the right opportunity to come along.”
Katie let out a sigh. “And you thought that Vagabonds might have fit the bill.”
“It might have done.”
“God, I feel so awful about that.”
“Well, you don’t have to. It was just a misunderstanding on both our parts.”
“Mummy,” Sooty piped up from the back of the car, “can you put on the tape?”
“No, angel, Dan and I are talking.”
“But it’s so boring! You can talk when you get home.”
“Sooty!”
“I don’t mind,” Dan cut in, feeling that he too would like an excuse not to hear any more of Katie’s heartfelt apologies.
“You haven’t heard the tape yet,” Katie murmured out of the side of her mouth.
She pressed the button on the stereo, and immediately the car was filled with the nasal tones of a man who sang in a Scottish accent far exceeding the bounds of wee Murdoch’s humble offering.
There was a little girl who had one little goldfish,
one little goldfish, one little goldfish,
There was a little girl who had one little goldfish,
and the goldfish’s name was Doris.
There was a little boy who had two little goldfish,
two little goldfish, two little goldfish,
There was a little boy who had two little goldfish,
and the goldfishes’ names were Doris . . . and Horace.
The road meandered gently as it ran eastwards alongside a single-track railway line that followed the rocky shoreline of a dark-watered loch. As the little girl in the song acquired another goldfish called Clovis, Katie pointed a finger in front of Dan’s chest.
“Our house is somewhere over there in the mist on the other side of the loch. I’m afraid that we have to go right up to the end and then back again to get to it.”
“How far are you from Fort William?” Dan asked.
“About twenty miles.”
“And you do the journey every day?”
“Not just once. I come home every day for lunch.”
“That’s eighty miles a day!”
“And more. I have to pick up the children from the school bus as well. It’s probably nearer ninety.” Katie glanced across at him. “Different from living in London, isn’t it?”
“Just a little. On the other hand, one leg of your journey would most likely take less time than it would take me to travel from Clapham up to the City.”
Katie changed up a gear once more and zipped past a slow-moving car. “Most likely.”
Dan gave the fascia of the dashboard an appreciating pat. “And much more fun too.”
By the time that they pulled off the road and drove through a pair of rough stone pillars, they had listened to Sooty’s song three times. The tune now hung in Dan’s brain like a constant taunt, and he had begun to make up names for the bloody goldfish that could never be mentioned, other than maybe at a rugby club dinner. The short drive led up past an unkempt garden with overgrown flowerbeds bordering a lawn that was in desperate need of mowing. In the centre of this hay-field, a large round trampoline with a gaping hole in the centre of its bouncing mat dripped inconsolably. The stone-built farmhouse, on the other hand, which was situated at the top of the garden, looked comforting and happy, its white-astricaled windows smiling out across the loch, despite the fact that its view was significantly curtailed by the low-lying mist.
Katie drove around to the back of the house and parked the car in one of a series of arched openings in a long, barnlike building, next to an ageing Mercedes estate car. She retrieved her canvas bag from the well at Dan’s feet and got out of the car, pulling the seat forward for Sooty.
Dan squeezed himself out of the passenger door, trying to avoid bumping the lurid purple mountain bike that leaned against one of the heavy wooden beams supporting the floor of the loft above.
“Take care you don’t slip on these flagstones,” Katie said as she stepped deliberately across the courtyard to the back door. “They’re an absolute deathtrap.”
Dan brought up the rear as they entered the house and walked through a small glory hole, filled with gumboots and fishing rods and shelves stacked with DIY paraphernalia. Another door led into a large kitchen, which, despite its size, seemed equally as cluttered. A drying pulley, lined with clothes, hung above the Rayburn cooker, and the round leafed table that was pushed in against the curved window seat was piled with books and files and fabric samples. A large ginger cat, with its front feet tucked under its chest, sat upon the closed lid of a laptop computer and ignored their arrival entirely. Dan wondered why it had chosen that resting place in preference to the obvious comfort of the old sofa, with its plaid rug covering and piles of colourful cushions, situated against the wall next to the television.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Katie said, dumping her canvas bag on the table. “I just have to go upstairs.” She walked across to a door wedged into the corner of the room by a large pine Welsh dresser. “Sooty will keep you company until I get back, won’t you, Sooty?”
As soon as she had left the room, Sooty jumped onto the sofa, reached for the television remote, and switched it on. Hands on chin, elbows resting on the arm of the sofa, she became immediately absorbed in the antics of a cartoon dog that was frantically trying to bury a smouldering stick of dynamite. Dan glanced around at the countless examples of children’s artwork that adorned most parts of the yellow walls, then as the television boomed out the demise of the unfortunate dog, he walked across to the window and stared out into the cold, grey shroud of mist that seemed to be balking any chance of brightness from the day.
He couldn’t even begin to live with this kind of weather. Not day after day. Especially being stuck out in the middle of nowhere, with neither sight nor sound of another person for miles around. It began to dawn on him that the most thankful thing that had happened to him all day was that Vagabonds had been sold, and the best of British luck to the young couple from London who had bought it. If they weren’t both clawing at the doors of the sleeper train within the next few months, then, more than likely, they were already flying pretty high over the cuckoo’s nest.
Dan heard the sound of Katie’s footsteps come down the stairs. She opened the door and walked in. “Right. What time is it?” She glanced up at the kitchen clock above the Rayburn. “A quarter to twelve. I suppose it’s a bit early, but let’s have some lunch anyway.” She pulled open the door of the fridge. “Would you like a beer?”
“If you have one, that would be great,” Dan replied.
Katie took out a can and lobbed it over to Dan.
“Now, what have we got?” she said, peering into the fridge. “Not a lot, I’m afraid. Tomorrow’s usually the big shopping day, so we’re pretty low on supplies. How about . . . cheese on toast and tomato soup?”
Dan pulled the ring off the can. “Sounds good to me.”
Sooty had her lunch in front of the television while Dan and Katie sat on the window seat eating theirs. Katie resumed her questioning of Dan, and by the time that she had stacked the dishwasher with their bowls and plates and they had finished off their mugs of coffee, he had told her about the house in Clapham, about Jackie and her high-flying and demanding job, about Josh and his low-flying and undemanding job, and about Millie and Nina and their supreme wish that Dad would get another job so that they could return to their old school and be with their friends. Battersea Gran’s name was explained in full, both Biggles and Cruise were discussed, and even his old mate Nick and doted-upon son Tarquin got a mention.
“Heaven’s above!” exclaimed Katie, glancing a
t the clock and jumping to her feet. “It’s half past two! I was meant to get Patrick at two o’clock.”
Dan slid off the bench. “Can I be of any help?”
Katie cleared the two mugs from the table and put them in the washing machine. “No, it’s all right. I can manage.”
“Are you sure? I know that his factory is quite close to your workshop. I could easily find my way back there. My own insurance probably covers me for driving your car.”
Katie slowly straightened up from the washing machine and stood staring at him, biting her lip. “Ah,” she said quietly.
“Daddy’s not at work, Dan,” Sooty said, breaking herself away from the television. Still leaning on the arm of the sofa, she bounced up and down on her knees. “He’s upstairs, isn’t he, Mummy?”
Katie smiled forlornly at her daughter. “Yes, angel, he is.”
Dan pushed his hands into the pockets of his unzipped bomber jacket. “Sorry. I didn’t realize that. I thought that when you said you had to get him, you meant from—”
“I think that I should maybe explain something,” Katie cut in. She glanced over to where Sooty was once more engrossed in yet another television programme. She crossed her arms and leaned against the towel rail of the Rayburn. “There was a slight untruth told in that magazine article about me. I said that the reason I had decided to sell Vagabonds was that I wanted to spend more time with the children.”
“And that you felt it could expand to a worldwide market,” Dan added.
“Exactly.” Katie paused, twisting up the side of her mouth, as if steeling herself to continue. “The real reason, however, is that I don’t want to be away from the house much anymore.” Dan watched her intently as she once again gathered her thoughts. “You obviously know that Patrick runs his own prawn-processing business.”
“Yes. Seascape.”
“Right. Well, five years ago, in June I think it was, Patrick had been up in Mallaig picking up a load of prawns from the boats, and he was driving back to Fort William in the lorry when he had an accident. It wasn’t too serious. He just drove rather slowly into a ditch. However, when I eventually managed to drag out of him the reason for it happening, he said that he had suddenly got a really bad attack of pins and needles all the way down his right side, and that he had lost control of the lorry. I told him to go straight to the doctor, but he wouldn’t. At that time of year, the factory is at its busiest, and he said that he couldn’t afford to start getting all namby-pamby about his health. Anyway, about two weeks later, it happened again, but this time he lost all feeling in his right leg. Thankfully, he was in the office at the time, because he fell over quite heavily and thumped his head against the side of a desk. The whole episode gave him quite a shock, so he was more than willing to go to see the doctor after that. The consultation lasted five minutes and Patrick was immediately hustled off to Inverness for tests. And the long and the short of it is that he was confirmed as having multiple sclerosis.”
A Risk Worth Taking Page 12
