Wicked! (58 page)

‘I’m not going to lie and say Sally doesn’t understand me or sleep with me or love me as I love her. But this is so utterly divine . . .’ He buried his lips in Janna’s freckled shoulder. ‘That’s why we must be so careful not to get caught.’

Lovers, like Stew in the past, had refused to say they loved her. Hengist said it all the time. The downside – like jesting Pilate – was that he could never stay for more than an hour or two.

They were in bed one early August afternoon when a naked Janna glanced out of the window and shot back as Alex Bruce jogged by, head held high, spectacles misting up, showing off a spare figure and skinny legs.

‘D’you think he’s spying?’

‘No, determined to win the school steeplechase.’

‘When’s that?’

‘Last Sunday in September. It’s Biffo’s baby, both staff and pupils take part in a six-mile run round Bagley village and the surrounding countryside. Excellent way of giving unfit masters coronaries. Biffo takes it incredibly seriously. Alex is a lousy games player – can’t see a ball – so he’s desperate to triumph at cross country. Robot the Bruce. I must keep Paris away from his deplorable wife, Poppet, who’d love to counsel our guilty secret out of him. Anyway, I can think of better ways of keeping fit.’ He pulled Janna on top of him.

Hengist was as generous with presents as with his affections: Ralph Lauren shirts; a dusty pink cashmere twinset; a topaz brooch and matching earrings; a little Staffordshire dog; a CD of
Beatrice and Benedict
, Berlioz’s lovely opera based on
Much Ado
, because Janna reminded him of the mettlesome lippy Beatrice; a watercolour by Emily Patrick; endless books he’d loved that he hoped she’d enjoy.

Janna was also in heaven because the long summer holiday was the first time she’d had a chance to play house, tend her garden, listen to the Proms and explore the countryside with Partner, who grew in confidence every day. Often she picked blackberries so ripe and luscious in the hedgerows you could fill a bowl in ten minutes. But deep in the wood, the same berries were small, hard and green and would never reach fruition – like so many of her children, trapped by poverty. She vowed once again to start homework and breakfast clubs next term and campaign for a football pitch for Feral.

One muggy afternoon in August, she stood and gazed out of her bedroom window at the yellow shaven fields, the darkening olive-green woods and the gaudy butterflies, glutting themselves on the amethyst spears of ‘my buddleia’, she thought happily.

She had just been to court with Feral, who, refusing to admit how heartbroken he was at Paris’s defection, had got hammered and totalled a stolen car. Bitterly ashamed of his dyslexia and that he could hardly read or write, he was panicking how he could avoid utter humiliation next term without Paris to translate, explain and do his homework.

Even with Dora’s frightfully disapproving mother Lady Belvedon on the bench, Janna’s impassioned plea that it would be disastrous for Feral to miss the start of his GCSE course, and that she could vouch for his character, won over the other magistrates. When Feral got away with a suspended sentence, his relief was palpable. He clammed up, however, whenever Janna asked him about Paris or his family.

Taking off her rose-patterned suit, worn to charm the magistrates, Janna paused to glance in the mirror. Love seemed to have made her body curvier and softer. Last autumn’s headmistress’s bob had grown out, thank goodness; her red curls now nearly reached her nipples. If Hengist thought she was beautiful, maybe she was. He was not due till tomorrow, so she could veg out tonight and watch the four hours of
The Bill
that she’d taped.

‘Bugger, bugger,’ said a voice.

Returning to the window, Janna found her neighbour Lily, who’d been staying with friends in the Dordogne for a fortnight, forcing a mower through a hayfield of lawn.

‘Get on, you utterly bloody thing,’ Lily yelled as the mower stalled on a particularly shaggy corner, then hit a bone – probably Partner’s, thought Janna guiltily – went into a furious clatter and stopped completely.

‘Bugger you.’ Lily kicked it several times to no effect. ‘My bloody corns!’ Then, frantically tugging a wire: ‘Don’t do this to me, I can’t afford to get you mended.’

Next moment, Lily had collapsed on to a rickety garden bench and burst into terrible rasping sobs. Janna was appalled. Ramrod-straight, endlessly kind and merry, outwardly invincible, only occasionally grumbling about her arthritis, Lily seemed indomitable. It was like seeing Big Ben crumbling. Lily was such a good listener and had been such a comfort that Janna wanted to race downstairs, fling her arms round her and return some of the comfort, but felt Lily might feel embarrassed.

Partner, with no such reserve, shot downstairs and out into the garden through the gap in the fence. Dummying past an outraged General, he leapt on to his friend Lily’s knee to lick away her tears.

Grabbing a bottle of white from the fridge, Janna followed more reflectively. Feral was flat broke and had nothing to keep him out of mischief. He’d always got on with Lily when the Wolf Pack came over on Saturday afternoons. Janna would get Lily’s mower mended, and Feral could mow her lawn.

She found Lily drying her eyes with Partner’s ears, her face ravaged by tears. It was sweet of Janna to suggest Feral, but she could honestly manage.

‘Oh please, he’s so sad about Paris, and he’s desperately broke, you’d be doing him a favour.’

‘I always liked Feral,’ admitted Lily. ‘He had such amazing ball control when he played football on my lawn. He never broke a flower.’

‘Well, that’s settled then. Let’s open this bottle.’

‘We mustn’t forget to watch Christian Woodford’s programme at six-thirty,’ said Lily.

The Brigadier, who lived a few doors away, had evidently been asked by Rupert Campbell-Black to do a programme on Dunkirk.

‘How exciting,’ cried Janna. ‘I’ll just go and ring Feral.’

Lily’s heart sank. She couldn’t afford to have her mower mended, let alone pay Feral. Ever since she had been kicked out of her lovely riverside house Lily had existed in this damp, rented cottage on a hopelessly dwindling fixed income – with shares yielding one per cent.

Despite her outward insouciance, Lily was in despair. Although she adored her nephews and nieces, particularly Dora, their constant visits exhausted her physically and financially. She was reduced to selling silver and pictures every month to keep herself in drink and the faddy black and white General in chicken. Some days Lily herself existed on ‘pussy’s pieces’, bought for General from the fishmonger and blackberries picked on walks.

There was another space on the drawing-room wall where she’d last week sold a little Sutherland drawing to pay some bills. Now she’d have to find extra cash to pay Feral and give him a good tea.

57

Feral looked as though he needed a good tea when he rolled up two days later. He wore a black baseball cap back to front, black loose jeans, a black T-shirt. Was he in mourning for Paris or did he think black suited him? Rangier than ever, he’d shot up three inches. His tawny brown eyes roved round the kitchen, checking in every corner for ways to escape.

It had been raining heavily. A few muddy gashes, a few roses clouted on the ankles, a clematis taken out altogether and a lot of bad language later, the lawn was mowed and the terrace swept. Lily gave Feral a pie made of potatoes, onions and cheese sauce, blackberry crumble and a glass of sloe gin. He had seconds of everything, as they discussed Arsenal and Larkminster Rovers’ prospects for the coming season.

‘Football makes me look forward to autumn,’ said Lily, ‘as foxhunting used to in the old days.’

The Premiership was due to start on Saturday and the joy of Arsenal winning, or despair at them losing, lasted Feral all week, until excitement about the next game kicked in. But it wouldn’t be the same without Paris and the endless arguments they’d had about the relative merits of Emile Heskey or Thierry Henry.

‘Paris loved Liverpool,’ said Lily idly. ‘How’s he getting on with his new family?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You must miss him.’

Feral shrugged.

‘How’s Graffi?’

‘His dad’s out of work.’

There was a pause.

‘You must meet my friend Brigadier Woodford, who lives four houses away. He might need someone to do odd jobs for him. Rupert Campbell-Black had him on television two nights ago; he was excellent, talking about Dunkirk. Did you come across Rupert’s children Xav and Bianca when you went to Bagley?’

‘Xav’s a no-good nigger,’ observed Feral. ‘She and I did a dance routine in
Romeo and Juliet
.’

He was desperate to ask after Bianca who, since March, had tangoed through his dreams, but couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he volunteered the information that Randal Stancombe was looking for squatters. ‘Pays four pounds an hour, puts them in to bring down the price of a house he wants to buy.’

Lily observed the swallows gathering on the telegraph wires. ‘Perhaps I should apply.’

‘Bit rough for a lady,’ grinned Feral, helping himself to another spoonful of crumble.

Stiffly Lily got to her feet. Taking off her huge sapphire engagement ring and putting it on the draining board, she turned on the hot tap and added washing-up liquid.

‘Haven’t you got a dishwasher?’

‘There’s only me. Wouldn’t want to risk my best china.’

General the cat appeared at the window. He landed with a thud then ferociously attacked a wooden leg of the kitchen table as the telephone rang. It was Dora. Bianca’s friend, thought Feral longingly – as if Rupert Campbell-Anti-Black would let me anywhere near his darling daughter. Fucking upper classes.

‘Of course,’ Lily was saying, ‘no, bring Cadbury, that’s fine, perhaps not Loofah as Feral’s just mown my lawn most excellently. Yes, stay the night, we can watch
Midsomer Murders
.’

Putting the telephone down, Lily turned back to Feral, lines deepening on her no longer smiling face, utterly exhausted. Feral’s tea had taken a lot out of her, and there wasn’t any cheese pie or crumble left for Dora’s supper. Then she glanced at the draining board. Her ring had gone. She was sure she’d left it there. She should never have put temptation in Feral’s way. The great sapphire had been bought to match the blue of her eyes, by a husband she’d loved so much. She glanced at his faded photograph, smiling out at her, and wondered what to do. The sapphire had been like a safety net to keep from the door the wolf, but not the Wolf Pack.

Slowly, painfully, she opened the silver clasp of her red leather purse and with trembling, arthritic fingers gave Feral a tenner for mowing. Then, taking a basket, she went into the garden. It had been a wonderful year for plums; glowing ruby-red, they weighed down the trees like weeping willows. How often recently had she dined on bread and plum jam? Slowly she filled up the basket, swearing and sobbing as a sleepy wasp landed on her third finger where the sapphire had been. Back in the house, she found Feral puffing on a spliff and watching the sports news.

She held out the basket. ‘Do you like plums?’

‘Never had one.’

‘Well, don’t break those beautiful white teeth on the stones.’ Then, as Feral rolled his eyes: ‘You might be able to sell them. I’ll decant them into a cardboard box.’

‘Fanks, man,’ said Feral. With his first glimmer of a smile: ‘I could sell them to Paris to put in his mouf, now he’s gone all posh at Bagley.’

Lily laughed. Rootling around for an old Whiskas x 12 box, shaking out a spider, she filled it with plums. Handing them to Feral, she noticed the sapphire ring back on the draining board. Dizzy with relief, she had to fight back the tears. For a moment, their eyes met. Again Feral half smiled and shrugged. Then he handed Lily the spliff. Taking a giant puff, she practically burst her lungs.

‘You need help wiv Dora’s bed?’ said Feral.

‘You are kind. Actually it’s already made up, a teenage friend stayed for a dance last week, only in bed an hour, so I’m afraid I made it up again.’

There was a pause.

‘Would you like to come back next week? The grass still grows quickly at this time of year.’

‘I’ll fink about it,’ said Feral.

He longed to feel welcome in an adult world. He needed people to talk to, to feel respect.

‘Oh, OK,’ he said.

As Brigadier Woodford, who was reading the lesson, drove Lily to Evensong in the next village, they spotted Feral. He was slumped by the side of the road with his Whiskas box, holding up a torn-off piece of cardboard, on which he had written ‘Plumes for Sal’.

‘“Bring me my white plume”,’ quipped the Brigadier, slowing down. ‘First-rate job you made of Lily’s lawn. Well done,’ he told Feral and although his garden was awash with plums, he bought a pound’s worth. ‘Can’t resist Lily’s plums.’

The collection could have a pound, instead of two, he decided as he drove on. He had skipped lunch at the Dog and Duck, so he could afford to ask Lily to have dinner with him on the way home.

‘Your Dunkirk programme was such a triumph,’ Lily told him.

‘They did seem pleased.’