Not My Blood (13 page)

She’d set herself a limit. Now that limit was passed; what could she do next?

She strained to listen for sounds outside in the lane but heard only the quiet sobs and desultory talk of the two girls filtering through the ill-fitting floorboards and thin layer of linoleum in the bedroom above. The baby in his cot by the fireside mewed and fretted and punched the air with his tiny fists. Molly held her breath.
Please, God, let him not wake up!
She couldn’t cope with his screams and his hunger. A moment later he settled back into sleep.

Her eyes went again to the one photograph the sparsely furnished parlour of the brick and flint cottage contained and focussed on it with the pleading gaze of one worshipping an icon. The family group. No baby Billie when that was taken last year. She’d been two months pregnant and nothing showed as she stood looking small and quenched next to her burly husband. A fine figure of a man, Jem. Everyone said. There he stood, smiling with
paternal pride. The children were ranged up in front in height order, the girls neat in their best dresses and plaited hair and their younger brother, left sock drooping, head on one side, gormlessly peering at the photographer.

Jem had wanted to leave the boy at home.
He’ll only show us up! I’m not risking it
. But just for once, Molly had prevailed. It had taken less than a second for the shutter to click, but in that short time the camera had recorded an undeniable fact. Plain as day: Walter wasn’t quite right in the head. He’d never be able to look after himself.

Now he was out there in the snow on a pitch-dark night. Eight years old. Molly’s daft lad.

In a sudden urge to follow him, get him back and hug his cold little body to her, Molly got up from the wooden armchair and made for the door.
Stay put!
Jem had told her.
Don’t leave the children. The constables’ll find him
.

That had been four hours ago. She lifted the sneck and opened the door an inch, just enough to peer through onto the lane, not enough to let the cold air in. At least the clouds had lifted and the moon had come out. By its light she could just make out the single line of small footprints heading for the road. The last signs of her son. The policemen had had the wit to keep their big boots well to one side so they could see the direction he’d made off in. She’d told them:
He’ll be off to the old forge across the road and into the woods. He usually hides up there
.

And, of course, they’d asked:
Why would he be making off at this hour in the snow, Missis?

They had to ask. But their closed faces told her they already knew the answer. Jem Weston and his bloody belt.
His dad were goin’ to give him a thrashing
. There. She’d said it. It had been easier than she expected.

Jem just stuck his nose in the air and defied them.
Not that it’s any of your business … but I’ll tell you anyway. He’d broken a milk
jug, clumsy bugger, and pissed his britches. He’s a kid who just won’t learn. Now are you going to stand about gassing to my wife all night, or are you going to lend a hand?

The senior bobby, PC Snipe, had tried to reassure her.
We’ll get him, don’t you fret. He won’t have gone far on a night like this. If he’s still missing in the morning we’ll send to Brighton for the tracker dogs
.

A torch was wobbling down the lane. Molly shot back into her seat and looked up as Jem came in, stamping the snow from his boots in the porch.

“Don’t get excited. Nothing. No sign of him in the forge. Can’t search the woods just like that. Trail ran out straight away when he hit the main road. Must have followed along the car tracks … easier walking. No idea whether he turned left or right.”

“What about the coppers?”

“They’ve gone home. Nothing more they can do.”

“Did you see the doctor?”

“You set too much store by the doctor! Thick as thieves with the doctor you are. I don’t know what the bloody hell you think Doc Carter could do!”

Savagely Molly answered back: “More of the same! Put back together what you’ve smashed over the years with your great fists, Jem Weston! He’s a good man!”

“Watch it! He weren’t there anyway. I had to leave a message. He’s out delivering Mrs. Cumming’s fourth brat.”

Molly flinched, expecting the usual back-hander as he came and towered over her, pushing his face up close and talking slowly as though she were an idiot. “You’re going to have to get used to the idea—the kid’s not coming back alive. It’s bloody freezing out there, and he’s hardly got the wits to find his way across the yard to the jerry on a good day. Some bugger’ll find his remains in a ditch come spring, you’ll see. Then we’ll know for sure.” And, a note of conciliation creeping in: “Look at it this way, love—it
might be a blessing in disguise. One of the Lord’s funny little ways. He were running you ragged, Molly. And never likely to get any better—you heard Doc Carter. Worse, in fact. Didn’t know his own strength. I’ve tried to train him … he’ll have to work in the forge one day, and he’ll have the muscle power, but it’s the head, Molly.… He’s weak in the head. Always will be. It could turn out better for the girls in the long run, better for little Billie, better for you. We couldn’t pay for any more doctoring.”

“You didn’t pay for the last lot … or the one before that,” Molly muttered.

“Cos the doc’s a generous bloke! But he can’t go on dishing out welfare just like that. I don’t much like the idea of taking someone’s charity, neither. You know me.… Never be beholden to nobody I were always taught.”

“Then perhaps you could drink less and have more to spend on the kids,” Molly thought to herself, but she dared not say it aloud. He still caught the silent message and his hand twitched.

Throat thick with hatred, Molly went to the cradle and snatched up the sleeping baby. She pinched his leg until he wailed. “Thought so. He’s just coming round. Time for his evening feed. You go on up to bed. I’ll see to Billie and maybe sleep down here in the chair. Just in case Walter comes back home.”

“Well, all right, then.” Jem cast his master-of-the-house look around the room. “I see you haven’t laid for breakfast yet? Get it on early. We’re off again come first light.”

J
oe eased his salt-spattered Morris off the main road and up the drive of St. Magnus school. What was the quality of school driveways that gave them the power to rouse such dread in anyone approaching? The gloom of laurels lining the route set the mood, he decided, as they ushered the visitor onwards. Unnaturally glossy at this dead time of the year, they stood in ranks, deferential but foreboding, like undertakers’ well-drilled assistants. Joe shuddered. He’d spoken once to an old schoolmaster he much admired, a sanguine and rational man who confided that this terror of approaching a school had never left him in half a century. What must young Jackie be feeling?

Joe glanced in the mirror at the anxious little face on the back seat and, for a reckless moment, he contemplated turning round and making off for the chalk uplands. Striding out in an open and treeless space for a good long tramp and a talk.

At least the sun had made an appearance to cheer up what promised to be a difficult day. A change in the wind overnight had bundled the snow clouds off to trouble the west and left the south country lightly dusted with the glamour of a Christmas card. Another of old Mother Nature’s jokes. “Oops! I’m a bit late with the snow … so sorry I missed December!” Like an adored actress who always arrived late for a party, said the wrong thing
and got drunk, she was always forgiven, always a lively topic of conversation. Well, Joe was glad enough for the sunshine, glad to be seeing the school, for the moment at any rate, in the best possible light.

The carriage-drive had been neatly cleared of snow, he noticed. Murder and mayhem might reign indoors, but the maintenance work on the exterior was faultless. One or two cedar trees stood about in ducal dignity; already stately, they were further ennobled by the ruffles of snow they shouldered. They signalled, by their maturity, that a building of some distinction might be anticipated around the next bend.

Joe tried to estimate what would be the feelings of a parent on delivering his son and heir into the care of this establishment, and he decided that he was, so far, very favourably impressed. The spacious grounds the brochure had promised were certainly there, resisting the encroachment of the sprawling modern town. But even the proximity of the unattractive development on its doorstep was presented as an advantage:
Railway station delivering speedy service to the capital a few minutes’ walk away.… Local amenities: theatre, golf course, tea-rooms, cinema, swimming pool, hostelry, cliff-top walks
.… Joe doubted that the boys would be allowed to enjoy many of these. Apart of course from the visits to the
Lavender Lady
for a cream bun followed by a three-reeler at the Odeon on a wet weekend when the parents put in an appearance.

The escorting laurel bushes gave out dramatically, in good time to grant an unencumbered view of the school. It was grand but not grandiose, solid but not forbidding. An elegant example of late Georgian architecture, though it could just be early Victorian. If he ever had the opportunity, he’d check. Joe slowed to scan other details more revealing than the well-kept drive and the stout front door. His eye ranged upwards over the chimney pots, the roof tiles and the window frames on the topmost floor.
He was looking for signs of decay, and this is where it would show itself first, up here above eye level. Years of war and financial collapse had worn down many a thriving concern and reduced it to rubble within a decade. But here was a different story: Like the grounds, the fabric of the house seemed to be in prime condition. Even the weathercock atop the pinnacle of what must be the chapel appeared freshly gilded and jauntily catching the sun.

“Andrew’s old school, eh?” Joe addressed the remark to his two passengers sharing the back seat. “I think he must have been well pleased with it.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jackie dimly. “Daddy liked it here. Before he went up to Haileybury. He has lots of stories.”

Dorcas leaned forwards and put a paper into Joe’s hand. “You’ll be needing this. Andrew’s telegram.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He put the insignificant folded sheet of brown paper carefully into his inside pocket. “I’ll give it back to you, Jackie, when it’s worked its magic. For your scrapbook.”

The telegram had been delivered while they were still at the breakfast table. With all eyes on him, Joe had opened it, read, and summarized the contents for his audience. “It’s from India. From Andrew Drummond. He’s conferring temporary parental powers to me (to be confirmed by his London lawyer who is receiving instructions) until such time as Jackie’s mother can arrive in England to assume control. He’s sent a similar statement to the head at St. Magnus. Nancy is on her way and is expected to arrive early next month. In three weeks’ time.… Three weeks. Good Lord! Oh, and at the end he says they both send their love to you, Jackie. Well, that’s all right then! This gives us the edge we need!” Deep in thought, he began to fold the sheet.

Dorcas had deftly plucked it from his hand and passed it to Jackie, who was sitting next to her. The boy clutched it and read with trembling lips, running a finger under the printed words. An arm around his shoulders, Dorcas bent to whisper the meanings
of the long words and the Latin legal phrases as he struggled through. Joe reached for the marmalade and held it up to the light, making distracting remarks about the sun shining through the Cooper’s Oxford, pretending he hadn’t seen Dorcas hurriedly dabbing up with her napkin the teardrops that splashed onto the flimsy sheet as Jackie neared the end. At a look from Dorcas, Joe had made no attempt to take it back.

He parked neatly by the front door of the school and turned to speak. “Ten o’clock. We made good time, and we got here an hour before our advertised arrival. We may catch them on the hop. What’s likely to be happening in there at the moment, Jackie?”

“They’ll be nearly at the end of the first lesson. Ten minutes to go.”

“Good. A moment of calm, then. Look, stay here with Dorcas for a minute, will you, while I go and alert the head master.”

As he got out of the car a young man flung the door wide and came forwards with an air of enquiry. He stopped in his tracks, stared at the car, then started forwards again, holding out a hand. “Sandilands? You must be Assistant Commissioner Sandilands? Sir, you are expected … but you arrive a little earlier than we looked for you. No matter—Mr. Farman is in his study and will see you straight away.” The man’s attention was immediately switched to Jackie, and he bustled over to the car door to help him out. “Hullo there, Drummond! Good to see you. Look, before we go any further, you ought to hear that I’m your new form master.”

Jackie greeted this news with a squeak of pleasure, and Joe looked with increased interest at the man the school had chosen to go out in front bearing the standard. A good choice, he decided. Impeccably suited and confident, yet having an edge of modern informality. And, a feature of instant appeal to small boys—and to Joe himself, he admitted with amusement—the man had the intriguingly battered features of a boxer.

“Mr. Gosling! Oh, good! Uncle Joe, this is Mr. Gosling who teaches games. Mr. Gosling, this is my cousin Dorcas who’s been looking after me.”

“Ah, yes. Miss Joliffe, would that be?” The master shook her hand. “Delighted! We were told you were coming. If you’ll give me your keys, sir, I’ll see to your motor. No, no! Let me take Drummond’s things. Now, what’s he got? Ah. I see he’s acquired a suitcase in the interval? And the old Afghan bag, I think I recognise.”

Gosling heaved the luggage out of the car and placed it without further comment a careful distance away from a second, much larger, collection. A trunk with two further suitcases and a pile of books tied together with string sat waiting by the side of the carriage sweep.

Dorcas eyed this arrangement casually. “Comings and goings this morning, Mr. Gosling?”

“Always comings and goings in a school this size,” was the noncommittal response.