Hartsend (7 page)

‘‘I don't think so, not at this hour.'' And if there was, it wouldn't be Walter Junior, that was for sure. When he went into the bedroom, she was standing with her nose through the curtains.

‘‘Oh my,'' she said. Closing them carefully, she darted to the side for a better view.

He sat on the bed, pushed each slipper off with the other foot, and began unbuttoning his trousers.

‘‘Oh. Oh my goodness.''

‘‘Why are we whispering?''

‘‘Lesley's sitting on the path.''

‘‘Hers or ours?''

With a sigh he rebuttoned himself and joined her. Sure enough, there was Lesley, sitting on her own path beside the doorstep, facing the street.

‘‘Do something, Walter.''

He scratched the back of his head. It was all very well to say do something, when you didn't have to do the doing. He was still trying to think of an answer, when a male figure opened Lesley's gate and began walking up the path. The man helped her to her feet, and then, Walter surmised, there was an exchange of words. He gently detached Ruby from the window, letting the curtain fall, deaf to her whispered protests.

‘‘It's none of our business,'' he said.

Ruby smoothed Nivea over her face and lay on her back for a while to let the cream penetrate before her skin touched the pillowslip. She had put ear-plugs in, to counteract the bangs which would continue into the wee small hours, and she lay as still as possible, so as not to disturb Walter. Her mind meanwhile was anything but still.

The ruined factory with its gaping window frames and rusty pipes smelled exactly like the abandoned buildings of his childhood where he had stripped with closed eyes. When he moved the brick and shone his torch into the space, the roll of fruit sweets was gone. From his coat pocket he took its replacement, a chocolate egg this time, plastic wrap over the bright coloured foil to protect it from dirt and damp. He put it into the hole, repositioning the brick, imagining her delight when she found it.

He switched off the torch and started back to the track. He had never hurt a child, and he never would. Everything was under control. He couldn't harm a child. All he wanted to do was show them love.

He was drawn to unloved, lonely children, those who were troubled as he had been troubled. Often the loveliest children were the most troubled. What a lovely child, what pretty hair, people said, out loud, wanting the child to hear, but their saying it changed nothing. It did not make the child feel lovely, did not make the child feel loved.

When he was older he had taken his bike for long rides, choosing villages where he wasn't known. Winter was better than summer, with darkness coming early. From a back garden he watched till a child was put to bed. He would wait in the darkness, then flash a torch into the bedroom window so that the child would get up and look out.

No-one had been hurt. He wouldn't hurt a child. No-one saw him, and he was careful never to return to the same place.

Being an only child, Lesley had learned to play on her own. When she was a toddler, her father made a sandpit for her in the back garden against the stone wall at the end next to the coal shed. She spent a lot of time there in summer and on dry winter days, building little mounds that were houses, and gardens with stones for walls. Doorways were made by inserting a thumb and moving it from side to side. Gardens came alive with fallen rose petals. Water from the rain butt and daisies and buttercups from the drying green were also allowed. She knew that fairies weren't real, just as Santa wasn't real, so she had no foolish thoughts about little people coming to live in the mounds overnight.

Had Mother ever come out to watch or give suggestions? Or praise? It seemed to her that she had played alone, completely contented, hands muddy, the scent of the summer roses all around her. She knew now what she hadn't then. It was as simple as sunlight. What she had loved was the freedom to make something without help, the freedom to choose, and perhaps the fact that no-one ever told her to make it better.

She would be fifty on her next birthday. Far too old to have children. Some of the staff her age were bringing in photographs of their grandchildren. They all looked exactly the same. If Hector was still alive he would be fifty three. It must be almost thirty years since she had tried to invite him home for tea. She hadn't made a fuss when Mother said no, since he was only a friend, not a boyfriend. She'd assumed, at twenty, that there would be, if not plenty of young men, at least some to choose from. But all the time, there was Mother, keeping her safe, letting her make her mud-pie houses, watching from the window.

Ryan's night began well. He met with everyone down Dimity Lane, happy in his new limited edition trainers, a joint present from his sisters, and happier still when a pint of beer was passed to him by someone he didn't know. The street was heaving with people, the queues for the bars were mad. No neds anywhere; the street was closed except for ticket holders, but one of the class had got tickets, his Dad had contacts, so that was good, and everyone was allowed to drink outside, which was brilliant, because the rain was off and now and then you could see stars overhead when the clouds cleared, and there was a great mix of people, and just a few policemen watching with impassive faces. Along with a couple of his pals, he cracked himself up playing ‘‘spot the media type'' for at least half an hour. The guy would have square thick glasses, the woman with him would be in trendy clothes that were too young for her. It was a doddle, it was like they had a lifestyle catalogue of their own they had all bought from.

He wished he'd a scarf, some dull colour like grey in cashmere would have been perfect, or maybe white silk, he'd seen a photo of Sting wearing white silk, but otherwise he felt he was looking just about right. There were loads of students, some of them from wealthy backgrounds, going by their voices, but hey, it was the West End, so everyone had made a lot of effort to look as if they hadn't made an effort. Really all he'd done was take a short cut. Fine Art students like himself were always more scruffy than the rest anyway. You could spot the Design types a mile off. The t-shirts had to have cool graphics, the necklace would be some surfer type thing.

The girls were amazing. He got talking to one, almost as tall as himself, who said her name was Scarlett, which he doubted, but so what, she was seriously amazing, the whole front of her hair cut in a fringe, slanting sideways across her eyes to the level of her ear, but after a few minutes, it was obvious she'd done a few cheeky lines already, and he moved on. He couldn't stand the nonsense.

After a while, they all moved on via the Underground to the city centre for the fireworks display. Not so good. The crowd was more aggressive, a lot of fast drinking going on, a lot of joints being smoked, and other stuff, which was fine if you were the one doing them, but he'd promised his school art teacher, the one decent guy on the staff, that he wouldn't and so far he hadn't. That was one guy who knew what it was all about.

He kept a smile on his face, avoided eye contact, stuck close to those he knew. To his relief, soon after all the bangs were finished, someone said it was time to go if they wanted to get to the party while there was still transport. He was tired now, the earlier glow was wearing off, leaving him almost sober, and almost inclined to go home, but hey, it was New Year.

Good Decision. The party – he didn't know whose house it was – was well stocked, at the start anyway, and not too many people, though it was definitely a weird mix. Some were old for this sort of thing, and some of the girls, even made up and in the low lighting looked way too young to him. He hung out in the kitchen when it got busier, avoiding the casualties, and the daft hyper girls with their breasts falling out of their tops talking nonsense in the middle of the living room. The music was better than it had been all night. The bass was deep and satisfying. The guy on the decks had good taste. Going to the toilet, however, was a fucking pain, having to defend his manhood in the queue of girls. Then suddenly it was time to go home. He'd been stressing about it for a while. He'd totally drunk himself sober.

For the first couple of miles he had company, an older guy and his girlfriend, but after that he was on his own. It had occurred to him earlier that he might phone his married sister, but he'd been sick once in their car. A loving father would have been handy.

There were no photographs of his father in the house at all. Both of his sisters remembered him, but neither they nor his mother ever mentioned him or why he'd gone, months after Ryan's birth. It was pathetic, not knowing what your own father had looked like. Not his hair colour, or his eyes, not whether you looked anything like him, nothing.

He turned into a doorway for a moment, to let a couple of mental-looking guys go past. The wind seemed colder now. Everyone on the street felt like a potential hazard. Kids in groups hailed him; he called back. Cars passed, there were lit windows, and now and then bursts of music. He wasn't exactly alone. No, he was always alone, that was the truth of it. This is how I am, he thought sadly, this is my life. This is my grim journey, fighting the wind, in the dark. He felt almost heroic for a few yards, until reality thudded back. Being alone was nothing to be proud of. It was a simple fact.

On the far side of the road, inside a bus shelter, an older couple were fighting one another, mostly shouting but with raised fists. The woman had weight on her side, and a bag with a useful silver chain. On his side another small group of neds was coming closer.

When Duncan came down a little after nine, Mrs Flaherty's coat was already hanging on the rack beside the back door. His mother was still asleep, and would not descend for some time, but Mrs Flaherty had let herself in very quietly with her own backdoor key.

He looked into the front porch, irritated by the absence of post. He found himself disliking this disruption of normality more each year. Once he was back at work, there would be plenty to do: e-mails and letters that hadn't been replied to, photocopying needing done urgently by disorganised lecturers, and all those troublesome requests with not enough information that were put to one side by less diligent members of Library staff to be dealt with ‘‘when there's more time.''

Not that the week would be empty. He would have to drive Mother into town. He had two book tokens and a gift voucher for Boots the Chemist, but with browsing time strictly limited and the streets and shops even more crowded than usual, he would probably end up choosing things he didn't need or want. Once he'd bought a book he already owned, caught out by a change in jacket design. He made a mental note to buy deodorant as he had almost run out. He'd once believed that deodorant was unmanly, but had recently begun using it after hearing the female staff discuss the man who looked after the photocopier.

‘‘Good morning, Mrs Flaherty,'' he called, giving plenty of warning as he approached the kitchen. She was a woman who responded badly to the unexpected. Not a nervous woman, exactly, but one who was happier with order. She seemed to experience profound delight when scrubbing surfaces, and although he approved of this perfectionism, it concerned him that she went through so much bleach and anti-bacterial cleanser. ‘‘Think of the oceans, Mrs Flaherty,'' he had said, trying to introduce her to the idea of eco-friendliness, but the oceans were nothing to her compared to the satisfaction of a gleaming sink.

She straightened up from loading the dishwasher. ‘‘Oh, thank you for the picture frame, Mr Crawfurd.'' Her red face beamed. ‘‘It was very kind of you and Mrs Crawfurd. I've put my grandson in it.''

He imagined that sturdily built infant with his head stuck in the frame after the manner of the traditional child in the park railings, but merely nodded as he moved towards the coffee machine, repressing as one so frequently had to with Mrs Flaherty the urge to say something which would only confuse her.

‘‘And did your night go well, Mr Crawfurd?''

‘‘Yes, thank you, everything went as usual.''

This was a lie. He switched on the machine and reached into the cupboard for a fresh packet of beans.

‘‘And yourself?'' he asked. The sealant strip seemed to resist him deliberately, breaking half way round.

‘‘Oh, just a quiet night. That wild boy of mine was out with his pals, of course. Only came in when I was getting up …''

In the past he had made the mistake of showing interest in this Ryan, and particularly in his success in getting into Art School. Mrs Flaherty now assumed that he wanted frequent bulletins. Fortunately she seemed happy with short comments on his part, and the occasional prompt kept her going for a while.

‘‘… and to tell the truth, Mr Crawfurd, I'm glad when it's all over. It's getting worse every year. It all starts too early …''

He nodded again, assuming a listening expression while the foam formed on his cappuccino. Then he reproached himself. She was right. In fact, despite being Mrs Flaherty she was often right. It was simply unfortunate that the flat nasal tone made her statements ludicrous when they were perfectly reasonable, and that her lack of mental subtlety made irony a country forever unexplored.

He dipped his tongue into the thick, warm foam. He ought to be more kind. She was hard working, honest, self-effacing and possibly the least vain woman he had ever met. A crueller man might say she had little to be vain about. If only she would wear clothes that fitted her. He glanced at the troublesome upper arms, bulging from the short sleeves of her pink nylon overalls. Was he unkind? He didn't mean to be.

At the door he paused. ‘‘You'll make yourself a parcel, as usual, Mrs Flaherty, won't you?''

‘‘If you're sure …''

‘‘Oh, of course. No sense in waste. Mother left out the containers for you.''