Hartsend (10 page)

‘‘Watching
The Great Escape
. Again. Tea or coffee? Or a coke?''

Trust Kerr, champion of waifs and strays, embracing all comers with the friendliness of a lolloping Labrador puppy. She opened the oven door, looked at the potatoes and shut it hard, hoping Kerr might get the message. The Ryan person's answer was lost in the thud of the room door as she closed it behind her.

‘‘Don't mind Harriet,'' the brother said, pouring Coca Cola into two glasses. ‘‘She's in a bad mood because nobody would drive her into town this afternoon.''

Ryan didn't think that was the reason. She hadn't recognised him at the door, welcoming him with a smile that turned his knees into silly putty and wiped everything out of his head. By the time she came into the room again she'd remembered exactly who he was. She had the same look on her face as she'd had that very first time, just waiting to see what bad thing he'd do. Sod you, he'd thought, taking the brooch to see what she'd do next. When he'd put down the money for the fish, trying to be nice, that had somehow turned into a crime as well.

He'd brought the shoes back. Time now to make some excuse and get out. He cleared his throat. The brother, Kerr, was rummaging in the freezer. Straight hair, not so fair as hers, the face broader, the chin receding slightly. His navy woollen jumper was unravelling at the shoulder seam.

‘‘Lemons,'' Kerr explained, pulling out a small plastic bag. ‘‘You slice ‘em up and freeze them. Works with limes too. Dad,'' he called, ‘‘d'you want something to drink?''

A voice shouted no.

The iced lemon fizzed in the dark liquid. He'd never been in a house where people kept slices of lime or lemon in the freezer. What else was in there? Caviar? Steaks and oysters? Something good was cooking in the oven.

‘‘So you made it home ok.''

‘‘Yeah.''

‘‘Did you report it? The shoes.''

‘‘To the police? No point,'' Ryan shook his head. ‘‘They're no' interested.''

‘‘I suppose. It could've been worse. At least you weren't hurt.''

The guy was right. They'd taken his phone, his cash, his shoes and socks, and written very rude words in black permanent marker on his bum, but yes, it could've been much worse. So, hah hah, good natured theft and humorous assault. Happy New Year.

‘‘Thanks for stopping. I should've said that first.''

‘‘You thanked me at the time. How many of them were there?''

Somewhere in the house a phone rang and was picked up.

He couldn't remember. ‘‘A crowd. Full of the gear.''

‘‘Nightmare. Not a lot you could have done. So, are you working? Or at college?''

Ryan explained. He sipped at the coke, watching the shut door, only half listening when the other spoke. They talked about music. He was surprised and cheered to find that they both liked the same bands, because Kerr didn't sound or look like the type who would. Then the door opened, but it wasn't her.

‘‘Dad, this is Ryan.''

‘‘Hello, glad to meet you,'' the man in the priest's collar grasped his hand. ‘‘We'll have to talk again, I'm sorry. Sudden emergency. Don't finish the chicken, Kerr. I'm not fussed about the veg.''

‘‘Potatoes?''

‘‘Just a couple.''

Grabbing a red jacket from the coat-rack behind the door, he was gone.

Ryan found his voice. ‘‘Is he a priest?''

‘‘What? Oh right. Because of the collar. No, it's just a clerical collar. He says it's more comfortable, plus you can wear it with an ordinary shirt. And we're doing our own ironing while Mum's away, so that's a big thing. Are you Catholic?''

‘‘Depends. No' really.''

‘‘Are you vegetarian?''

Had he heard right?

‘‘I'm starving. But if you were vegetarian, I wouldn't eat it in front of you, so we'd have to wait till you left. But there's plenty. Harriet kind of overdoes it when it's her turn.''

Kerr stretched out backwards, and opened the oven door. The smell that poured forth made Ryan's mouth water. But the girl would be furious if he stayed.

‘‘Well, I'm no' a vegetarian,'' he said slowly.

‘‘Good. Knives and forks in the top drawer.''

The kitchen was totally middle class: white units, plants on the window ledge, blue and white curtains with tie backs, blue mugs matching them on a white mug stand. He hung his coat on the back of the door where the father's jacket had been, and began taking out cutlery.

 

Upstairs in her father's study Harriet took volume M to Z from the bookcase. Flicking over the pages, she found the confirmation she needed. ‘Qanat. A gently sloping underground water tunnel.'

She waited and waited where she was, ears straining to hear the sounds of their visitor leaving. She needed to eat. The rich smell of Chicken Forestière and roast potatoes had spread through the entire house. The parsnips were probably overdone by now, but she wasn't going down till she was sure he was gone.

Why had Kerr given him shoes? Where had they met? A thud from below told her the front door had been opened and shut. Well, thank goodness for that. Her head was beginning to hurt. She shrugged off a miniscule feeling of guilt. She hadn't actually said anything nasty. And she'd been nice at the door. More than he deserved, really.

Walter was taken aback to find Lesley on his front door step offering him an empty Pyrex dish.

‘‘Ruby's having a bath,'' he said.

‘‘I just wanted to hand this back. It was very kind of you, thank you.''

She looked cold, despite being wrapped up sensibly.

‘‘Please tell Mrs Robertson it was very good.''

‘‘Oh, she does a good beef stew,'' he said. It occurred to him that perhaps he ought to ask Lesley in, this being the season of goodwill.
In or out of the bath, Ruby won't like it
warned a voice in his head. Neither Lesley nor her late mother had ever crossed the door. Moreover he was aware that Ruby's attitude to their neighbour had undergone a subtle shift at New Year. He could hear the faint sound of the radio upstairs in the bathroom.

None of our business, he told himself again.

‘‘Come in for a minute,'' he said.

‘‘No, I mustn't keep you back.''

‘‘Oh, you're not keeping anyone back. Just for five minutes.''

He put the dish on the hall table, then led her into the front room, where he switched off the television. The silence seemed louder than the newsreader's voice had been. He sat down in the opposite armchair, only then noticing a red stain on the cuff of his fawn pullover. Bolognese sauce from teatime. ‘‘Would you …'' he stopped. He wasn't sure whether to offer her alcohol or not, and it was such a long time since he'd made his own tea or coffee that he doubted his competence.

‘‘Nothing for me, please,'' Lesley said. She had unwrapped her scarf, folding it into a neat square, but her coat remained buttoned, and she sat forward on the edge of the chair, as if ready for flight.

‘‘A chocolate then?'' There was a large tin of Cadbury's Roses on the coffee table. One of the reps had brought it into the office. He wrestled the lid off and slid it over to her. ‘‘Take more than one. Take some for later. Ruby's only letting me have one a day. They'll last till Easter.'' He chose an orange cream for himself, and slipped a toffee into his pocket.

Her quick smile was like a young girl's, not a middle-aged woman's. He wondered what age she actually was. She looked younger, close up. The old mother had been eighty two, according to the funeral eulogy, but Lesley was the only child, so she might have been a late surprise.

She was looking at their wedding photograph. Thirty years next year, he thought.

‘‘I like what you've done with the fireplace, Mr Robertson.''

‘‘Walter, please. Yes, I'm happy enough with it. Took me longer than I thought it would though.''

‘‘You did it yourself?''

The admiration in her voice was nice to hear. ‘‘Oh, there's nothing much to it,'' he stretched his arms and folded them, turning the stained cuff over. ‘‘When you're in one trade, you have a fair grasp of the rest.'' He unwrapped his chocolate, making two bites of it. In his boyhood days he had played with chocolate creams, tonguing the soft centres out until the shells were left. ‘‘But you've got the originals, Lesley. This is all reproduction,'' he gestured at the Art Nouveau tiles and pale pink marble. ‘‘Whoever had this place before us should've been prosecuted. You shouldn't modernise these houses, you have to go with the plaster and all that. And you've got those beautiful stained glass windows.''

‘‘Mother didn't care for change. But they're very draughty.''

‘‘I'd keep them myself. You could put in secondary glazing. Or fit the stained glass into double glazing panels. Cut out all the draughts. I know a good glazing firm.''

‘‘It sounds rather expensive,'' she said.

He saw he'd overstepped himself. He cleared his throat.

‘‘I'm sorry, I shouldn't be telling you your own business …''

‘‘No, I'm sure you're right. The bills would be smaller, I suppose. It's just that there's so much …''

‘‘Yes. Takes a lot of getting used to. Just you take your own time, pet, and don't let other people try to run your life. It's early days.''

He'd seen tradesmen take advantage of single women. Silly prices and shoddy work, and charm. Not in his firm, he made sure of that, but he'd seen it happen. He wondered if she'd be all right with no-one else in the house. His mother had kept his father's police hat and raincoat on the pegs in the hall for years, so that no caller would think she lived alone. He and his brother Archie had cleared the garage and sold the car. She wouldn't let them clear out cupboards, wouldn't let them do more than paint the anaglypta downstairs.

Lesley got up from her chair, ‘‘I'd better get back,'' she said.

He followed her into the hall and she opened the door herself, before he could do it for her.

He switched on the outdoor light. Within seconds she was halfway down the long path.

Just as he closed the door, he heard Ruby coming cautiously down the stairs. She was in her dressing gown, the pink plastic bath cap still on her head.

‘‘Who was that?''

‘‘Lesley next door. She brought your dish back.''

‘‘How long was she in?''

‘‘Long enough to give me the dish back.''

‘‘Did you give her the boots?''

‘‘What boots?''

‘‘The boots that woman left for her. ''

‘‘I forgot. I'll run after her,'' he said.

‘‘No, it's all right,'' she said. ‘‘I'll take them round myself tomorrow. What were you talking about?''

‘‘Fireplaces,'' he told her.

Walking home with a strong wind at his back, his head freezing cold, and too many thoughts jigging inside it, Ryan tried to make sense of his evening. Light from the street lamps shimmered in the puddles. Every house with its curtains open looked like a treasure cave. A woman walking a big black dog smiled at him when they passed, and he smiled back, though he'd never seen her before. Man, had he eaten some weird things. Parsnips, sweet and mushy. Long thin green beans, French beans they were called, OK but not great. Roast potatoes he'd had a lot of times, but not like theirs. There were small round objects in the sauce, which turned out to be mushrooms, and squarish bits that he recognised as bacon.

The girl had avoided looking at him, which left him free to look at her. The set of her ears entranced him. Where in his skull he'd found that word he didn't know, but it was perfect. She had her hair caught back in grips, so that the ears showed, and every time she turned her head, like when she talked to Kerr, he traced the curves. The way they leaned away from her head at the top made him think of elves. She wasn't wearing earrings, and the lobes weren't pierced. He supplied a pair – gold because of her hair, with pale blue stones to match the sweater. After a minute he took the stones away. Plain gold was better.

He'd taken some of all he was offered, eating slowly in case he gagged. Kerr did most of the talking, but after a while, politeness seemed to get the better of her, and she asked about the trainers. Then she wanted to know the whole story, and she actually looked quite upset. Kerr didn't say anything about the fact that he'd been too pissed to protect himself.

‘‘We don't get presents worth stealing any more,'' she said.

‘‘That scarf thing of yours wasn't cheap,'' Kerr protested. ‘‘What you have to understand, Ryan, is that this child,'' he gestured towards her with his fork, ‘‘is very greedy. She misses the good old days when she and her buddies went round every shop in Aberdeen every Saturday. She has the biggest wardrobe in the house. She could start her own clothes shop.''

Ryan's sisters were the same, but wise for once, he accepted more gravy without saying anything. With them it was shoes. Mostly shoes that didn't even fit. He remembered them throwing gravel at his bedroom window to get him to open the back door in their late night dancing days. They'd hobbled in, heels and toes raw and bleeding. He didn't think they went to the same shops as Harriet though.

He had to wait for several cars to pass before he could cross Main Street, but there weren't that many people on foot at this end of the village, away from the shops. An older couple with another dog, this one straining on its chain as if it wasn't walking fast enough. One cyclist. Not anyone he knew.

He crossed the footbridge. The river was noisy, high from all the rain. He pulled the hood of his jacket tighter, wishing he'd had the sense to wear a hat. On his right the houses had sandbags stacked beside their low walls and hedges; there had been flooding a few years back, he couldn't remember exactly when. They hadn't been in any danger themselves, being higher up the hill. Big private houses were being built much higher up, on a new road, well away from the river, on land that would have been too difficult or too expensive to build on in the past. ‘‘The Place that's Going to be the Place to Be,'' according to the hoardings.