No Time Like the Past (15 page)

I suspected
The Black Carbuncle
didn’t need to be turned because our sh – boat – would have been long since despatched to the bottom. She had an air of black menace about her. I was certain the evil brain of Professor Penrose – surely a candidate for the world’s next supervillain – would have devised cruel and unusual devices that would send us to the bottom of the lake in the first ten minutes or so.

As the person nominally responsible for the Open Day, and given the capacity for potential disaster, I felt it was my duty to perform a quick risk assessment. I dived straight to the heart of the matter.

Scanning the lake, I said, ‘Where are the swans?’

He looked around vaguely, as if he expected to see them roosting in a tree somewhere.

‘No idea. I expect they’ve gone wherever swans go. Africa, maybe?’

No. In times of crisis, our swans head for the library – their traditional refuge in any sort of emergency. Since it was currently occupied by pupils and parents, they might have headed off to complain personally to the King.

Meanwhile, the crews were arriving. Everyone was wearing life jackets and hard hats. Dr Bairstow and the Chancellor, both knowing their people and their capabilities well, had insisted upon it. From the corner of my eye, I could see Helen and the medical team setting up an emergency treatment station. Crowds of people milled everywhere, seeking the best vantage points so the kids would get a good view of the drowning nutters. I suspected many of them had brought their own missiles. Even by St Mary’s standards, it was going to be carnage.

The Thirsk crew were daunting just to look at. Eight enormous young men, each of whom could almost certainly lift a horse by himself, should he ever choose to do so. They wore black hard hats. Even their life jackets were black. They loomed. They young men, I mean, not the life jackets.

Our boys, on the other hand, presented a much more … eclectic … image. They’d obviously rummaged around Wardrobe. Leon and Guthrie wore WW1 helmets, probably genuine. Peterson wore a Greek helmet with a moth-eaten crest. Possibly not genuine, but with him, you never knew. Evans wore a Norman helmet with a long nose guard. Probably not genuine. Randall wore a motor cycle helmet. Almost certainly genuine. The rest of them wore assorted knights’ helmets from which the visors had been removed. Definitely not genuine. In his search for authenticity, Mr Markham, now divested of his Madame Zara, All Seeing etc. persona, appeared to be wearing a small pink Tupperware bowl with two cardboard horns glued thereon. I was determined not to comment.

The crowd cheered both teams impartially as they prepared to board.

Beside me, Professor Rapson and Professor Penrose were eyeballing each other. Things could get ugly.

A hand fell on my shoulder. Oh God, Mrs Partridge had found me.

‘It wasn’t me,’ I said wildly. ‘It was just a suggestion. I never thought …’

Leon was grinning at me. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ I said quickly.

‘Do me a favour, will you? Nip round to those trees over there and make sure nothing happens to those rosettes. There are people here today who have even fewer scruples we do.’

‘Good thought,’ I said, seeing Dr Bairstow and the Chancellor approaching to start the race.

The crowd roared their enthusiasm.

Suddenly, everyone was at their oars and we were ready for the start of the race – a traditional St Mary’s demonstration of entropy – from order to disorder. In the words of the song –
Nobody does it better.

Believe it or not, there were rules. Everyone needs rules. After all, how can you break what doesn’t exist? Rules give anarchy something to aim at.

Points would be awarded for design, construction, innovation, teamwork, enthusiasm, and stamina. Since our boys were already making inroads into the beer, I had my doubts about the stamina. On the other hand, no one could fault their enthusiasm in knocking it back.

Anyway, each craft, ostensibly eschewing violence, cheating, dangerous rowing practices, etc., was to row across the lake, retrieve their rosette, avoid hand-to-hand fighting with any enemy forces secreting themselves nearby, and return to the jetty. Given that neither craft might survive the experience, it had been decided that the first team simply to hand their rosette to the Chancellor would be the winner. Personally, I would have just unpinned the stupid thing and strolled gently back around the lake to arrive some thirty minutes before any surviving ships pitched up. It seemed the logical thing to do. You can see now why both teams were exclusively male.

The Chancellor stood on the jetty and raised her arm above her head. The crowd, egged on by Dr Dowson over the PA system, counted down. The gun fired and in a sudden fury of boiling white water, they were off.

As was I.

I strolled slowly around the side of the lake, picking my way through excited family groups baying for blood. If we ever did this again – over Dr Bairstow’s dead body, probably – building a mock Coliseum and staging a gladiatorial combat might be extremely popular. I filed that away for future reference.

The first person I saw was Van Owen, very conspicuously not wearing a blue velvet riding habit.

‘You’re not changed,’ I said, accusingly.

She was staring over my shoulder. ‘Just on my way,’ she said vaguely. ‘I was helping Dr Dowson and didn’t want to get blood all over it.’

‘Good thought.’

She stared over my shoulder for so long that I turned myself. ‘Problem?’

She seemed to return from a great distance. ‘No. Sorry. Miles away. Where are you off to?’

‘Rosette protection duty.’

She smiled with a huge effort. ‘Very wise. Well, I’d better get changed.’

‘Greta, is everything all right?’

‘Yes. Oh, yes.’

‘I can do it alone, you know.’

‘No you can’t. I’m the star of the show. You and that rat-tailed apology for a horse are just there to make me look good.’ She paused. ‘Wait for me, Max. I’ll meet you here in twenty minutes and we’ll go to the stables together.’

She set off in a hurry.

‘You’re going the wrong way.’

‘No, it’s OK. I’ll nip through Security and take the back stairs.’

She disappeared, and I carried on around the lake.

Across the water,
The Valkyrie
was engaging with the enemy. Leon and Dieter, chins on their chests, were pulling doggedly across the lake, protected by Evans and Roberts, who held shields over their heads. Peterson and Clerk were loading the catapult and subjecting
The Black Carbuncle
to an unending rain of root vegetables.

The ancient and venerable seat of learning based in Thirsk was not, however, taking things lying down. At a given signal, they turned left – parboiled, or whatever left is called in nautical terms – and increased their rate to ramming speed. Professor Rapson was beside himself on the jetty, jumping up and down in a frenzy. Dr Dowson was shrieking contradictory instructions over the public address system. The crowd shouted a warning, but too late. There was a massive collision – or whatever the nautical word is for massive collision. Both boats seemed fused together.

Markham, still wearing his very fetching pink Tupperware bowl, and brandishing what he probably thought was a cutlass, bellowed ‘St Mary’s’ and threw himself at the crew of
The Black Carbuncle
, who immediately picked him up and hurled him straight into the water. He sank like an anvil. Two or three pirates followed him in, although whether to rescue him or finish him off completely, I never was able to ascertain.

Because at that moment, someone put a cold, hard gun to the back of my neck and said, ‘Stand very, very still, because the one thing I want to do more than anything else in the entire world is to blow your stupid, ugly head off your stupid, ugly shoulders.’

Isabella Bitchface Barclay was back.

Chapter Eleven

I had a sudden picture in my head. A small, concrete room, smothered in white fluffy filling and a dismembered teddy bear pinned to the wall with a knife through his eye together with a note telling me this wasn’t over.

Sick Bay had put me back together again after the Battle of St Mary’s and Mrs Enderby had done the same for Bear 2.0 – Leon’s special gift to me. He’d taken time out from saving the world just to bring him to me. A brief glimmer of light in a dark time. Now I was back to what passed for normal and Bear spent his days on my windowsill, smiling at the world. I’d let my guard down and here she was.

There was nothing I could do. She was behind me. There were people all around us. I felt a sudden anger that no one was looking at what was going on under their noses. She’d chosen her moment well. Everyone was watching the Raft Race. I could hear cheers, boos, laughter. No one was watching what was happening here.

I stood very still because I didn’t want my stupid, ugly head blown off my stupid, ugly shoulders, either. I said nothing. She wasn’t the most stable person on the planet and this is me saying that.

She jabbed the gun.

‘Walk.’

In the absence of more detailed instructions, I turned and set off towards St Mary’s and got the jab again.

‘Not that way.’

Well, it was worth a try.

I set off again, away from the lake. Away from the noise, the activity, the people, the possibility of any chance of help.

‘The barn.’

Half hidden behind a group of trees was our old barn. Now that we had proper stables and a feed store, it had fallen into disuse. Mr Strong kept his grass cutters there and a bunch of miscellaneous tat which, being a man, he was incapable of throwing away, because, of course, it might come in useful one day.

The sound of large numbers of people having a great time slowly died away as I headed towards the barn. I could hear her walking behind me. We could have been the only two people in the world. Shortly to have that number reduced by half.

I stepped out of the sunshine and into the dim darkness of the barn. It smelled of straw, oil, and earth. Dust danced in the sunlight filtering in through holes in the roof. I walked into the centre and stood still. Waiting.

She stood well back in the shadows. In a quiet, deadly little voice, she said, ‘I’m going to kill you.’

‘Well, yes, Izzie, obviously.’

‘You ruined my life.’

I opened my mouth to say, ‘Glad to have been of service,’ but something stopped me.

‘Actually, Izzie, I think you did that yourself. You’re the one who betrayed St Mary’s. You’re the one who picked the losing side. People are dead because of you. People don’t like you. You’re actually very unlikeable.’

Yes, good move, Maxwell. Winding up the unstable woman with the gun who’s always hated you, in an out-of-the-way place where no one will come to your aid. On the other hand, I’d known her a long time and she did like the sound of her own voice. She probably had a lot more to say before finally putting a bullet in me.

I continued. ‘The bear’s fine, by the way. Just a few stitches and he was as right as rain.’

I turned as I spoke and finally got a good look at her. ‘Which is more than can be said for you, Izzie. You really should have got that nose seen to.’

I was exaggerating to wind her up. I’d broken her nose but the slight bend was barely noticeable and then only if you were looking for it.

She said nothing. The gun was rock steady in her hand. This was a new Barclay. One completely in control of her emotions. I wondered if she’d been taking lessons from Clive Ronan. Speaking of whom …

I looked around. ‘All on your own today? Don’t say he’s dumped you already. What is it with you, Izzie? You just can’t hang onto your men, can you?’

As I’d hoped, that was a red rag to her bull. Her voice rang around the barn.

‘You stole my life. He was mine. He loved me. I was everything to him. And then you came along and it was as if we never existed.’

We? Hang on a minute. Just hang on a minute … That wasn’t right.

The gun came up. This was it. She was too far away for me to reach her. There was no one else around. I was completely unarmed. This really was it. I was going to die. I’d killed her. She’d killed me. Now, after all our duels over the long years, she was finally going to come out on top.

‘Wait,’ I said, desperately. ‘Just wait a minute. Can we please stop killing each other and just talk for a moment? You keep saying this and I don’t think I’ve been listening properly. When you say “I stole your life” what do you actually mean?’

She scoffed. ‘It’s a little late to pretend ignorance now. You know what I’m talking about.’

‘No,’ I said, quietly. ‘No, I don’t. Tell me.’

For a second I thought she’d just go ahead and shoot me anyway. Outside in the distance, I could hear the shouts and cheers as the Raft Race continued towards its chaotic end, but in here, the silence was like a blanket. Everything hung in the balance, and then she shrugged.

I let my own shoulders drop. So far so good. I spoke quietly. Anything to reduce the emotional temperature. Up in the hayloft, something scuttled over our heads.

‘I’ve heard you say this before, Izzie. I always assumed you meant I’d stolen Leon Farrell from you and that maybe I’d somehow stolen your career at St Mary’s as well. Is that what you mean?’

She stared at me. ‘No, of course it isn’t. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

‘Izzie, I honestly have no idea. Please – for once – can we just talk to each other?’

Without waiting for a reply, I deliberately turned my back on her and walked over to a convenient hay bale, which meant I was even further from the door and from her, too. I felt her relax a little at the increased distance between us.

She watched me sit and arrange my riding habit in folds around my feet. I waited in silence. She would have to speak first.

After a long while, she joined me, perching opposite on an old metal corn bin. She still had the gun but now it rested quietly in her lap. We looked at each other.

For the first time ever, she spoke to me as an equal. No sneering. No abuse. She spoke almost like a little girl. ‘Did he never mention me at all?’

Thank God, I had the sense to top and think. I had a sudden revelation. This wasn’t about Leon. Or anyone at St Mary’s. And there had only been one other man in my life. My heart began to thump because surely she couldn’t be talking about …?

It was no more than a whisper because my throat closed so hard I could barely get the words out at all.

‘Who’s “he”? Who do you mean?’

She swallowed hard and her voice wasn’t steady either.

‘My father.’

My world fractured into a hundred thousand glittering fragments. A hundred thousand glittering fragments rearranged themselves into a new pattern and fell back into place leaving me adrift in a suddenly unfamiliar world.

‘Are you talking about …? Do you mean …?’ I couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘John Maxwell. Yes, of course I am. My father.’ She drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Our father.’

Never mind trying to find words. They could come later. In a hundred years or so. I stared at her and struggled for calm. Really struggled. And what was I going to say to her when I could speak?

It didn’t matter. She had more than enough words for both of us. They just tumbled out. She couldn’t get them out fast enough. It was as if something deep inside her had given way and whatever it had been holding back couldn’t be contained for another moment.

‘He was my father first. We were a family. We were happy. We were. I adored him. He was so big and handsome, he would sweep me up in his arms, and I was his little princess. And then he was gone and my mother wouldn’t stop crying and there was never enough money and we had to live in a horrible house and my new school was horrible as well and she kept trying to talk to him but he just cut us out of his life because now he had a new little princess and it should have been me. You stole my life.’

I stared at her. I know mine had not been a functional family, but I had no idea about any of this. That my father been married before. Or if not married, had been in some sort of relationship. A serious relationship that had produced Isabella Barclay. No idea at all. No idea I had a sister …

She was crying now, overwhelmed by whatever pent-up emotions were raging within her. The gun was weaving all over the place.

‘For God’s sake be careful, Izzie. You’ll blow your own feet off in a minute.’

She snapped. Her head flew up.

‘Shut up! Just shut up! Everything is a joke to you, isn’t it? You’ve never had to struggle the way I did. Do you know how many jobs I had to take to get myself through uni? How much student debt I racked up? And I had to send money home to my mother. Because she never got over him. He ruined her life as well. But not you. You just cruise effortlessly through your perfect life, don’t you?’

Her mouth made ugly shapes. Bitter words flew across the gaping chasm that would forever lie between us. ‘And then I came here. I was going to show him … make him proud … make him see me …Then you turned up and everything I’d worked for slowly slipped away. Is it deliberate? Do you deliberately follow me wherever I go – wrecking my life?’

I stared at her and the tears just ran down my cheeks. Not only from shock and fear, but pity. Pity for her. And anger. Because she was the one who got away and I hadn’t.

It came out as a whisper. ‘Oh, Izzie, if only you knew …’

‘What? If only I knew what?’

I could see it now. Now that I knew, it was easy. She was short, just like me. She had ginger hair, just like me. People had remarked on the resemblance in a casual sort of way. Even I’d noticed it. We were like two peas in a pod. Except she was the one who got away.

‘If only you knew how lucky you’ve been.’

‘Lucky? You call me lucky?’

‘Yes, I do. You had the luckiest escape of your life when John Maxwell left your mother.’

She barked a harsh, contemptuous laugh and rage boiled up inside me. I couldn’t hold it in. I forgot to be conciliating. Forgot the threat. Forgot the gun. Forgot everything.

‘You haven’t got a clue, have you? You stand there, dripping with self-pity over your supposedly tough life and you don’t have a bloody clue. You had a home and a mother who loved you. You grew up free from fear. Yes, money might have been tight but there are worse nightmares. There was no John Maxwell in your life. Because he was in mine instead. Do you remember your ninth birthday? Well, I remember mine but not for the same reasons, I’m sure. Yes, I had two parents but one was a monster and the other was a waste of space. Don’t tell me your mother wouldn’t have fought for you like a lion. Any mother would. Well, I wasn’t so lucky. Mine just let him get on with it. And I was going to hell in a handbag. I lost count of the times I was suspended from school. If one of my teachers hadn’t taken me in hand, I’d be in a prison cell or dead by now. And don’t talk to me about getting through uni. Three jobs, Izzie! Three! And that was with a scholarship. Whereas you …’ I was desperately trying to keep it all together but my voice had deteriorated into some dreadful rasp that hurt my throat. ‘You never had to hide in a wardrobe. You didn’t have to cope with the pain, the shame, the overwhelming, always present fear. Yes, you could have had my life. Any time you cared to ask for it. Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you come and take it? You could have banged on my door anytime and I would have given it to you as a gift.’

My voice cracked and I couldn’t go on. In the silence, I could hear us both breathing.

Her face was a mask. ‘What are you saying?’

I struggled for some control over my voice. ‘You know damned well what I’m saying. And it happened to me, Izzie. It all happened to me. Because you’re the one who got away.’

More silence. She’d put the gun down. I could probably have made a grab for it but I was shaking as much as she was and there were more important things going on here.

I wiped my nose on my sleeve, dragged in some deep breaths, and tried to calm down. ‘How old are you, Izzie?’

‘What?’

‘How old are you?’

‘I’m forty next year.’

‘Listen to me. This is important. Neither you nor I are the villain here. That’s John Maxwell. He ruined both our lives, but I walked away from him and built a new life and you can do the same. You still have half your life ahead of you. Stop obsessing over the past. Walk away from all your bitterness and resentment and hatred and build yourself a new life. Live abroad. Start again. Don’t let him poison your life any longer. Please. I implore you, Isabella, not just for my sake but for yours as well. Walk away now. Let it all go and be happy.’

My words rang around the barn. Something skittered again.

I sat quietly and let her think. I could imagine exactly the thoughts going through her head. Whether strong or weak, when the foundations on which you’ve built your life are kicked away, the result is exactly the same. Everything comes crashing down around your ears. She was struggling to re-evaluate her life as I was struggling to re-evaluate mine. Looking at past events through new eyes. Hearing new voices. Adrift in a sea of uncertainty. And in my case, vowing future vengeance on the man who so casually ruined so many lives. One day I would … And then I shook myself. Yes, great move, Maxwell. Allowing John Maxwell power over your life again. As if I didn’t have Leon, and Dr Bairstow, and Peterson, and Guthrie to show me that there will always be decent men in this world. I could let it go.

But could she?

She drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked down at the gun as if seeing it for the first time.

We stared at each other. What now? Where could we possibly go from here?

I spoke again, more quietly this time. ‘I meant what I said, Isabella. Take a few days. Think about it. Change your life. Do something wonderful with it.’

Silence. She wasn’t even looking at me. She was still staring at the gun in her lap. She’d hated me nearly all her life. Was it too late for her to change now?