Hartsend (12 page)

He felt a gentle tap on his arm.

‘‘Lesley? Shouldn't you be at work?'' What a silly thing to say. It sounded like criticism. ‘‘My bus was diverted. I've had to get off at Peathill,'' he added quickly.

Should he ask how she was? His mind tossed up suggestion after suggestion and the slight wind was enough to blow them away.

‘‘Did you get your boots?'' he said finally. They were walking side by side, and he had to bend a little to hear her over the noise around them. He had forgotten how short she was.

‘‘My boots?''

‘‘Mother gave them to your neighbour the other day.''

‘‘Really? ''

He remembered the gentleman friend.

‘‘I think you … had a visitor.''

‘‘I'm sorry. Was that you? I didn't realise …'' An ambulance siren submerged the rest of her words. ‘‘… Mary Flaherty. It was very difficult.''

‘‘Yes,'' he said, wanting to be helpful.

‘‘I've just been to see her, but I don't think I did much good.''

‘‘Oh dear, that's a pity.''

‘‘Has she spoken to you?''

‘‘Well,'' he said. ‘‘I'm not sure I ought …''

They had to separate to go round two young women with prams. What had Mrs Flaherty to do with the boots, he wondered. And what was difficult? Was the family in trouble? He understood the son-in-law had not yet found employment. He hoped Mrs Flaherty hadn't been pestering Lesley to help the man in some way …

‘‘Isn't that her son?''

‘‘What?''

‘‘Her son,'' she pointed to a dark-coated figure leaning against the window of the Hospice Shop. ‘‘She said he'd shaved all his hair off. Peculiar thing to do in the middle of winter, don't you think?''

A girl in a beige-coloured duffel coat came out of the shop. She said something to the boy, and they turned in the direction of the New Bridge.

‘‘I know that girl. That's the minister's child,'' Duncan exclaimed.

‘‘Hardly a child, Duncan.''

Lesley had stopped. He stood beside her. They watched for a moment. Should he express approval or disapproval? Or change the subject? Could he tell her about his new book? It was glowing quietly in his briefcase. ‘‘Darien,'' he said out loud. That's where the mount was, not Lebanon. He'd known whole chunks of Keats by heart once.

‘‘Pardon?''

‘‘Oh. Nothing,'' he said. Yet at once he wondered if she would like to see the book. She might understand his delight.

But she was saying goodbye then and see you again soon, and pushing open the door of the shop beside them, and gone. Taken aback, he stood outside the shop for a while, his explanation ungiven, until, noticing from the window display that it was the ladies' hairdresser, he grasped what had happened, collected himself and walked on.

He crossed by the old metal footbridge, letting the ferrule of his umbrella trail with a series of rapid clicks along the wire mesh. Then he realised what he was doing. Fortunately it wasn't scratched. A clear thought rose above his mind's restless surface. Lesley was always discreet, but her tone of voice had given the game away. The Flahertys were Catholic. The son had formed an attachment with the Protestant daughter of the local minister.

He could understand Mrs Flaherty's distress, although frankly it was ridiculous in this day and age. Nor was it right of her to trouble Lesley, not at this time. Lesley had no-one to protect her.

‘‘You've led such a sheltered life, Duncan,'' Mrs Fleming had said more than once, smiling, as if a sheltered life was something bad, as if sheltering her baby was not Mrs Fleming's own first priority. As if sheltering his family was not the first priority of a husband, even Mrs Fleming's husband, a man with beads on a leather string round his neck who held his baby under his arm like a parcel.

I want to shelter Lesley.

The idea grew and grew until everything else was gone from his mind. The terrible completeness of it stunned him.

It brought no delight. Instead he felt as if he were walking towards a huge blockage, a wall, something that would stop him in his tracks like the immense steel buffers at the end of a station platform he'd seen once as a small child.

The wind had shifted, what little wind there was. It blew now from the north, bearing the acrid smoke from the ruined shop further along the valley, lifting it in a long plume, dark against the pearl-coloured sky.

She was a very beautiful child. Her face had been dirty that first day and he had ached to wipe it clean for her, but he knew instinctively that this would have been a mistake. Her eyes were wonderful – generous, innocent but aware at the same time. He knew children's eyes were big compared to the size of the face, so that they would be more appealing, a louder cry for the parent's care, as it were, but he had seen a lot of very plain, mean-eyed children in his time. It was easy to tell she was a gentle soul from the way she held the feather, from the fact that she'd picked it up in the first place and hidden it protectively from him. She was so solemn, agreeing with him that eggs should never be stolen. He looked round the room, wondering what small treasure he might carry in his pocket the next time he went for a walk. What might he give her? What would she like?

Harriet recognised Ryan through the shop window, just as she was putting her coat on. She made some excuse to June and went through to the back, hoping he'd be gone when she came out.

He wasn't.

‘‘Comin' to see the fire?'' he asked.

‘‘I'm going to the Post Office.''

‘‘There's nothin' much to see now, anyway, unless you like dirty water. I took some photos earlier.'' He patted a bulge in his coat pocket. ‘‘They might come in useful.''

‘‘Good for you,'' she said.

‘‘There's no' been excitement like this since McIntyre's cows got out the dairy.''

‘‘Before my time,'' she said.

The whole of the village was on the streets, it seemed: several shop owners in their doorways, young children sleeping or getting impatient in pushchairs while their mothers talked, and drivers whose cars were stuck in the parking inlet arguing with Brenda, the lady traffic warden, who had one hand clamped on her ear while she tried to talk into her phone. Clamped. That's quite funny, Harriet thought. Not funny enough to share. Not with him.

Across from them in the Millennium Garden the Pensioners Refuge looked deserted. All the old men seemed to have come over to the edge of the grass to see what was going on. One of them had a mug in his hand. Another had lit a cigarette and was coughing badly.

She was being unfair. He wasn't that awful. At least he didn't smoke. He looked better with his hair gone than he had before. It was just that he made her uncomfortable. She couldn't help speaking the way she did. She sounded so posh, but they weren't posh. They hadn't been posh, even in Aberdeen when they had money …

‘‘I'd better get on,'' she said.

‘‘Wait.''

‘‘I'm sorry?''

‘‘There's a thing you could do for me. Help me with.''

He pulled out something from an inside pocket. The brooch.

‘‘Come in the shop with me.''

‘‘I'm sorry?'' she said again.

‘‘Come in with me, and I'll put it back.'' He began picking bits of fluff off the scrolled silver leaves.

‘‘You can't. … You shouldn't have taken it in the first place.''

‘‘I only did it ‘cause you were expectin' me to.''

‘‘What?''

‘‘Come on, admit it,'' he looked from the brooch to her. ‘‘You were watching me out of the corner of your eye, like a fucking raptor in the jungle.''

The word was like a slap. She turned, her face burning. That word still had the power to sicken, no matter how often she heard it. Overhearing was bad enough. To have it so close, to have it said to her …

He had caught up, was walking next to her again. She kept her head down. He said nothing more, but he didn't go away either.

When eventually they reached the Post Office, he said, ‘‘I'll wait here.''

‘‘Please don't bother. I might be quite a while.''

There was no queue. The letters were weighed. She pocketed the change and the receipt. He was leaning against the window, rocking slightly, as if some tune was playing in his head.

‘‘I'm perishin'. You want to go to the café?'' he said, the minute she reappeared.

‘‘No, I have to get home. Goodbye.''

‘‘I'm not good enough, is that it?''

‘‘What?''

‘‘What, what, what? I'm offerin' to buy you a diet Coke, no' cocaine.''

‘‘I have to go home.''

‘‘Sure you do. OK. How's Kerr?''

‘‘He's fine. He's off bouldering with some friends.''

‘‘Bouldering? What the fancy fuck's that?''

‘‘Don't!''

‘‘Don't what?''

‘‘Use that word.''

He stared at her, eyebrows raised.

‘‘You're no' real,'' he said.

The road was clear. She darted over, walked quickly, ready to run if need be.

His voice pursued her, ‘‘I said, you're no' fucking real!''

Lesley lay back with her head in the basin, agreed that the water was fine for her, and let the junior begin the shampooing. She recognised the girl, one of the more pleasant children whose uniform and appearance had always been neat. The mother had been a willing helper at parties and days out. Sick notes were spelled correctly, written on proper paper, not on a page from a jotter.

‘‘I don't like the head massage, Candy,'' she said, as the water began to flow. She had to speak quite loudly against the background music.

‘‘Oh, do you remember me, Miss Crosthwaite?'' The girl sounded pleased.

They talked a little about school, and what Candy's friends were now doing. Her fingers were very gentle, in fact it was so soothing that Lesley felt after a minute or two that she might fall asleep.

The stylist brought her back to full wakefulness. She was new and wore a small diamond stud above her right nostril. Her hair looked as if it hadn't been combed and there was a disconcerting purple streak in front of one eye.

‘‘Who cut your hair last?'' she asked, lifting it up at the back.

‘‘Margaret.'' Lesley felt like a traitor. ‘‘But I haven't been in a long time.'' She had originally asked for Margaret, only to be told that she had retired.

‘‘Right. Well it's not in very good condition. You're not using conditioner, are you? So how much are we taking off? We'll need to take all these split ends away.''

Candy appeared with a cup of tea and placed it on the small shelf in front of the mirror. ‘‘No sugar, Miss Crosthwaite, was that right?'' she said. ‘‘Would you like a magazine?''

To her embarrassment, Lesley couldn't immediately tell the stylist which side her parting was usually on. The girl handed her a comb to help her remember.

Between snips there were attempts at conversation. Was she going anywhere special that night? Had she enjoyed Christmas? Was she working? Lesley held the magazine up resolutely, trying to ignore the woman, though conscious at the same time that it might be dangerous to antagonise her. She thought of Margaret who had looked after her for years, and had known exactly what to do without being told.

‘‘Have you considered using some colour?'' the girl said, twisting a section of front hair and catching it in a clip.

‘‘No,'' Lesley said quickly, keeping her eyes on an advert for face creams. Seven different products by one manufacturer, at prices she considered ridiculous. Why did anyone need seven different things to make their skin presentable?

‘‘Well, I would if I were you. A whole head of grey hair can be very attractive in an older lady like yourself, but lots of grey hairs amongst the brown isn't really so nice.''

‘‘Hello, Lesley, how are you today?''

A young woman she didn't know from Eve was smiling at her in the mirror, dressed in a trim white uniform like a nurse.

‘‘This is Claire, our new beauty therapist,'' the stylist told her.

Lesley accepted the leaflet out of politeness.

‘‘… and we have a special deal today for £10. Just a file and polish. It hardly takes a minute. Would you like me to do it while Marie's drying your hair?''

 

Candy brought her coat. Lesley had hoped for this, and slipped some pound coins into the girl's hand. She had no intention of putting money into a fund that would be shared by everyone. She paid the bill, which was more than she expected, by credit card. While they waited for it to clear, the receptionist said how nice her new nails were. Two women waiting to make appointments agreed they were really lovely. Lesley looked down at her terracotta finger tips and wanted to scream.

After a dinner of tomato soup followed by lemon sole, ‘‘lightly dusted with a seasoned dressing'' according to the label, Mrs Crawfurd went upstairs. Duncan stacked the dishwasher, made himself a decaffeinated latte and sat down to watch the news on the small kitchen TV. Generally this was enough to send him into a light doze. He wondered if Mrs Fleming would be back soon. Perhaps he would suggest they send a card. From Mrs Fleming his thoughts drifted without hindrance to Lesley. In truth, worrying about Mrs Fleming's health was more of a delaying tactic for preventing himself from thinking about Lesley.

How had this happened? One moment Lesley was an old friend whose company he enjoyed, and whose views he respected. The next she was something else entirely. He stepped back from defining the ‘‘something''. At last the idea of a gallant knight in armour came helpfully to mind. But how exactly was he going to shine?