The Grasshopper's Child (18 page)

15: The Benefits Of Caring For Our Elders

Challon put together Pat's lunch in the neat kitchenette at the New Alms-houses: listening to the wild rain that rattled on the windows. In her mind's eye she saw beautiful fabric lengths, hand-woven from hand-dyed ikat thread, standing in the Weavers' Loft at home, labelled simply:
Portia
. Nothing on the books. The Carron-Knowells never had to pay, and it would do no good if they did. Mum was so deep in debt to them, because of Challon, she'd never be free. And now Joe Florence, who
just didn't get it
, was home again, and there was a cop in the woods. There was going to be trouble.

‘Her name's Heidi,' she said, bringing in the tray, and setting lunch out nicely on Pat's lap-table. ‘She's tall, much taller than me. She has these masses of frothy black hair, legs to her armpits, big misty brown eyes. And she likes him, everyone can see it.'

‘Like a moth to the flame. She'll get her wings scorched!'

‘No,' said Challon. ‘She won't. Heidi's
strong
. She could make him a better person.'

Patsy Lane and Challon Pulak had never met before Sharing the Care threw them together, but they'd fallen for each other, completely. Challon's sessions at the New Alms-houses were precious to her: more than ever, since they'd shared the Oxygen Cylinder panic. She could tell Pat things she couldn't even tell Brook. Pat had been on the stage, she knew the business through and through; and she understood the misery of loving someone worthless. Of turning your back on him, and fighting the pain, every day of your life; and letting your best friend go on thinking you were the winner, the lucky, successful one.

Healthy, talented, pretty and going places. Nothing to complain about—

‘Envy makes people blind,' said Pat, eating bird-bites. ‘Put it into your art, love.'

Challon sighed at the barely-touched lunch, but said nothing. She'd brought her Spanish guitar. She took it out, checked the tuning: struck a fierce phrase, and another, and then broke into music, fitting the lyric to the notes under her breath.

‘What's that love?'

‘It's new, it's going to be the “own composition” for my set.'

‘In the
Final?
Ooh, lovely. All edges and flashes: I like it. What's it about?'

‘Defiance,' said Challon. ‘The words are by a friend of mine. It's called
Changing The
World Flamenco
.'

Andy Mao's mother's trailer stood in the same pouring rain, by a track in Knowells Farm woods. Rhiannon Knowells, gaunt and blazing and still furiously beautiful,
hated
being a dependent. But Portia was her cousin, and she'd fallen out with so many Traveller clans, this was where she'd ended up: taking water from a Knowells standpipe, power from a Knowells cable; food hand-outs from Lady Muck when the kids failed to forage.

The younger children were sprawled on the main bed, watching an old anime movie on a hand-me-down laptop. Beside them, Corporal Harris sat bolt upright on a salvaged office chair, staring at the wall and humming like a faulty appliance. Every so often Robin, the ten year old, shoved the chair with a bare foot and made it spin, to give him a different view.

Andy was trying to help Rhiannon get the lunch, but she was in a temper. He couldn't recall why. Mum's rages were so all-encompassing it was hard to remember
anything
when you were in the middle of one. He wished Maple was still around: but Maple, the oldest of them and the best loved, had been taken from her by the Call-up.

‘
Pay attention
to me!' shrieked Rhiannon. He dodged a flung fork: it speared the wall and hung vibrating. Mum grabbed him and hauled back her fist for a powerhouse blow.

‘
Termagant!
'

Corporal Harris had appeared. He gripped Mum's arm. Rhiannon stared, astonished. Close on a century of ingrained chivalry and ingrained self-respect stared back from the shrunken old soldier's bleary eyes. He would never strike a woman, but neither would he let her strike a child. Silently, Mum released Andy.

Humming peacefully, Harris wandered back to his chair.

Soon they were all packed around the table for a lunch of tender grilled rabbit, stovetop chestnut-flour bread, and a delicious buttery mess of field mushrooms and baby garlic shoots. Andy's mum was a terrific cook. Corporal Harris cleaned his tin plate with enthusiasm.

‘Isn't he
great?
' whispered Andy.

‘He's
fantastic
,' whispered Robin. ‘Better than a pony.'

The bad blood between the Florences and the Coutances went back a long way. There'd been a murder (in the Fifties); firearms incidents, a couple of cases of Grievous Bodily Harm, and plenty of toxic fallings-out over the spoils that never went to law. All water under the bridge now. Merril Florence was a law-abiding citizen, and the last surviving Coutance as harmless as her geriatric villain of a boyfriend. But the rancour lived on.

Jo still couldn't believe the government had stuck a Florence with a Coutance as an assigned Elder. What were they thinking? It seemed incredibly bad planning. On the other hand, she was now very glad Tanya had refused to listen, because an excuse to get inside this horrible house had turned out very useful. Old Bev opened the door, elephant's backside boobs of a former massively buxom blonde sloshing untrammelled inside her dress: groaned in disgust and shambled off into the smelly living room, where steeplechasers swam blued and blurry across the screen of an ancient tv.

‘'ello young Jo,' croaked Chas the geriatric boyfriend. ‘How's yer old man?'

Jo's dad had vanished without trace many years before: he wasn't missed. She stripped off her soaking poncho. ‘I'll ask him when I see him. Any problems arising?'

They shook their heads, wary and truculent. Jo had taken their unsafe electric fire, and replaced it with a Distributed Grid space heater. She'd fitted a smoke alarm, which they were convinced was a surveillance device. They had retaliated with open violence, but they probably didn't remember that. Probably every visit was the first to Chas, and his ladyfriend was only marginally more on the ball.

‘Right, then I'll get on with your cleaning.'

She cleaned up in the kitchen, transferred the hooch bottles to the recycling and a fresh supply of hoarded canned goods to her own rucksack; and renewed her search.

On her last visit she'd found rolls of useless old money, stashed in yellowed newspaper under the floorboards. This time she struck gold: a dirty rugby sock, heavy and lumpy as a Christmas stocking, taped to the dusty back of a mahogany wardrobe in their bedroom. The pistol was in there, greased and wrapped in cling film: plus a tattered, half empty 50 pack of imported Handgun Ammunition. Jo checked the gun, loaded it, wrapped it up again and stuffed everything into her rucksack.

She sat back on her heels, with a heartfelt sigh of relief. Job done. Thank God.

John Fowler's Elder made his lunch while he sat on the rug, playing Mario on her tv screen, and feeling five years old again. Sharing the Care wasn't supposed to be like this, but it was what Mrs Duncton liked, so he'd decided it was okay. The games console and other toys had belonged to the children in her photos: children and grandchildren, rare visitors now, with their far-off own lives. Sometimes, for variety, he did a jigsaw.

He'd told Mum that Mrs Duncton was a Deaf lady, to avoid the trouble he'd had over Exempt Teens. It wasn't much of a lie. She couldn't understand his Deaf accented English much. Being old and terminally ill, she didn't tend to speak loud, or form her words clearly either; so they were quits. They might as well be two Deaf people, most of the time.

John's dad, who was comfortable with the hearing world, was at the Old Cement Works all day, and long into the evenings. His mother, brilliant and intense, worked on her PhD at home. Sometimes John really needed to get out of her hair, and Mrs Duncton didn't mind how often he turned up, which was ideal.

Soon she'd tap him on the shoulder. He'd sit up at the table to devour “kip” nuggets and oven chips, baked beans and fake sausages, juicy bright pink kip tikka masala. Forbidden, synthetic delights; while Mrs Duncton sipped her high-nutrient broth. Luckily Mum never asked what he'd had for lunch.

They did the washing up together. John settled back with Mario, while his Elder sat by him in her armchair, chuckling at his triumphs. At five in the afternoon he grew up: completed the checks, filled in the check sheet, helped her to the toilet, changed her morphine patch, and texted Melinda the Lone Ranger: who would come by in a while, and help Mrs Duncton to bed. All okay.
You're a good boy
, said Mrs Duncton, patting his arm. A
good
boy.

On the Bedroom Floor Heidi emptied the laundry basket into a spread-out shirt, and bundled everything up, as usual trying not to look; trying not to
think
about the Old Wrecks' soiled underwear. Tallis was in the Book Room. She still had no idea where Roger spent his days. She stood with her bundle, listening to the silence, furred with dust and mystery. Curiosity was stronger than her fear of breaking the rules. She stepped cautiously into the forbidden zone. If she hadn't seen a genuine ghost in this passage one night, what
had
she seen?

A thick, dirty runner down the middle of the floor muffled her footsteps. She hadn't been planning to touch anything, but the door where Tallis had stood, gaping in horror, was not quite closed. She pushed it gently, and peered in. The dusk was deep, but a raggedy floral dressing gown, the one with the peony pattern, lay sprawled on the end of a bed, confirming this was Tallis's room. She took a step inside.

The air smelt stale. Threads of light seeped in at two heavily curtained windows. Heidi tucked the washing under her arm, and held up her wind-up. There were paintings on the walls, the first she'd seen in this house, though Roger was supposed to be an artist. Shining the lamp around she saw Mehilhoc Gardens, over and over: in vivid colour, in different seasons; recognisable but strange, and very beautiful. But all the pictures had been ruined, like those photos in the biscuit tin: scrawled over in red and black, splashed with paint; savagely crossed out.