The Tenderness of Wolves (26 page)

‘I know it is late, but I was hoping to speak to you.’

‘Speak to me?’ He inclines his head again–really, he must be quite drunk–though this time gallantly. ‘That would be an undeserved pleasure.’

‘There is no need for flattery. I wanted to talk to someone … well, you are not one of us, and the town seems to have gone quite mad.’

Her voice is low, although there is no one else within earshot. ‘You mean your father’s … predicament.’

She looks at him with a look that is both exasperated and calculating. ‘I don’t quite know what I am doing here. I think it is because Mr Moody, the Company man, spoke of you, and seemed to have formed a favourable impression, despite … everything. Heaven knows what I expected …’

He realises–the drink is making him slow-witted–that she is on the verge of tears, and her exasperation is with herself. ‘I don’t know who else I can talk to. I am very
worried, very worried indeed. You are a man of experience, Mr Sturrock, what would you do in my circumstances?’

‘About your father? Is there anything you can do, other than wait? I believe they are sending for the magistrate from St Pierre in the morning, or when the roads are passable.’

‘You think they are not passable?’

‘Weather like this? I doubt it very much.’

‘I was thinking of going tonight, to be there first. There is no telling what they will say about him.’

‘My dear girl … you cannot mean it. To attempt the journey tonight, in this rain … it would be madness. Your father would be horrified. It would be the worst thing you could do to him.’

‘You think so? Perhaps you are right. In any case, the truth is I am too much of a coward to attempt such a journey on my own. Oh, God!’ She hides her head in her hands, though only for a second. She does not dissolve into tears. Sturrock feels an admiration for her, and orders another drink for himself, and one for her.

‘You knew Monsieur Jammet, did you not? What do you think happened to him?’

‘I didn’t know him all that well. But he was a man with many secrets, and men with secrets have, perhaps, more enemies than those without.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Erm, only that … well, I came to Caulfield–and am here still–because I wanted to buy an item that Jammet owned. He knew that. Only the item has vanished.’

‘Stolen?’

‘It seems likely. Perhaps by Francis Ross. So I wait for his return.’

‘Do you think Francis killed him then?’

‘I did not know him at all. So I cannot say.’

‘I did … I mean, I do.’

‘And what do you think?’

Maria pauses, staring into her glass–to her surprise already empty. ‘How can you know what people are capable of? I have thought I have judged people well in the past, only to be proved quite wrong.’

The morning the others are due to leave, Jacob walks in and stands by the bed. He speaks to Francis but looks at the wall.

‘I don’t suppose you’re going anywhere, but if you do, I’ll come after you and break the other leg. Do you understand?’

Francis nods, thinking of the knife scar Donald showed him.

‘So I don’t need to sit in here all day.’

Francis shakes his head.

So he is surprised when Jacob comes back. Jacob has found a piece of wood in the store; it is straight and strong–the trunk of a young birch, and will be just the right length. He strips off the bark and whittles away any irregularities, and rounds off the forked top into a smooth Y. Francis watches his hands with reluctant fascination; it is amazing how fast the tree takes on the qualities associated with a crutch. Jacob pads the top with strips of old blanket, which he winds round the wood like a bandage.

‘I should do this with leather, or it will get wet.’

‘During my escape, you mean.’

At first, when Francis said reckless or stupid things, not caring what he thought of him, Jacob didn’t seem sure whether Francis was joking or not; he would glance doubtfully at him, his face impassive. This time, though, he smiles. Francis thinks, he’s not much older than I am.

*

It will be a relief–to both of them, he thinks–to be free of the tense and anxious Moody. And a relief to himself, although he feels guilty for admitting it, to be free of his mother. Whenever she is in the room there is such a weight of unspoken words pressing on them both he can hardly breathe. It would take years to say them all, just to get them out of the way.

Just before leaving, his mother comes into his room and looks at Jacob, who gets up and leaves without a word. She sits by his bed and folds her hands together.

‘We are leaving. We will follow the trail you followed–Mr Parker knows where it goes. It’s a pity you can’t come, in case we see the man, but … at least we can look.’

Francis nods. His mother’s face is grim and determined, but she looks tired, and the lines round her eyes are more noticeable than usual. He feels a sudden surge of gratitude to her, for doing what he meant to do, when she is so afraid of the wilderness.

‘Thank you. You’re brave to do this.’

She twitches her shoulders, as if annoyed. But she isn’t; she’s pleased. She touches her hand to his face, running her fingers along his jaw. Someone else did a very similar thing, from time to time. Francis tries not to think about that.

‘Don’t be silly. I’ll be with Parker and Moody; there’s nothing brave about it.’

They share shy, wintry smiles. Francis fights an almost overwhelming urge to tell her the truth. It would be such a relief to tell someone, to put down the burden. But even in the second he allows himself to imagine such a luxury, he knows he will say nothing.

Then she says, to his surprise, ‘You know I love you, don’t you?’

Francis is embarrassed. He nods, unable for some reason to meet her eyes.

‘Your father loves you too.’

No he doesn’t, Francis thinks. You have no idea how much he hates me. But he says nothing.

‘Is there nothing else you can tell me?’

Francis sighs. There are so many things she doesn’t know.

‘Mr Moody thinks the bone tablet may be important. If it is valuable, it might have been a … reason. Will you let me take it?’

Francis doesn’t want to give it up, but can’t think of a good reason not to, so he hands his mother the leather bag with the tablet in it. She takes it out and looks at it. She has read a lot, and knows a lot, but she stares at the tiny angular markings with a frown of incomprehension.

‘Be careful with it,’ he mumbles.

She gives him a look: she who is always careful with things.

The previous summer, before school broke up, which it did early to allow the boys to help short-handed fathers, something unprecedented had happened to him. Never having thought too much about such things, Francis, like every other boy within a ten-mile radius, fell in love with Susannah Knox.

She was a year above him at school and was without doubt the outstanding beauty of that year; slender, rounded, happy, with a sweet, exquisite face. He dreamt of Susannah by night, and by day imagined her and him together–in various vague but romantic scenarios, such as rowing a boat on the bay, or him showing her his secret hiding places in the woods. The sight of her walking past the classroom, or laughing with friends in the schoolyard, would send an exquisite, thrilling shock through his body; skin prickled, breath caught, head thrummed with blood. He would turn his head away, feigning disinterest, and since he had no close friends, his secret was well hidden. He was well aware that he was not alone in this passion, and that she could take her
pick of older and more popular candidates, but she did not seem to bestow special favours on any of them. It probably wouldn’t have mattered if she had; it wasn’t as though he actually expected anything to happen. It was enough that he could annex her in his dreams.

There was an occasion–the annual summer picnic, which took place every year at the end of term, when the entire school trekked down to a slim stretch of sandy beach on the bay. Under the indolent eyes of two bored teachers they ate sandwiches, drank ginger beer and swam, shrieking and splashing, until it got dark. Francis, who generally hated such occasions of enforced jollity and had considered avoiding it, ended up going, because Susannah would be there, and as she was about to leave school, he did not know how he was going to catch the quick, sweet glimpses of her that fed his passion.

He found a spot not far from where Susannah and some of the other senior girls had sat down, only to be joined about a minute later by Ida Pretty. Ida was two years younger than Francis, and his next-door neighbour. He liked her, alone of her large family; she was sharp-tongued and funny, but she could be something of a pain. She liked Francis and was always pestering him; had been watching him as assiduously (but not as covertly) as he was watching Susannah.

Now she sat down with her basket and shaded her eyes, looking over the water.

‘I reckon it’s gonna rain later. Look at that cloud. They coulda chosen a better day for it, doncha think?’

She sounded hopeful. A malcontent and a loner like him, she shared his horror of events that were supposed to be both communal and fun.

‘I don’t know. I guess.’

Francis hoped that, if he didn’t speak to her too much, Ida would take the hint and wander off. He debated the question of whether it was less desirable to be seen sitting moodily
alone, or with an annoying junior member of the school, but from Susannah’s intense whispered conversations with her girlfriends, it didn’t seem likely that she would notice whatever he did. And there were various senior boys circling, ostentatiously minding their own business, but doing so within eyeshot of the senior girls; larking about, whooping and competing to throw stones furthest into the water.

As the sun beat down, levels of activity declined: sandwiches were eaten, flies were swatted, clothes shed. Susannah’s group had split off into threesomes and twosomes, and she herself had gone for a walk with Marion Mackay. Francis lay back with his head against a slab of rock and pulled his hat over his eyes. The sun pierced the loose weave, dazzling him pleasantly. Ida had lapsed into a grumpy silence, and was pretending to read
Puddenhead Wilson
.

By turning his head minutely from side to side, he was making the sunlight flare into his eyes and disappear, when Ida said, ‘Whatcha think of Susannah Knox?’

‘Huh?’

He had of course been thinking of her. Guiltily he tried to banish her from his mind.

‘Susannah Knox. Whatcha think of her?’

‘She’s all right, I guess.’

‘Everyone in school seems to think she’s about the prettiest girl they’ve ever seen.’

‘Do they?’

‘Well, yeah.’

He couldn’t tell whether Ida was looking at him or not. His heart was thumping, but his voice sounded suitably bored.

‘She’s pretty enough.’

‘You think so?’

‘I guess.’

This was getting irritating. He pulled the hat from his
face and squinted at her. She was sitting with her knees hunched up, shoulders round her ears. Her small face was scrunched up against the sun and she looked miserable and angry.

‘Why?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Does what matter? That she’s pretty?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I don’t know. Depends, I suppose.’

‘On what?’

‘On who you’re talking to. I guess it matters to her. Geez, Ida.’

He pulled the hat back over his eyes and a moment later heard her get up and walk huffily away. He must have fallen asleep, because he woke up when she sat down again, slightly startled and wondering where he was, and why he was so hot. The hat had slipped off his face and he was dazzled, red rockets bursting in front of his eyes. The skin of his face felt tight and tender. He was going to have a sunburn.

‘Do you mind if I sit here a minute?’

The voice was not Ida’s. Francis pulled himself up, to see Susannah Knox smiling down at him. Shock slid down his spine like ice water.

‘No. No, not at all.’

He looked round. The beach seemed much emptier than before, the group of girls she had been sitting with nowhere in sight.

‘Guess I was asleep.’

‘I’m sorry. I woke you up.’

‘It’s okay. A good thing. Think I’m going to have a sunburn.’

He touched his forehead gently. Susannah leant towards him, peering at him from what seemed a very close distance. He could see each curved, individual eyelash; the tiny blond hairs on her cheek.

‘Yeah, it looks a little red. It’s not too bad, though. You’re lucky, you’ve got that skin that, well it’s quite dark, you know what I mean? Me, I just get freckles and look like a beetroot.’

She smiled her enchanting smile. The sun was partially behind her and cast a radiant halo around her head, her light brown hair turned to strands of gold and platinum. Francis was finding it difficult to breathe. At least if he blushed now, she wouldn’t notice.

‘So, are you having a good time?’ he managed to say at last, having failed to think of anything cleverer.

‘What, here? I guess it’s okay. Some of those boys are being a pain. Emlyn Pretty pushed Matthew into the water with all his clothes on and laughed for about an hour. It was kind of mean.’

‘Yeah?’

Francis was secretly exultant. He had an unfortunate past with Emlyn. Lucky it wasn’t him pushed into the water.

Then, try as he might, he could not come up with anything else to say. He stared out at the water for a long time, praying for inspiration. Susannah didn’t seem to mind; she picked at the ends of her hair, apparently deep in thought.

‘Is Ida your girlfriend?’

This came so out of the blue that Francis could hardly speak for astonishment. Then he laughed. What an extraordinary idea. An extraordinary question.

‘No! I mean, she’s just a friend. She lives next door, you know. Just upriver. She’s two years younger than me,’ he added, for good measure.

‘Oh … You live next door to the Prettys, huh?’

She must have known, as everyone knew where everyone else lived. She busied herself even more with her hair. What she was doing to it, he couldn’t tell; obviously something fiddly that required immense concentration.