Precious Time
BY 
ERICA JAMES

The heroine of Erica James' seventh novel, Precious Time, is determined to make some changes in her life. Single mum Clara Costello has a secure job, a nifty sports car, a lovely house and a beguiling four-year-old son, called Ned. Ned is due to start school, but before he does Clara is determined to spend some "precious time" with him. So, feeling like an "intrepid explorer" she resigns from her job, buys a camper van and heads off on a tour of England to "show Ned what an exciting world he lived in, so that he would grow up knowing that there were endless possibilities out there for him." Clara's wonderful tour doesn't go quite to plan. A mere 250 miles from their starting point they arrive in Beaconsfield in the Peak District and get "caught up in the lives of a handful of folk".
Erica James' novel really comes into its own here. The characters are engaging, infuriating, their individual stories involving. There's Gabriel Liberty a 79-year-old cantankerous tyrant who's walled up with grief in the huge decaying Mermaid house. There's his son, schoolteacher Jonah, with his "fine boned face and disarming smile" and his difficult twin brother and sister Casper and Damson. Archie Merryman also lives in the village, a gentle soul who's caring for his mother and trying to come to terms with the failure of his marriage to stroppy Stella. Erica James deftly weaves these disparate characters together, revealing the secrets and regrets of their emotional lives, while keeping the plot moving at a sprightly pace. This is a deft and entertaining read from this popular author.


ORION

First published in Great Britain in 2001 by Orion,
an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group Ltd.
Copyright © 2001 by Erica James
Third impression 2001
The moral right of Erica James to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without
the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library.

Typeset by Deltatype Ltd, Birkenhead, Merseyside

Printed in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance
to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin's Lane
London, WC2H 9EA


To Edward and Samuel,
whose time with me is ultra precious

Take good care of time, how you spend it
For nothing is more precious than time.
In one little moment, short as it is,
Heaven may be won or lost.
From The Cloud of Unknowing, fourteenth-century mystical prose work.

Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks to all my new and old friends at Orion, in and out
of the office.
I shan't single anyone out for preferential treatment (not even my
wonderful dancing partners from Bournemouth) because you're all
special. But just to make his day, this is for Andrew Taylor: 'Thank
you, Mr Taylor, for all your help. I wish I could say it's been a
pleasure!'

Chapter One

Clara Costello's friends were all of one opinion: that she was mad.
Away with the fairies, crazy, doolally, Harpic, not the full shilling,
and two bricks short of a load, was just a random sample of what
they had to say about her. And just for the record, Harpic was her
favourite: it was their cute way of saying she was clean round the
bend.
They had reached this diagnosis six weeks ago, at the end of
January, when she had announced she was giving up her job - her
well-paid and secure job, as was repeatedly pointed out to her - to
take to the road in a second-hand camper-van with her four-year-old
son.
Louise, her closest friend and biggest critic, had been disappointed
that her gallivanting was to be restricted to the shores of Britain.
'Well, if you must indulge yourself with an early mid-life crisis, you
might at least have come up with something a little more adventurous,'
she had said. 'Backpacking round south-east Asia in search of
spiritual enlightenment would sound so much more interesting.'
'That's because you and David are such dreadful snobs and want
nothing but the most exotic postcards adorning your kitchen
noticeboard,' Clara had responded good-humouredly.
'And what about Ned? You've only just got him into St Chad's.
You'll lose his place, and even I know the waiting-list for that school
gets longer the older your child becomes.'
'I don't care. He's only just turned four and he'll learn more doing this than he would stuck in a boring classroom every day. This will
be fun for him, something he'll always remember. And, anyway,
school will be waiting for him in the autumn. If I don't do it now, I'll
never do it. This chance will never come round again.'
The car in front braked sharply and Clara did likewise. The
carrier-bag of good-luck cards and presents she had been given
during her farewell lunch slid forward on the passenger seat and
dropped to the floor. She left them where they were, her attention
caught by the sticker on the rear window of the rusting Fiat Panda in
front of her. 'No Fear', it read. Did that mean 'No fear' as in 'Not
likely', or 'No Fear' as in 'Hey, look at me, I'm a free-falling
daredevil who's not scared of anyone or anything'? Either way, Clara
fancied a sticker like that. Her friends were always saying how
fearless she was. 'You're too intrepid for your own good,' David had
said, more than once.
'Not true,' she had argued. 'I always reason everything out before I
dive in head first.'
But what neither her friends nor her parents knew was that they
were all partly to blame for this rush of blood to the head, as Louise
had so charmingly referred to Clara's shift of perspective.
It had started in the new year, when Clara's parents had embarked
on their trip of a lifetime to Australia, where they would be spending
an open-ended amount of time with her brother Michael, his wife
and their newborn baby. Kissing them goodbye at the airport, Clara
had felt the sting of being left behind.
It wasn't jealousy, more a case of acknowledging that it was too
easy to stand still, too easy to let the glorious opportunities of life slip
by without catching hold of them. For as long as she could remember
her parents had talked about travelling the world, but it was only
now, since her father had retired, that they felt they could justify such
an extravagant trip, as if it was his reward for all the years he had
put in at the insurance company he had worked for. But what if,
after all that patient anticipation, one of them had fallen ill at the last
minute or, worse still and heaven forbid, died? What would have
been the point in all that waiting? Why, oh why, did we spend so
much time putting life on hold?
Pondering this in the busy airport, she had suddenly realised Ned
was crying. His tearstained face was pressed against the smeared
glass of the window as he tried in vain to see his grandparents for one
last time - they had promised to wave to him from their plane on the
Tarmac. She bent down and held him tightly, wondering how she
would ever fill the vast gap in his world created by Nanna and
Granda's departure.
The following evening she had gone for dinner at Louise and
David's. It was their usual fivesome: David and Louise, Guy and

Moira, and herself. At around midnight, the time when Guy was
most likely to start philosophising, once he'd progressed from wine
to liqueur, he had asked, 'If you only had a year left to live, what
would you do?'
'In your case I'd donate the time to Help the Aged,' David had
laughed. 'You'd fit in nicely now you're losing your hair.'
'And, knowing you, you'd waste your year.'
Helping herself to a grape, Louise had said, 'I'd stop dieting. I'd let
myself become as fat as a pig and die happy.' She sighed and, with
her teeth, peeled a tiny length of skin off the grape. She was going
through another of her weigh-myself-and-hate-myself phases.
'I'd buy the house I'd always wanted,' Moira said, 'my dream
home, and to hell with the expense.'
'So what's wrong with the one we've just bought?' Guy frowned. 'I
thought it was your dream house.'
'It doesn't have a conservatory and the garden's too small.'
'It's got five bedrooms and very nearly an acre of paddock. What
more do you want?'
'I just said what I wanted, a conservatory and--'
'Well, I know what I'd do,' David interrupted. 'I'd give up work
and travel.'
'No, you wouldn't,' smiled Louise. 'You'd be bored to death
within a week. 'You can't even go on a fortnight's holiday without
reporting in. Besides, seeing too much of each other might send us
over the edge.'
It was daft, drink-loaded, late-into-the-night talk, no one giving a
sensible answer, no one giving the question the thought it deserved.
They were a group of thirty-somethings, with no children (apart
from Clara) and no real responsibility to anyone other than
themselves. But driving home later, Clara did give it some serious
thought, and after she had paid the babysitter and watched her drive
away, she had gone upstairs to check on Ned. Kneeling by his bed
she had experienced the fierce tenderness of love that she always felt
for him in moments like this. As she stroked his smooth, rounded
cheek, she knew exactly what she would do if her days were
numbered. She would spend her time with Ned.
As a single mother and working long hours as a production
manager for an international pharmaceutical company, she was all
too aware of how little time she had with her son. It was hard to
admit, but somewhere along the line she had got her priorities wrong
and had ended up squeezing Ned into her busy schedule when and
how she could, giving him the tired, worn-out bits of herself rather
than the best.
How had she allowed herself to become the kind of person she
would once have despised? The kind of person who, at the age of
thirty-four, couldn't stay awake long enough to watch the ten
o'clock news through to the weather, who perpetually worked late
because there was yet another problem on the packing line. The kind
of person who justified it all by saying there was a mortgage to pay,
nursery-school fees to find, and a voracious pension fund to feed.
The reality was that, like her friends, she had confused success
with happiness. And having built that happiness on the shifting sands
of material success, she was feeling the strain of sustaining it.
Financial security was a severe taskmaster, and she knew that only a
monumental change of heart would alter her outlook. It had
happened to her when she least expected it.
With her parents away, taking care of Ned had become even more
of a juggling act. They had looked after Ned for her most days. They
were wonderful with him and adored him, and were as much a part
of his life as she was. They would pick him up from nursery, drive
him to the park where he could play on the swings and ride his bike,
then take him home to give him his tea and generally spoil him. But
since they had gone to Sydney, to make the acquaintance of their
new grandson, Clara had had to persuade Ned that he had to go to a
new nursery school where he could stay in the after-school activity
club until she came to collect him.
On his first morning his dark eyes had pleaded with her not to
leave him, his tiny hand squeezing hers, sending her silent messages
that this wasn't what he wanted. It wasn't what she wanted either,
but she didn't have any choice. She helped him wriggle out of his stiff
new blazer and hung it with his satchel and plimsoll bag on his hook,
which was level with her waist. She stooped to kiss him goodbye and
saw to her horror that, beneath his shiny fringe, his eyes were filling.
'It'll be okay, Ned,' she said, her throat so clenched she could hardly
get the words out. 'You'll have so much fun that the day will whiz by
and before you know where you are I'll be here to take you home.'
He swallowed. 'I want to go home. I want Nanna and Granda.'
'Oh, Ned,' she whispered, 'I wish they were here too.' Then, all
business-like, she tilted up his chin and straightened the knot of his
red and grey tie, although it was already perfectly straight.
Two bigger boys cruised by, and gave Ned a contemptuous onceover.
One said, 'What's that in your hand?'
He smiled his best engaging smile, the one that his grandmother
said was a gift from the angels, and proudly showed them what he
was holding. It was a small plastic mermaid that had belonged to
Clara when she was little and had gone everywhere with her. Now it
went everywhere with Ned: it was his talisman and he was never
without it. 'It's old,' he said brightly, 'nearly as old my mummy.'
The boys drew in close for a better look. 'It's a doll,' one sneered.
'Dolls are for girls.' Sniggering, they sauntered away.
'Shall I look after Mermy today for you?' Clara asked, wanting to
scoop Ned up and get him out of this place and away from bigger
boy superiority.
He shook his head, and pushed Mermy back into his pocket. With
her heart fit to break she watched him square his shoulders ready to
brave the day ahead.
That day, she had worried about Ned constantly. She didn't care a
jot about the production of the latest infertility drug, nor about the
rumours that, once again, Phoenix Pharmaceuticals USA were
thinking of selling their UK division in Epsom, Surrey, to a French
company. From their offices on the floor above her, Guy and David
had e-mailed her with what was allegedly going on. Both suggested
that she brush up on her French: 'Zut alors! Avec les Frenchies, nous
will be out of le pan et clans le feu,' Guy had messaged, which had
probably stretched his linguistic repertoire to its limit.
She left as early as she could and drove like the wind, dreading to
find Ned in a crumpled heap of misery.
What she found was a tired-looking little boy sitting cross-legged
on the floor with a group of glassy-eyed children watching a cartoon
on a large-screen television. She was approached by one of his
teachers who said she wanted a little word.
'He's been all right, hasn't he?'
'Oh, he's an absolute delight,' the woman said. 'He's fitted in just
fine. But - and I know it's only his first day with us - goodness, what
a disorganised little boy he is. A head full of clutter. And he never
stops talking. But don't worry, I'm sure that between us we'll soon
have him licked into shape.' There was laughter in her voice and
Clara could see that she wasn't speaking unkindly. Even so, she
could have slapped her face. For heaven's sake, he was four years
old. What did she expect? A personal organiser tucked into his
briefcase? Looking around her and seeing the orderly rows of
blazers, satchels and plimsoll bags hanging from their hooks Clara
felt angry. This was the future for Ned. At the age of four he was
already on a conveyor-belt of uniformity. His next stop would be an
office where he could hang his jacket and the rest of his life.
It was while she was driving home, with Ned almost asleep, his
head tipped to one side, his hands wrapped around Mermy, that
Clara made her decision. It was now or never. She had until
September to give Ned what he deserved. She would use the precious
time available and give him her undivided attention and, hopefully, a
little adventure into the bargain.



Chapter Two


More than two hundred and fifty miles away, in Deaconsbridge, a
small market town in the Peak District where luscious hills of
tranquil beauty gave way to peaty moors of savage wildness, a man
sat brooding restlessly on an uncomfortable orange plastic chair. His
name was Gabriel Liberty, and at the age of seventy-nine he believed
he had earned the right not to be kept waiting.
Half an hour he had been stuck here, confined in this airtight
room, exposed to any number of germs. He stretched out his stiff legs
and knocked over a tower of building bricks, which an ugly,
snivelling brat had just spent the last five minutes constructing.
'Watch it, can't you?' the child's mother said. She put down her
magazine, shuffled a handbag and a small baby on her lap, and bent
to the brat who was now producing an annoyingly loud wail.
'It serves him right for being in my way,' Gabriel said. 'And while
you're down there, wipe his nose. It's disgusting.'
A shrill ring sounded, followed by an even shriller voice announcing
that the doctor was ready for patient number sixteen.
Gabriel hauled himself out of his chair. 'And about time too,' he
muttered.
T think you'll find I'm number sixteen,' said a hesitant voice from
across the room.
Gabriel glared at a pasty-faced man in a flat cap, daring him to
mount any kind of a real challenge.
'Oh, let him go,' said the mother of two, 'give us all some peace.'
Without bothering to knock, Gabriel entered Dr Cunningham's
surgery. 'Humph, not seen you before,' he said, sitting down in front
of the fake teak desk with a computer on one end and a shiny brass
statue of a dancing woman with too many hands at the other.
Sandwiched between the two was a spry little Indian man in his shirtsleeves.
His name was Dr Singh, if the engraved plaque in front of
him was to be believed. 'What happened to Dr Cunningham?' asked
Gabriel.
'He died.'
'Mm . . . that doesn't surprise me. He never did strike me as a good
advertisement for his profession. Always looked overworked and
underfed. Clearly wasn't practising what he preached. What got him,
then? Every doctor's weakness, the booze and fags?'
'No. A car crash in Portugal while he was on holiday with his
family. Did you not read about it in the local paper?'
'I've no time for local rags. Nothing but a load of old cods about
jumble sales and potting-shed break-ins. The Portuguese are the
worst drivers on earth, aren't they? Mind you, your lot aren't much
better. I was in Delhi once, never seen anything like it. Just passing
through, are you?'
Dr Singh gave him a thin smile. 'No, I'm here for the duration.
How about you?'
'All depends.'
'On anything in particular?'
'Yes. On how soon I can get out of here. I'll either die of boredom
being cooped up in this surgery a moment longer, or I'll catch
something fatal.'
'Well, let's see if I can oblige you and send you on your speedy
way.' Dr Singh turned and stared into the computer screen. 'I see it's
some months since you last paid us a visit, Mr Shawcross. How's
that lazy bowel of yours?'
Gabriel bristled at the man's effrontery. 'I'll have you know my
bowel is in perfect working order, nothing remotely lazy about it.
And the name's Liberty. Gabriel Liberty. You could at least get that
right.'
Dr Singh frowned and tapped away at his keyboard. T thought Mr
Shawcross was next on my list.'
'Oh, him - he wasn't fast enough. Probably that lazy bowel of his
holding him back.'
Gabriel snorted at his own joke, but Dr Singh attacked his
keyboard once more. 'Ah, here we are. Gabriel Liberty of Mermaid
House, Hollow Edge Moor, Deaconsbridge. Is that you? Have I got that right?'
'It'll do right enough.'
Another glance at the screen gave Dr Singh his next question. 'So
how are you getting on with your diet? Still keeping an eye on your
cholesterol?'
'A weather eye at all times,' Gabriel answered. He almost licked
his lips at the thought of the steak and kidney pudding with chips
that he would be tucking into as soon as he got out of here.
Another glance at the screen. 'And your arthritis?'
Gabriel waved his distorted large-knuckled hands. 'I'm giving
them a rest, decided to ease up on the fiddly work of brain surgery.
Truth is, I can't find the brains. Not round here anyway.'
Dr Singh rested his elbows on the desk. 'So what can I help you
With?'
'I was wondering when you'd get to the point. It's this . . .'

Lunch wasn't proving as enjoyable as Gabriel had hoped it would be.
For a start his usual table was occupied by a couple of day-trippers,
and then there had been no steak and kidney pudding on the menu;
he'd had to make do with egg and sausage instead. He didn't like
change. And he didn't like having to make do. Besides, egg and
sausage he could do at home. Nothing to it. But steak and kidney
pudding was another matter.
He was sitting in the Mermaid cafe overlooking the square where
Friday's market was in full flow - local people were going about their
business while tourists, brought out by the warm spring weather,
.were getting in their way. He sprinkled extra salt on to his chips,
folded the newspaper that the cafe supplied and prepared himself for
a satisfying assault on the crossword. To his annoyance someone had
beaten him to it. He pushed it aside. The day was not going well.
and As pathetic as it was, coming into Deaconsbridge had become the
high spot of his week. It was the only day that had any structure to it.
He came here every Friday to browse in the antiquarian bookshop,
pick up the odd item of food - kippers for his supper that evening
and to go to the bank and the post office. And, of course, to have
his lunch cooked for him.
He munched a mouthful of sausage slowly and wondered at the
tedium of his life. It wasn't an easy confession for him to make, but
he was bored. Other than his younger son, Jonah, who did the bulk of his shopping for him, he rarely saw anyone during the week. And
only ever made a fleeting visit. As for Caspar and Damson, if it hadn't been for Val's funeral, he might not have seen them
all these last couple of years.
It was strange, but since the death of his second wife eighteen
months ago, he had thought more and more of Anastasia, his first
wife. The memory of her had grown sharper as Val's faded.
Anastasia had been the mother of his children and had died thirty
four years ago.
He had been away on business in Nigeria when it happened and
had missed her death by twelve hours. In those days communication
wasn't what it is today, and he had arrived home to be told that he
was the widowed father of three children - Anastasia had died giving
birth to Jonah. Help was brought in to take care of the children, but
nothing was ever the same again. As the years passed, it was clear
that the children, in particular the twins, Caspar and Damson, who
were growing wilder by the day, needed a mother. So he married Val.
It was a union of convenience on both sides: he had needed someone
to organise the house and his family so that he could devote himself
to the running of Liberty Engineering, and Val had wanted the
security a husband could offer. They never deluded themselves that
the arrangement was perfect, but he liked to think that it had worked
well for the most part.
His plate had been cleared away some time ago and he was ready
for his dessert now. He banged his spoon sharply on the table and
caught the eye of a waitress. Fellow diners looked his way and he
returned their stares disdainfully. Someone muttered how rude he
was, but the waitress came over with his bowl of apple pie and
custard, just as she always did when he summoned her with his
spoon.
'Everything all right?' she said.
She asked this every time she served him. He supposed it was her
equivalent to 'Have a nice day' and went with the ridiculous outfit
she and the other waitresses wore - silly red baseball caps with short
red overalls, which made them look as though they belonged in a
theme park.
'No,' he said, 'everything is far from all right. I'm at the wrong
table, there was no steak and kidney on the menu and what's more,'
he thrust the paper at her, 'someone has completed my crossword.'
'We'll have to see if we can do better next Friday,' she said
breezily. 'Tea or coffee?'
'You know I always have tea.'
He spent the rest of the afternoon doing his errands before
awarding himself an hour of browsing in the bookshop.

Eventually he drove back to Mermaid House in a foul mood. He
had had to abort his first attempt because he had forgotten to call in
the chemist's. With Dr Singh's words echoing in his ears he had
"turned the Land Rover round and gone back into town. The man
was probably overreacting but he had said it was imperative that he
started the course of antibiotics as soon as possible. He had also said
that Gabriel would have to come into the surgery again in a couple of
days to have the dressing changed.
A lot of fuss and bother about nothing.
Even so, it wouldn't hurt to take the quack at his word, seeing as
the pain in his arm had been getting worse. It had been so bad the
last two nights he hadn't been able to sleep.
'That's a very nasty burn, Mr Liberty,' the doctor had said, when
Gabriel had rolled up his sleeve. 'It's also infected. When and how
did you do it?'
'Some time last week. I ... I was careless with the kettle.'
'And you didn't think to get it seen to?'
'I thought it would heal on its own.'
'Do you live alone, Mr Liberty?'
'What's that got to do with the price of eggs?'
, Once again the doctor's eyes had scanned his computer screen.
"Your wife died not so long ago, didn't she?'
¦She might have. What else have you got stored on there about
me?'
'You'd be surprised. Now, push your sleeve right back as far as it
will go and let me have a good gander.'
'You know, for a foreigner your English isn't bad.'
'And for a man with a burn the size of a chapati, you're lucky
you're not in hospital. Any family to keep an eye on you?'
'Mind your own business.'

The approach to Mermaid House was almost a mile long and the
track made for hard going; it was a toss-up whose suspension
would give out first, the ancient Land Rover's or Gabriel's. Cursing
each bump jolted his arm, he knew he would rather die than be
made to move. What was a little discomfort when he had perfection
on his doorstep?
Perched high on Hollow Edge Moor, and about a thousand feet
above sea level, his home was surrounded by unrivalled scenery.
 The best in England, for his money. From the front of the house, and
beyond the expanse of moorland, Deaconsbridge nestled in the
shallow plateau of the valley with its old mill and factory chimneys
just visible, but turn to the right, to the south, and you had the swell

of the dales of the White Peak. Walk round to the side of the house,
and on a clear day, the windswept hulk of Kinder Scout dominated
the skyline.
When he let himself in, Gabriel saw that Jonah had been and gone.
There were three carrier-bags of shopping on the table with a note
saying he had put away the perishable items in the fridge and freezer.
Damn the boy!
It had become Jonah's habit to call when he knew his father was
out.


Chapter Three



The nature of Archie Merryman's work meant that he saw more than
his fair share of bereavement. A house-clearance job usually meant
that he was tidying up the loose ends of someone's life and death,
and it never failed to touch him. Stripping a property of its furniture
and possessions, hearing the echoing footsteps on floors where once
there had been carpets, always made him feel that he had personally
removed the heart from the house. No longer was it a home: it was
an empty shell. It was only the thought of the next family moving in
that kept him from becoming maudlin. He liked to visualise them
taking up residence, children crashing down the stairs, doors
banging, chairs scraping, cutlery rattling, the radio playing.
He was glad that after twenty-five years in the business he hadn't
become hardened to it, and not just because it gave him a good
reputation and the edge on the other second-hand dealers in the area,
but because it proved to him that he was still the same old Archie.
'You always were a soft beggar,' his mother used to say to him, 'soft
as cottongrass, that's what you are.'
He climbed into his van, smiled goodbye to the two women whose
father's house he had just cleared. What wouldn't he give to hear a
sentence as coherent as that from his mother these days?
He reversed the van slowly, mindful of the load in the back. None
of it was particularly valuable - the best stuff had been taken away
for auction - but to mistreat it seemed disrespectful to those who had
once owned it. Some of it would end up at the tip - even he couldn't
sell perished bath mats and crumbling cork tiles - but he would shift
most of it.
It had been a big job and had taken him longer than he had
expected. He preferred smaller houses, not because he was lazy but
because he didn't like to get too involved. If you spent too long
clearing a house, you ended up thinking like the family, unable to be
objective. He had done it yesterday. 'Are you sure you wouldn't like
to hang on to this?' he had asked the two sisters. From the expression
in their eyes he had known he'd said the wrong thing. They had
probably already put themselves through countless emotional hoops
deciding what to keep and what to part with, and here was this
outsider making it worse for them.
He trundled the van slowly down the hill, away from the stone
built farmhouse and its For Sale board. In his rear-view mirror he
could see the two women still standing where he had left them. They
were crying. It didn't surprise him - he had seen it all before. While
there had been business to conduct they had held themselves
together, but now that they were alone, they could go back to
mourning the death of their father.
It was warm in the van and he lowered the window. Immediately
he felt his spirits drag themselves up from his boots. At last it felt like
spring was really here. He loved March: in lush green fields crisscrossed
with a network of drystone walls, sheep grazed while skinny
newborn lambs hopped and skipped on bandy legs. In the distance
he could make out a kestrel hovering above something on the ground
that had caught its eye. He sighed expansively. Despite all the sadness
the world wasn't a bad place, and until someone came up with
anything better, he'd stick with it a while longer.
He drove on and wondered what he would find at home that
evening. Since his mother had moved in with them after her stroke,
things between him and Stella had gone from bad to worse. 'Over my
dead body,' had been her exact words when he had suggested it, and
he hadn't been surprised by her hostility: Stella and his mother had
never hit it off - but he had hoped she would come round to the idea.
Thankfully she had, and Bessie had moved in last month.
When Archie had invited his mother to come and stay with them,
as he had euphemistically put it to her, she had agreed quite readily to
his relief: he knew how independent she was. 'We'll treat it as a
holiday,' he had said, 'but without the sunburn.' He suspected that
she knew she would never go back to her house in Derby.
Meanwhile, her neighbours were keeping an eye on it so that she
could return when she was able. The fact that a second stroke was
likely to follow the first, and that it would probably be more
debilitating, was not mentioned.
She had had the stroke just before Christmas, not a massive one
but bad enough to knock the stuffing out of her. The tough,
uncompromising woman he had always known became fragile and
unsure. The stroke had robbed her of nearly all the strength in her
right arm and hand, and her right leg had also taken a beating, which
made walking slow and difficult. Making herself understood had
been a problem too. Her speech was a lot clearer now, and that was
down to weeks of diligent speech therapy, although at times it was
still a puzzle to know what she was saying. If she was tired or
anxious the words came out slurred or just plain jumbled - 'hum
dryer' for tumble-dryer, 'rare hush' for hairbrush. He had tried to
turn understanding her into a game, calming her frustration with
light-hearted humour, but Stella didn't have the patience for this and
recently had shown signs of losing her temper. He didn't blame her Bessie
wasn't her mother after all.
The strain of being caught between a rock and a hard place wanting
to keep the peace with his wife and do the right thing by his
mother - was taking its toll. Initially things had gone smoothly, but
then the niggles had turned into rows and recently he and Stella had
both said things that should never have been voiced. Until then their
skirmishes had been conducted in low voices. 'She's my mother,' he
had whispered one night in the kitchen, as Stella slammed cupboards
and drawers. 'She's not well. What do you expect me to do with
her?' It was a dangerous question, given that he knew exactly what
Stella wanted him to do with her. But he would never do that. He
saw too often the hurt and sense of betrayal as families, as well
meaning as they were, shepherded their elderly relatives out of the
houses they knew and loved and into nursing homes. Sometimes they
went willingly, looked forward to giving up the reins of running a
house in exchange for having everything done for them. But more
often than not they were sad and confused, not quite understanding
that they would never see home again.
No. He would not do that to Bessie Merryman.
What saddened him most was that his mother apologised
frequently for having become a burden and there was nothing he
could do to convince her that she wasn't. The woman who had
brought him up single-handedly, and taught him always to see the
best in others, would never be a burden to him.

His shop, Second Best, was situated on the corner of Millstone Row
and Lower Have in Deaconsbridge. It was a double-fronted Victorian
building of stone that originally had been honey-gold but which
was now blackened with age. Positioned just off the market square, it
had the bonus of convenient parking to the side where, with
Samson's help, Archie unloaded the van. Samson - his real name was
Shane - was the extra brawn Archie relied upon for those larger
items of furniture he couldn't manage on his own. At six feet two,
Archie wasn't a small man, but Samson dwarfed him. His conversational
skills were restricted to a nod and a grunt, but he was a
godsend with a wardrobe on his back and a horsehair mattress
between his teeth.
On the occasions when Samson was on a house-clearance job with
Archie or they were delivering furniture to a customer, Comrade
Norm - so-called because his parents had christened him Norman
Lenin Jones - kept a part-time eye on the shop. There were days
when they could have done with another pair of hands, but business
wasn't consistently good. It could stretch to two and half salaries, but
any more and the financial knicker elastic would snap.
He said good night to Samson, checked that all was locked and
secure, and set off for home, a ten-minute walk across town. The low
evening sun brought a soft glow of light to the square, and now that
everything was shut, apart from the Mermaid cafe, which stayed
open until seven o'clock, a pleasing calm had descended. The market
traders had gone, leaving behind a vacant cobbled square splattered
with squashed fruit and veg and discarded hot-dog wrappers. Over
by the war memorial, a blue and white carrier-bag was swept along
by the breeze until it came to rest at the foot of a litter-bin. It was
only a few yards out of his way so Archie strolled over and popped it
in. Straightening up, he waved to Joe Shelmerdine, who was just
locking his bookshop.
Further along the street was the Deaconsbridge Arms, and
although it had been done up by the brewery to draw in tourists, it
was still where the old die-hard drinkers gathered to sup their beer
and indulge in local gossip. Archie rarely showed his face in there. He
wasn't a drinker: he had seen alcohol turn his father into a vicious
bully and had grown up with a horror of it doing the same to him.
He had come home too many times from school to find his father
drunk and ready to take out his anger on the first person to hand.
From a young age Archie had known that it was better for him to
take the beating than his mother.
He carried on briskly - it was the nearest he got to working out
like Samson did - but slowed when he got to Cross Street: it was one
of the steepest roads in the town and it always took him by surprise,
squeezed the air out of his chest and turned his relatively healthy
fifty-five-year-old body into that of a wheezing ninety-year-old. He
paused to catch his breath, leaning against the painted handrail on
which generations of small children had swung upside-down like
rows of multicoloured fruit bats.
He and Stella had wanted children, but sadly it wasn't to be, and
as the years passed they had resigned themselves to being one of
those childless couples who never quite fit in. They had moved to
Deaconsbridge not long after they had married and had lived in a
rented flat until they had enough money to put down a deposit on a
three-storey end-of-terrace house in Cross Street. They had been here
ever since. They could have moved, and Stella had been keener than
him to do so, but somehow they had never got round to it.
When he reached home he let himself in at the back door and was
surprised by how quiet it was. Usually the radio or the television was
on, sometimes both competing to be heard.
A sixth sense told him something was wrong - the same sixth sense
that had dried his mouth and made his hair stand on end just before
Christmas when he had found his mother's home dark and silent. She
had been lying on the floor by the side of her bed, her face twisted,
her nightdress exposing more of her than was fair. When she saw
him her eyes had filled with tears. She had been there since morning,
unable to move, unable to call for help.
He moved fast now, calling her name as he took the stairs two at a
time. He burst into what had been the spare room, but which was
now her room.
She wasn't there.
Into the bathroom next.
Nothing.
He was just about to go into his and Stella's room when he heard
her voice. He bent over the balustrade and saw his mother looking
up at him from the bottom of the stairs.
'Ser-late,' she said, pointing to her watch.
He put his heart back where it belonged and joined her in the hall.
'Only a little late tonight,' he said, adrenaline still pumping through
him. 'I had a busy day. Where were you? Didn't you hear me
calling?'
She took his arm for support and led him slowly towards the front
room. Once again the hairs on the back of his neck warned him of an
impending shock.
On the mantelpiece, between a pair of decorative china plates, was
an envelope with his name on it. He knew without opening it what it	
would say.
Stella had left him.

Chapter Four


It was Sunday morning and Ned and Clara were being treated to a
brunch-party send-off. While Moira helped Ned to the last of the
chipolatas and crispy bacon, Clara watched the goings-on outside
where Guy and David were putting the finishing touches to Winnie,
the three-year-old camper-van that was soon to be Ned and Clara's
new home.
Parting with her lovely Mazda MX 5 yesterday morning had been a
wrench for Clara, and even Ned had looked sad when they had
watched the smart two-seater sports car being driven away by its new
owner - it had always been a source of pride to Ned that he was the
only child he knew who always got to sit in the front of his mother's
car. He had brightened, though, when the camper-van arrived.
It was second-hand, but in excellent condition, and unlike a brand
new car it seemed to have a highly developed personality. There was
a cosy feel to it that suggested happy times ahead.
When Clara had first seen it, the salesman had explained that its
previous owners were a nice couple who had only parted with it
because they were upgrading to something bigger. 'I had no idea
camper-vans could be so well kitted out,' she had said, as they
stepped inside and she felt the soft fitted carpet beneath her shoes.
'This is actually what we call a motorhome, and quite a modest
one at that. You should see what we have at the top end of the
market. The Winnebago, now that's what we call deluxe.' He
pointed through one of the side windows to a massive bus-like
vehicle that looked as if it might accommodate at least two touring
rock bands.
'Heavens! How many does that sleep?' she asked.
'Eight. One of the beds is queen-size. There's even a washing
machine and tumble-dryer on board.'
Then, feeling disloyal to the modest camper-van they were
supposed to be viewing, she said, 'Well, how about you show me
what this baby has to offer?'
While Ned carried out his own inspection - opening doors, trying
the driver's seat complete with armrests - the salesman had filled her
in on the superior coachbuilt workmanship, the elegant interior,
the spacious dinette, the two-burner combination cooker, the tilt
tolerant fridge and the swivel cab seats. Ned had already discovered
those - one minute he was facing the front, the next the back. With
growing enthusiasm the young man showed her rattle-free lockers
and cabinets. There were recessed halogen reading-lights, upholstered
bench-seats, two surprisingly large wardrobes, a drop-down
contoured hand-basin in the ingenious bathroom that contained a
flushable toilet as well as a shower. He left the sleeping arrangements
till last, showing her, with a magician's flourish, the double bed over
the cab, complete with little ladder, and the two single beds in the
dinette area that could also convert to a comfortable double.
'Did the previous owners have a name for it?' she asked, when at
last he drew breath.
He gave her an odd look. 'Not that I know of. I could check the
registration document if you want - it's in the office.'
'No, that's okay.' She sensed he was humouring her, probably
thinking that after everything he had just gone through, she was just
another time-waster. 'May I have a test drive, please?' she said, keen
to re-inflate him. 'I'd like to see how it handles.'
He was immediately back into his stride. 'Certainly. Have you
driven one before? It will feel quite different from what you've been
used to.' He cast an eye in the direction of her sports car.
'I'm sure I'll get the hang of it.'
'Is it ours now?' asked Ned, climbing down the ladder from the
bed above the cab while the salesman went to fetch the keys.
'Would you like it to be ours?'
He slipped into the driver's seat, grabbed the steering-wheel and brrmmed noisily, trying to reach the pedals.
'I'll take that as a yes.' She smiled.
It was while they were driving home, after she had written a
cheque for the deposit, that the camper-van had been christened.
Clara had been thinking of the ridiculous eight-berth monstrosity

and had said scornfully, to no one in particular, 'Winnebago. What
kind of a name is that?'
'Winnie, Winnie, Bago,' chanted Ned. 'Is that what we're calling
our camper-van?' he asked, looking up from the pile of glossy
brochures he'd gathered from the salesman's office.
'We could shorten it to Winnie,' she said. 'What do you think?'
He considered her suggestion earnestly, then smiled. 'Poo,' he said.
'Oh dear, can you hang on until we get home?'
A grin extended across his face. 'Not that. Winnie-the-PooA?.'
Apart from filling Winnie with provisions, clothes, books, toys,
games, cassettes, a basic tool kit, and anything else they might need
for the next five months, they had also had to pack up other
possessions. During their absence, a young professional couple
would be renting their house and were moving in on Monday.
Initially Clara hadn't wanted to let it, but common sense had
dictated that she might as well have the money coming in to pay off
the mortgage. Then her savings wouldn't receive such a large dent. It
also meant that she would be committed to what she had started.
With no house to come back to until the end of August, she would
have to make a go of the trip.
Her friends had been concerned about money. 'I just don't
understand how you'll manage,' Moira said.
'I've got a PEP that's just dying to be let loose,' she had said. 'I
know that would only get you through a long weekend, Moira, but
our needs will be quite modest while we're away. And if the worst
comes to the worst we could resort to busking.'
'I wouldn't put it past you.'

'Oh, and since when did I become such a rebel?'
'You've always been a rebel, Clarabelle,' Guy had said. 'You've
never been fully in step with the rest of us.'
Though Clara knew that there was an element of truth in what he
had said, she was hurt to hear it voiced so openly. She and Ned had
not yet travelled a mile, but already a gap was opening between her
and the gang. 'You mean I'm different from you lot because I'm not
married and I don't trade in my house every other year for something
bigger and better?'
'Now, don't get nasty with Guy,' Moira had said. 'It's not his fault
he still hasn't forgiven you for spilling the beans about Margaret
Thatcher not being the Tooth Fairy.'
Suddenly everyone had an opinion about her.
David said. 'You know jolly well that you're the resourceful one of
us. For goodness' sake, you're the only one sitting round this table
who knows what to do with a power drill. When was the last time
you had to have a "little man" in? Eh?'
'Nothing ever fazes you, Clara,' Louise put in. 'While we've
become childishly self-indulgent as we've grown older, you've turned
into a sensible adult.'
'That sounds worryingly like a criticism to me,' Clara said
defensively.
They ignored her and carried on, warming to their theme. 'You're
a natural facilitator,' Guy said. 'A doer who has to do things her
way.'
'Are you saying I'm bossy?'
'Well, you do like to be in charge, don't you?'
'Not always!'
'Face it, Clara,' David said. 'You put us all to shame. Just look at
what you've achieved single-handedly. You've carved out a great
career for yourself, you have--'
'A great career I'm wilfully throwing away,' she chipped in,
wanting to redress the balance of this cringe-making conversation.
He had waved her interruption aside. 'And you have a fantastic
son, who even you would admit is your crowning glory.'
'Enough!' she had cried.
Clara was still watching the antics of her friends outside when
Louise came and joined her at the window. 'Just look at them!
Anyone would think you were getting married.'
Decorated with party streamers and shaving foam, Winnie indeed
looked like the archetypal honeymoon getaway vehicle.
'You know, it's not too late to change your mind about this harebrained
caper,' Louise said.
Without turning her head, Clara said, 'And why would I want to
do that?'
'Oh, you know, now that it's the day you're finally setting off, it
might be dawning on you - the extent of your madness and the
terrible mistake you're making. Only you're too proud to admit you
might been a little hasty.'
Now Clara did turn and look at her friend. 'And you're too proud
to admit that you're envious of what I'm doing.'
'Me? Jealous of being cooped up in a box on wheels for five
months with a chemical loo? You must be joking!'
'Come on, Louise. Admit it! Aren't you just a teensy-weensy bit
envious that I'm escaping, taking time out so that I can enjoy each
day as it comes?'
'No, I'm not. I'm more concerned with living in the real world, not
this frothy concoction you've invented for yourself.'
'It feels real enough to me.'
'Mm . . . let's see how it feels in a week's time when you're bored
of your own company and Ned says he's homesick.'
Clara looked across Louise and David's sitting room to where Ned
was on the sofa with Moira. A momentary pang of uncertainty made
her wonder if she wasn't being entirely honest with herself. Who did
she think would benefit most from this trip? Herself or Ned?
Both of them, she told herself firmly. She needed a break from
work and to be with Ned. 'Boredom and homesickness won't be an
issue,' she said. 'What we'll experience will be just as real and valid
as anything that's going on round here.'
'But it will only be as real as a holiday, which, when it comes to an
end, will bring you back to where you started.'
'Maybe it won't. Maybe I'll find my personal Utopia out on the
road and never come home.'
'And you can take this as a first official warning. If you stop
washing your hair, pierce yourself just once and turn into a New Age
hippie, I'll publicly disown you.'
Clara smiled. 'Is that a promise?'
'Oh, come here, and give me a hug. I'm going to miss you. You
will write, won't you? I'll need the occasional phone call, too, to keep
me going.'
Clara hugged her back. 'I'll miss you too. And of course I'll keep in
touch. You don't think I'd pass up the opportunity to brag about
what a wonderful time I'm having, do you? Rubbing your snooty
nose in my happiness will give me the greatest pleasure.'
They drew apart. 'And don't you dare quote me,' Louise said, 'but,
yes, part of me is jealous of what you're doing. Who wouldn't be?'
Clara embraced her again. 'And that happy thought will be with
me every time I clean out the Chemi-loo!'
A bang on the window made them both jump. Guy and David's
open-mouthed faces were pressed against the glass; it wasn't a pretty
sight.
'And there's another happy memory for you take with you,'
laughed Louise. 'A matching pair of gargoyles!'

At last they were ready to go.
'Come on, you intrepid explorers,' David said, lifting Ned down
from his shoulders, 'that's enough of the goodbyes. It's time you were
on your way.'
'Glad to know you're eager for us to be gone,' said Clara. She
settled Ned into the front passenger seat.
'That's because the sooner you go, the sooner you'll be back,
sweetie-pie.'
'I wouldn't count on it.'
'You're all talk, Clarabelle. A hundred quid says you'll be crawling
back to us within the month and applying for your old job.'
She held out her hand to Guy. 'Two hundred says I won't.'
He grasped it firmly. 'Done!'
Clara hugged everyone all over again and received their unhelpful
words of advice with good grace. No, she wouldn't talk to strangers.
No, she wouldn't hold the traffic up too much. And yes, she would remember to respect the countryside.
Louise moved in to have the last word. 'And don't do anything
stupid while you're away.'
'Such as?'
'Such as taking any unnecessary risks. We want you to come back
in one piece. Okay?'
'This may come as a shock to you, Louise, but that's something
I'm keen to do myself.'
An hour into the journey and with Walton-on-Whinge - as she and
the gang referred to Walton-on-Wineham where they all lived - well
behind her, Ned had fallen asleep: the combination of excitement
and anticipation had caught up with him. She turned off his story
tape, and now that she was used to driving Winnie and had more or
less mastered the vagaries of the gear-lever - roadworks and stop
start traffic on the M25 had seen to that - she relaxed a little and
thought how wonderfully free she felt chugging along in the inside
lane of the M40 with High Wycombe soon to be ticked off on her
mental route-planner. She loved the idea of being able to stop at a
moment's notice, park up wherever and feel instantly at home. It was
this that had appealed to her when the idea had first occurred to her
to take Ned travelling. A camper-van would provide a home-from
home environment that would give them a comforting sense of self
sufficiency. And certainly, right now, with Ned at her side, she felt as
if she had everything she would ever want in the world.
A car overtook her and the driver gave her a wide smile. She
wondered why. But then she remembered what Guy and David had
done to the van - most of the streamers had blown away, but the
balloons were still tied to the wing mirrors and door handles.
She switched on the radio. A song came on that she recognised - it
was Nanci Griffith singing 'Waiting for Love' - and it tugged
painfully at her heart. She had first heard it when she was living in
America, and it would be for ever synonymous with that period in
her life.
She had only recently arrived there, single and carefree, looking
forward to the challenges of a year-long secondment at Phoenix's
headquarters in Wilmington. Determined to work hard and further
her career, she had wanted to make the most of the opportunity.
But it hadn't been quite the career move she had thought it would
be. She had returned home before the end of her secondment with a
bruised heart and a pregnancy to explain to her friends and family.


Chapter Five

Gabriel was up earlier than usual. Last night when he had drawn the
curtains the track had fallen down. Dust and bits of plasterwork had
showered over him and something had got into his eye. He had tried
bathing it with an old eye-bath he had found in the medicine
cupboard, but it hadn't helped. Now, after a sleepless night, his eye hurt like hell and every time he blinked it felt as if the lid was coated
with sandpaper.
Before going downstairs to make himself some breakfast he went
into the bathroom and had another rummage in the cabinet, hunting
through the shelves of old pill bottles and pots of gunk Val had
sworn by. Right at the back, on the top shelf, he found what he was
looking for: an ancient eye patch. The elastic had perished but he tied
a knot in it, and it held firmly enough around his head. His hands
were so annoyingly stiff and clumsy that took him a few minutes to
achieve this. He closed the cabinet door and took a long, hard look
at himself in the dirty, black-spotted mirror.
He was presented with an unshaven, grey-haired old man wearing
a black eye-patch.
He smoothed down his thick uncombed hair, which was sticking
up all over his scalp, then he turned his head, and decided he looked
no better sideways on. The long straight nose Anastasia had
described as proud and regal had turned into something that didn't
fit on his face any more; it looked too big, as though he had
borrowed it from an older brother in the hope that he might grow
into it. His cheeks had lost their firmness and sagged under the
weight of so many lines. His mouth had withered into a rigid
downward curve. Thick drooping earlobes hung at either side of his
face and abundant bristly tufts sprouted from them. Dear God, when
had he become such an ugly brute?
He walked the creaking length of the balustraded landing,
avoiding the rucks in the threadbare runner, and paused, as he did
every morning, to look down on the garden. The sun was still low in
the eastern sky, but a pale light shone on the sloping lawn, planted
sporadically with daffodils. It stretched down to a thick bank of
rhododendrons that were yet to burst into flower, and beyond was
Hollow Edge Woods, a copse where generations of foxes and
badgers had lived. Way off in the distance, the swell of sheep-grazed
hills rose up to the morning sky. He rested his hands on the stone sill
and thought that Byron had got it right when he had compared
Derbyshire with Greece and Switzerland, saying it was just as noble.
It had been love at first sight for Anastasia when she had seen
Mermaid House. She had been an incurable romantic who acted on
impulse and was inventively quirky, hence their children's bizarre
names. But she had had her work cut out in convincing him to buy
the house - he was so conventional and analytical. It cost much more
than they could afford, and was miles from where Liberty Engineering's
factory was situated, but eventually he had given in to her. He
could still see her bright eyes flashing with delight as she whirled him
round the room when he agreed to put in an offer.
It was only when they moved in that they appreciated the state of
the place. It dated back to the mid-nineteenth century, and it was a
wreck: dry rot, wet rot, any rot you cared to think of, Mermaid
House had it in spades. Busy with work, he had left Anastasia to deal
with it - it was her baby, after all. She threw herself into its
restoration, determined to see the job thoroughly well done - and
their bank balance just as thoroughly depleted. He had never
regretted it, though. To see her happy was enough. And then Caspar
and Damson had arrived. The upheaval in their lives was colossal,
but Anastasia took the twins in her stride. She never complained of
being tired, when night after night she sat in the nursery in the
rocking-chair with one or other of the blighters on her shoulder. She
never minded how little they slept, or how mischievous they were
once they began to explore their surroundings, pulling themselves up
on to their chubby legs and ransacking cupboards, drawers, shelves,
constantly searching for something new to play with - and break.
They were an inseparable two-man destruction derby: nothing was
safe with them around. Gabriel had wanted to employ a nanny to
help Anastasia, but she wouldn't hear of it, claiming that she loved
the challenge of two such lively children.
It was five years before they took the plunge again and tried for
another child. Then Jonah was born.
And Anastasia died.
By craning his neck to the left and pressing his head against the
window, which was cloudy with dirt, Gabriel could just see the spire
of the church in Deaconsbridge; it was where both of his wives were
buried.
He tightened the belt of his dressing-gown and continued along the
landing, passing closed doors to dusty rooms he hadn't been inside
for months. He took the stairs slowly: his one-eyed view gave him a
misleading impression of the floor - it wasn't as close as he thought it
was. The staircase was yet another reminder of Anastasia: she used to
refer to herself as Scarlett O'Hara as she swept down it in a graceful
rush of laughter, her long hair tumbling around her shoulders.
The kitchen didn't catch the morning sun, and even in the height
of summer it was the coldest room in the house. Val had had an Aga
installed and had stoked it with coal morning, noon and night. It had
been worse than a demanding baby: as she shovelled in fuel at one
end, it deposited ashes at the other. She had soon tired of that and
had had it converted to gas. Not long after her death it, too, had
given up the ghost - something to do with a faulty thermostat that
couldn't be replaced.
Since then Gabriel had bought himself a bog-standard electric
cooker and one of those portable heaters on wheels with a large gas
cylinder inside it. He switched it on now - he had to keep clicking the
button until eventually a spark ignited the gas and a whoomph of
flame shot across the blackened panels. It had been when he was
doing this, the other week, that he had burned his arm. He had
deliberately lied to Dr Singh about being careless with the kettle
because he had thought that otherwise it might seem that he couldn't
be trusted with a gas fire. Scalding oneself sounded less dangerous,
somehow.
It was four days since he had been into Deaconsbridge and had his
arm seen to. He hadn't been back to the surgery; he had decided
there was no point. He had finished the short course of antibiotics
several days earlier than he should have, working on the theory that
the pills would take effect faster if he tripled the dosage on days one
and two. What was more, he had changed the dressing himself,
swapping the bandages and gauze for a clean handkerchief and
securing it with a couple of safety-pins. By rights the doctor should
be grateful for being let off the extra work. If more people were like
Gabriel, the National Health Service wouldn't be in such a mess.
But now he had this wretched eye to deal with. He would give it a
day or so, and if there was no improvement, he would go into
Deaconsbridge - make his Friday visit on Thursday perhaps. He
pressed the heel of his hand against the eye patch, resisting the urge
to give it a damn good rub. It was so itchy and sore. To distract
himself he set about making a pot of tea for his breakfast.
For such a large kitchen, there was little space to work in: every
surface was crowded with crockery and paperwork that lay in untidy
piles awaiting his attention. As did all those things that needed
mending, but which he never got round to: an Anglepoise lamp that
wouldn't stay in position; a battery charger he'd ordered from one of
those junk catalogues and had dropped and broken; an iron that
needed a new plug; a wobbly mug tree; a wooden bread-bin that
wouldn't open properly; and several shirts that were down to just a
few buttons. But the mess was getting to him; there was something
tidal in the stealthy manner in which it was creeping up on him. He
would have to do something about it soon.
But not today.
Domesticity didn't suit him. He wasn't cut out for defrosting
freezers or knowing how to get a crease-free wash out of the
washing-machine. Val had taken care of all that. It had been her
domain and he had willingly left her to it. He wasn't ashamed to
admit that he was old school when it came to defining the boundaries
of a husband and wife. The system had worked perfectly until the
world had gone mad and everyone had become obsessed with
equality and role reversal.
He switched on the wireless to listen to the Today programme,
sweeping aside several days' worth of plates, cups, knives and forks,
dirty pots and pans and a couple of empty pilchard tins, until at last
he had cleared a space around the kettle and toaster. His breakfast
made, he added a tot of twelve-year-old Glenlivet to his tea, just a
drop to kick-start his day. Time was when a new day for him had
been like cracking an egg - short, sharp, and he was off. Now he had
to ease himself into it. He sat at the cluttered table and answered the
wireless back, dishing out his objections and criticism with a fair
hand: he disagreed on principle with everything the presenters or
politicians said.
He was still sitting at the table when he heard a knock at the door.
He checked his watch, as though it would tell him who was
bothering him at such an unsociably early hour. But it was later than
he had thought, almost ten o'clock. Even so, who could it be? Callers
at Mermaid House were rarer than hens' teeth.
There was another knock, louder this time. Whoever it was seemed
determined to summon him to the door. He pushed his feet into his
slippers and shuffled off reluctantly to deal with whoever had come
to bother him. He slid the bolts back, top and bottom, turned the key
and opened the door.
'What the hell do you want?' Gabriel growled, when he saw Dr
Singh standing before him. 'And don't tell me you were just passing
and thought you'd see if I was in.'
'No, Mr Liberty, I wouldn't dream of lying to you. I am here
because you didn't keep your appointment with me. You didn't
return to the surgery for me to check your arm.'
'Very considerate of you, I'm sure. But (a) I didn't make an
appointment, and (b) you've wasted your time in coming here
because my arm is better.'
'Perhaps you would be good enough to let me be the judge of that.'
Gabriel gave him a hard stare. 'Persistent, aren't you?'
'Professional is how I like to view myself. Now, then, are we to
conduct surgery business on the doorstep, or am I permitted to come
in?'
'Suit yourself.'
Gabriel showed him through to the kitchen and realised at once
that this was a mistake. He could feel Dr Singh's dark eyes appraising
the situation, and the mess seemed a hundred times worse. The bottle
of Glenlivet on the table didn't give quite the right impression either,
especially as he was still in his shabby old pyjamas. Damn! He should
have taken him into the drawing room. In fact, any room but this.
He pushed up the sleeve on his dressing-gown, deciding that the
sooner the infuriating man had examined his arm, the sooner he
would be gone. 'There,' he said, removing the makeshift bandage,
'just as I told you. Practically as good as new.'
Dr Singh gave the handkerchief a disapproving look, but nodded
at the improvement in Gabriel's arm. 'You're right, it's healing
nicely. But since I'm here I might just as well apply a proper dressing,
and while I do that, you can tell me what you've done to your eye.'
'I got something in it last night,' Gabriel said airily. 'It's a bit sore,
that's all. There's no need for you to have a gawp at that too.'
But Dr Singh insisted that he be allowed to do his job. 'And how
did you come by this?' he asked, when Gabriel had removed the
patch and the eye began to water at the sudden brightness.
'A curtain track fell on top of me if you must know.'
After pulling a small-beamed torch on him, Doctor Singh said, 'I
don't like the look of it. You need to see a specialist. It's inflamed and
you might have damaged the retina.'
'Don't be absurd. I've just got dust in it, that's all. Can't you give
me some drops or something?'
'The "something" is a trip to hospital, Mr Liberty. Do you really
want to risk going blind in that eye?'
'God! You foreigners make me sick. You're all the same, you come
over here, you get yourselves an education at our expense, then start
telling us what to do. Well, you know what you can do with your
trip to hospital, don't you?'
Dr Singh put away his torch and snapped shut his medical case.
'Mr Liberty, listen very carefully to what I am about to say. Either
you do as I say or I shall inform Social Services that you are living in
squalor and that you are incapable of looking after yourself. And,
trust me, they will descend upon you faster than you can say Enoch
Powell and you will rue the day you ever ignored my advice. So, old
chap, what's it to be?'
Gabriel's jaw dropped. 'You wouldn't dare.'
'Care to put me to the test?'
'Couldn't we just try the eye drops first?'
'No. Now, if you would be so good as to get dressed, I will drive
you to the hospital. I was going there anyway.'
'What? Right now?'
'No time like the present.'

'I don't approve of blackmail,' Gabriel said, as he folded himself into
the doctor's Honda hatchback. His knees were almost tucked under
his chin, the top of his head jammed against the roof. Typical of the
bloody Japanese to build cars for midgets then inflict them on the rest
of the world.
'It wasn't blackmail,' Dr Singh said, 'it was a straightforward deal.
We negotiated quite openly. There was nothing underhand about it.
But tell me, why don't you have any help around your mausoleum of
a house?'
'Who said I didn't?'
'Your standards must be low if you let a cleaner off so lightly.'
'If it's any of your business, I got rid of the last woman after I
caught her stealing from me. I didn't object to her helping herself to
the odd bit of loose change lying about the place, but I drew the line
at her sneaking out of the house with my best single malt whisky
stuffed up her knickers.'
'How long ago was that?'
'Nearly a year.'
'And no other help since then?'
'What is this? Twenty questions and then you file your report to
Social Services?'
They juddered over the cattle grid at the end of the track where
two stone pillars marked the entrance to Mermaid House, then
joined the main road. 'Tell me about your family. Do they live
nearby?'
Gabriel shifted the seat-belt that was cutting into his neck. 'Are
you asking me why they don't act the part of doting children and
pop in every other day to see how the old man's doing?'
'I might be.'
A slight pause hung between them before Gabriel said, 'We have a
perfectly balanced relationship: they can't stand me and I can't stand
them.'
Dr Singh slowed down for a sheep that was nonchalantly crossing
the road. 'Those are harsh words,' he said. He turned to face Gabriel,
looked at him gravely. 'Do you not feel the heavy weight of them?
Do you not wish it could be otherwise?'
Seconds passed.
'The sheep's gone now,' Gabriel muttered. 'You can drive on.'


Chapter Six

With no class before lunch, Jonah decided to bunk off school. He
pulled on his jacket and took the stairs two at a time. At the bottom,
pressed against the lockers in a slobbering, face-washing clinch, he
found Tim Allerton wrapped around Shazzie Butler. They hadn't
heard him coming, so he stood perfectly still, just long enough to
induce in them the right level of embarrassment when they noticed
him. He gave a discreet little tap on the locker beside them. 'A-hem.'
They sprang apart, which wasn't easy, given the tangle of arms
and legs.
Assuming a deadpan expression, he said, 'On the basis that by
now you've fully explored each other's dental work, perhaps you
would be so good as to find your way to whatever lesson you should
be attending. You know how I value your input as regards helping
the school to sprint up the league tables.'
He strode off, leaving them to wipe themselves down.
Outside in the car park, he opened the rusting door of his J-reg
Ford Escort, wondering, as he always did, why he bothered to lock it.
Half the kids he taught at Deaconsbridge High - or Dick High, as its
inmates affectionately referred to it - would have it open without the
aid of a key in seconds flat.
He turned right out of the school gates and took the Lower Moor
Road towards the centre of town, passing a dismal housing estate
and an even uglier industrial complex. Back in the early 1970s,
liberal town-planners had been assiduously fair with their unimaginative
architectural handouts and had given Deaconsbridge High the
same ugly status as its immediate neighbours. At roughly the same
time as decimalisation had made its mark on the country, the evils of
cheap flat-roofed urbanisation had hit Deaconsbridge. Since then,
and in the last decade when restoration had become the watchword,
money had been lavished on the small town centre so that it might
compete with rival tourist attractions like Castleton and Buxton, but
the outlying areas had received no such philanthropic gestures.
Occasionally there were calls for a bypass, since the hordes of
lucrative trippers had been successfully drawn to the town, but the
seasonal density of traffic didn't yet warrant such outlandish
expenditure.
And it was just as well that the traffic was so light, as Jonah was in
a hurry. In the centre of the town, he joined the one-way system,
drove along the war memorial end of the market square, then up
towards Hollow Edge Moor. He was going to see his father, and had
planned it this way deliberately. With only an hour and a half
available to him, he would be able to say what he needed to say then
get out. Direct and to the point, that's what he had to be. Above all
else he must not flinch at his father's response, which would, of
course, be of the ballistic variety. Many times he had witnessed, and
been on the receiving end of, one of his father's furious dressing
downs, and on this occasion he was preparing himself to be stripped
to the bone.
In his mind he had every line of the conversation already figured
out, with every vindictive word his father would throw at him.
For starters he would be accused of being devious and too big for
his boots, not to say conniving. Next he would be told he was the
messenger of his cowardly brother, and that he was weak and too
stupid to make a proper life for himself. It wouldn't be the same if
that old line wasn't given an airing. Jonah was quite used to the
torrent of scorn that was regularly poured on his teaching career.
'It's only those who can't get a proper job who teach,' his father
had said, when Jonah had graduated from university and announced
that he was applying for a year's teacher training course.
He didn't discuss it further with Gabriel, and certainly he didn't
look to him for financial support. He paid his own way through
college by working shifts in a meat-processing factory and as a
consequence hadn't been able to look a meat and potato pie in the
eye since.
That had been thirteen years ago, and still Gabriel hadn't forgiven
Jonah for settling for such a 'second-rate' career.
Jonah always felt a chill run through him when he came home to
Mermaid House. A knot of anxiety formed in the pit of his stomach,
with the desire to make his visit as short as possible. He tried to kid
himself that it was the bleakness of the house and its remote situation
that made him feel like this, but he knew it wasn't. It was the
memories.
Mermaid House was of an unusual, almost whimsical design, with
a tower, four wings and a central cobbled courtyard. It was built of
locally quarried stone that had turned depressingly dark and dreary
with the passing of time. Now, as Jonah drove through the wide
stone archway, the rumble of his car engine was amplified: it
bounced off the walls and came back at him louder than it normally
did. It confirmed what he had suspected earlier that morning when
he had driven to work, that his exhaust was blowing.
He parked next to his father's mud-splattered Land Rover in front
of what had always been known, rather ostentatiously, as the
banqueting hall: it boasted original timbers, trusses and a massive
fireplace.
Getting out of his car, he noticed that the tax disc on the Land
Rover had expired and that the tread on one of the tyres looked
borderline legal.
He crossed the courtyard and found the back door unlocked. He
knocked cursorily, let himself in and nearly took a flyer over a pair of
old boots lying on the floor. He pushed them to one side, called to his
father, and walked through to the rest of the house. He passed the
laundry room, noting the piles of unwashed clothes, bedding and
towels in front of the washing-machine, and kept going, past the gun
room, until he came to the kitchen.
These days, the mess seldom shocked him; it shocked him more
that he had grown used to the conditions in which Gabriel was
prepared to live. There was the unappetising smell of gone-off fish
and he located the source of this as an empty tin of pilchards in
tomato source on the draining-board. He went to throw it in the
swing-bin but found that it was full to the brim. It was indicative of
the scale of the problems at Mermaid House. No job was ever in
isolation. There was always a knock-on effect. To change a light
bulb, you had to find the stepladder, and to find the stepladder you
had to find the key to the cellar, and the key was anywhere but where
it should be on the row of hooks in the kitchen.
It hadn't always been like this. When Val had been in her prime
she had run the house with military precision, determined, against
the odds, to instil in the three children a sense of shared duty. 'It's a
large house, so I would be grateful if you could all pull your weight,'
she had told them. On the first day of their holidays, when they were
home from school, she would line them up and go through the
running order. 'Damson, I'd like you to do the dusting and polishing
in the dining room and, Caspar, you can clear out the ashes from the
grate in the drawing room and bring in some fresh kindling. Jonah,
I've put the silver on the kitchen table for you to clean.'
'Why does he always get the easy jobs?' Damson had pouted
mutinously.
'Because he's the youngest. He's not as big and strong as the pair
of you.'
Just as rebellious as his sister, Caspar would argue frequently that
their father was rich enough to have a host of servants to do the
work. But Val would have none of it. 'We no longer live in an age of
servants, young man. We have Mrs Harper to help us, but she is not
a servant.'
Ignoring whatever scornful comment Caspar would make, she
would clap her hands and send them on their way. And always there
would be the same music played at full volume while they did their
chores. Even now, Jonah could never hear a piece of Gilbert and
Sullivan without wanting to reach for the silver polish.
The meticulous order that Val so prized was lost when she suffered
the first of a series of minor heart-attacks. As she slowly slipped away
from them, she took with her the smooth running of the household.
Mrs Harper, who was well past retirement age, handed in her notice
and a succession of local cleaners proved unsatisfactory: the sheer
size of Mermaid House overwhelmed them: ten bedrooms and three
bathrooms was more than they wanted to take on.
It was more than any sane person would want to take on, thought
Jonah, as he stood in the middle of the chaos. Suddenly he had the
urge to hire the largest skip he could get hold of and throw
everything into it. How tempting it was to clear the decks and start
again. He would give his stubborn, sore-headed father the clean slate
he needed. But he knew that that would never happen. Only a
nuclear bomb would clear these particular decks.
But it was a bomb of sorts that he had come here to drop.
He called to Gabriel again, and helped himself to an apple from
the bowl of fruit he bought religiously every week for his father, and
which Gabriel rarely touched, then wandered out of the hall. He
checked the drawing room, the dining room, and finally the library,
where the curtains were drawn to protect the shelves of books from
being damaged by sunlight. But there was no sign of his father. He
stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted, his voice echoing in the
musty emptiness of the high-ceilinged house. There was no answer.

The irony was not lost on Jonah. Every week he did his father's
shopping for him, and tried to time his appearance at Mermaid
House for when he knew his father would be in Deaconsbridge so
that he could avoid speaking to him. Now he wanted to talk to him
and he couldn't.
Where was he?
Perhaps he had gone for a walk. Well, if he had, there was no
point in looking for him. Jonah didn't have time to mount a search
party. He would have to come back another day.
To his shame, he felt relieved as he retraced his steps the length of
the house, knowing that, for now, he wouldn't have to go through
with what Caspar had asked him to do.

He was about to use his own key to lock the back door - Gabriel
really shouldn't leave the house unlocked - when he thought better
of it. His father might have forgotten to take a key with him.
Outside in the pleasantly warm sun and taking another bite of the
apple, Jonah looked at his watch and decided he had time to see to
the balding tyre on the Land Rover. But when he checked the spare,
he found that it was in an even worse condition.
Sometimes there was just no helping Gabriel Liberty.




Chapter Seven

It was four days since Stella had left him, and while Archie wasn't
entirely surprised by her departure, he had been taken aback by the
way she had gone about it. It was the coward's way out and he had
never thought of Stella in that light.
The note had been blunt and to the point. It seemed that the affair
he had thought was over had picked up again and Stella had decided,
at last, where her future lay. And it was not with Archie, the man to
whom she had been married for twenty-six years and who had failed
to give her the children she had always wanted.
Indicating right, he pulled off the main road and turned sharply
into the hospital car park. He felt angry. It was always Stella who
was supposed to feel the loss of not having children. What about
him? Why hadn't his feelings been taken into account? After all, it
was he who had to live with the knowledge that he wasn't man
enough to become a father, he who had taken the jibes when Stella's
disappointment turned to bitterness. He had wanted children, too,
but no one had thought he was bothered by his and Stella's
incompleteness as a couple and no one had thought to ask.
Next to him, now that they were parked, his mother was
struggling with her seat-belt. 'Here, love,' he said. 'Let me.' He
pressed the red button and released the strap.
She straightened her hat and smiled at him. 'Ready now,' she said.
'Ready.' He smiled back.
She had dressed specially for the occasion - a trip to the speech
therapist was a big day out for her. Archie had been roped in as chief
style guru. 'Pink or glue?' she had asked, holding out two dresses as
he sat on the edge of her bed eating his cornflakes.
'Definitely the pink,' he had said, trying to sound decisive. A hint
of dithering on his part and they'd never get out of the house this side
of sunset.
It seemed to work, and she held the dress against her in front of the
long mirror. Then, lowering it, she said, 'Or maybe the ... the .. .
the . . .' She squeezed her eyes shut, pursed her lips, and at the back
of her mind, where some prankster was rewriting the English
language for her, she located the word. She snapped her eyes open
and said, proudly, 'Or the cheese?'
He proceeded carefully. If he gave the wrong answer, the limited
supply of good words available to her this morning would shrivel to
nothing. He gave the matter serious consideration before he tapped
the air with his spoon. 'No, I still think the pink would be best. Very
Liz Taylor, when she was at her best. Shall I help you?'
He helped her now to take her seat in the hospital waiting room,
and could feel the heavy tiredness in her body: the short walk from
the car park had sapped most of her strength. But it did nothing to
dampen her desire to enjoy her big day out. She smiled at the woman
opposite, who also looked as if she was dressed in her best party
frock - she had overdone the makeup, though, and the red lipstick
clashed with the frilly purple neckline. The man sitting next to her,
presumably her husband, looked dog-tired, and Archie wondered
what unearthly time the pair of them had got up to get ready for their
appointment.
But the woman didn't respond to the warmth of his mother's
smile. Disappointed, Bessie turned to Archie and, in a voice that
should have been a whisper but missed the mark by several decibels,
she said, 'Cobbly cow.'
He tried not to laugh, and was still trying to contain himself when
it was Bessie's turn to see the young girl who was patiently teaching
her to speak again. Though with a phrase as beautiful as 'cobbly
cow' - so much better than 'snobby cow' - he wondered whether it
wouldn't be more fun to teach the rest of the world to speak as Bessie
did now. He left them to their phonetics and flashcards and went in
search of a polystyrene-flavoured cup of tea that would scald the top
layer of skin clean off his tongue.
The vending-machine was situated in a bright, airy space where
pieces of artwork from the local comprehensive were displayed on
the stark white walls. There was an atrium-style roof to this modern
extension - opened by a local soap star last year - and it felt more
akin to a fancy hotel than a hospital. Not that Archie had had any
first-hand experience of fancy hotels: the nearest he had got to one
was when he and Stella were celebrating their twenty-fourth wedding
anniversary. He had planned it as a surprise. He let her think he had
forgotten about it, then on the day, while she was getting ready for
work, he had presented her with tickets for the train to London and a
show.
But it hadn't turned out the way he had hoped it would. She was
moody and distant with him, and found fault with almost everything:
the train took too long, the hotel was too small, the food too
expensive and the show too loud. During the journey home he had
wondered if everything would have been to her liking had she been
with someone else. He kept the thought to himself, but he soon knew
the answer. He found letters and a couple of photographs. He hadn't
gone snooping, they had been left casually in a drawer, not even
covered up; it was as if she had wanted him to find out. If she had
been hoping for a confrontation, he must have disappointed her: he
simply carried on as though everything was normal, convincing
himself that if he ignored it she would get it out of her system and
things would soon be okay again. Plenty of marriages had glitches; it
was all about riding the storm. After a while he thought he had done
the right thing. She stopped inventing reasons to be out of an
evening, there were no sudden trips to see her sister, and the phone
no longer rang with no one on the other end when he answered it.
But she wasn't happy. If anything, she was worse - tearful, or
irrationally angry. He almost felt sorry for her, imagining that her
lover had decided to call a halt to the affair. Perhaps he, too, was
married and hadn't wanted to jeopardise what he already had.
Stupidly, Archie spent more time than was healthy putting
together a background for this unknown man. Was he younger than
Archie? Better-looking? Funnier? More intelligent? Rich?
With the benefit of hindsight, he had been nothing but a coward.
Instead of wasting time dwelling on her lover, he should have been
talking to Stella, making an effort to understand where he had gone
wrong.
But he had left it too late. All the talking in the world wouldn't
make things right now. She was gone, no doubt to this perfect man
who understood her. Who didn't . . . who didn't have an ageing
mother to care for.
He swallowed the last of his tea and suddenly felt weary.
How would he manage Second Best and look after Bessie on his
own? She wasn't so bad at the moment, but he could see that in the
future she would need a constant eye on her. He crumpled the empty
cup, dropped it into the nearest bin, and cursed himself for having
taken advantage of Stella in the way that he had. In relying on her to
be at home during the afternoons - she only worked mornings - he
had felt that he was doing the right thing by his mother. It served him
right that Stella had left him. He had given her a gold-plated final
straw.
With ten more minutes before Bessie would be finished, he went
for a stroll. He was just passing a couple of pretty nurses who were
chatting about a hen party they'd been to last night when he caught
sight of a face he recognised. It was that nice Indian doctor from the
surgery in town, the one who was always so good with his mother.
He was friendly without being overly familiar, which Bessie liked.
She always used to say that if you had to undress for a doctor, the
least he could do was look the other way, and Dr Singh was
wonderfully courteous and proper with her.
Archie went over to say hello. 'Touting for business, Dr Singh?'
'Ah, Mr Merryman, how good to see you. Are you here with your
mother?'
'Yes. She's with the speech therapist. It's slow going.'
'Patience, Mr Merryman, she'll get there in the end. Remember
what I told you, there's life after a stroke so long as everyone
involved pitches in. You just have to keep the faith.'
'I know. Some days she's quite clear, but others I can't make head
nor tail of what she's saying. So what brings you here?'
'An errand of mercy. And here he comes right now.'
A tall, spectacularly grizzled man came towards them. A white
dressing covered one of his eyes but not the scowl that darkened the
rest of his face. 'Bloody hours I've been stuck here, and it's all your
fault, you interfering little man!'
Not missing a step, Dr Singh was the epitome of politeness: 'Do
you know Mr Liberty, Mr Merryman?'
'Er ... no.' Archie held out his hand. 'Pleased to meet you, Mr
Liberty,' he said affably. But when the other man made no attempt to
shake it, he said, 'Well, then, I ought to be getting back. Bessie will be
wondering where I am.' He turned to go.
Behind him, he heard, 'A bloody waste of time. Nothing that eye
drops wouldn't have sorted. Just as I told you!'
'So aren't you the lucky one, Mr Liberty!'

After calling in at the shop and checking that Samson had everything
under control, Archie took Bessie for a cream tea at the Mermaid
cafe. A treat to round off the day for her.
'We should do this more often,' he said, when Shirley had served
them with her customary good humour. She was a good sort, was
Shirley; nothing seemed to bring her down, not even the break up of
her marriage several years ago. He passed his mother a cup of tea
then set to work on the scones. He cut one in half, spread a dollop of
strawberry jam on it then topped it off with a layer of cream, but
when he gave it to her, his heart fell. From her pained expression he
could see that he had assumed too much. He had treated her as an
incapable invalid and robbed her of her dignity. 'I'm sorry,' he
murmured, appalled at his lack of thought. 'Would you rather do it
yourself?'
She shook her head. 'I'm well,' she said softly. 'Not ill, Archie.'
'Of course you are,' he agreed. 'You're absolutely fine. Now, tell
me what the speech therapist said to you. Did she give you any gossip
about that cobbly cow with too much lipstick?'
She brought her eyebrows together as she always had when she
rebuked him as a child. 'Serious,' she said, pointing a finger at him.
'No fish pies. Tell me the truth about Stella.'
'What about?'
'Why?'
He knew what she was asking, but he didn't want to go down that
route. Not yet.
When he had read the letter Stella had left him, he had shoved it
into his pocket and gone out to the kitchen to make a start on their
supper. Minutes later Bessie had appeared in the doorway and gone
along with his need to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had
happened. Helping her into bed that night he had made up a story
that seemed to satisfy her.
But now, four days on, she wanted to know what was going on.
'Why?' she repeated.
'Stella's left me, love,' he said. 'She's not coming back. I lied when I
said she'd gone to her sister in Nottingham for a few days.'
For once Archie was glad that his mother's speech was so limited.
They sat in a long, awkward silence, their eyes cast down as they
concentrated on their scones. Then he heard her say, 'Is it me? Left
you because of me?
He looked up and saw that his mother's eyes had filled with tears.
One of her hands had started to tremble and crumbs were scattered
around her plate. His heart went out to her. 'No, love. She didn't
leave because of you. It was me. I should have been a better
husband.'	, , u
He had to turn away. He knew exactly what she was thinking: that
she had become a burden to him, and that she had wrecked his
marriage. She was wrong.

Chapter Eight

When the phone rang Jonah was standing on the top rung of the
stepladder. He knew straight away who it was. Caspar was the only person he knew who could make the telephone ring with menace,
and could be relied upon to do it at the worst possible moment.
He put the brush between his teeth, picked up the pot of paint, and
made his descent. By the time he had found the phone under the
dust-sheet by the side of his bed, and had switched off the Haydn
piano sonata, he could easily picture his brother's tight-lipped face at
the other end of the line. Just for the sheer hell of it he let it ring three
more times before he put the receiver to his ear.
'Liberty Escort Agency, how may I help you?'
'Yeah, very funny, Jonah. Now, if you could act like the adult
you're supposed to be and quit fooling around like one of those idiots you teach, perhaps you'd tell me how you got on. What did the
old man say?'
'Absolutely nothing.'
'I find that hard to believe.'
'Not a word.'
There was a pause.
'Oh, I know what happened, you didn't see him, did you? You lost
your bottle just as I thought you would. You always were a coward.'
Caspar's voice was hard.
'You could always talk to him yourself,' Jonah said mildly. 'It is your idea.'

'Look, we've been through this before. These days, you're the only
one who can get anything sensible out of him. He'll listen to you.'
Exasperated, Jonah pushed a hand through his hair. Too late he
realised there had been a smear of Windsor Blue emulsion on his
palm. He turned to look at himself in the mirror above the chest of
drawers and saw that his wavy dark hair - the bane of his life as a
boy - now had a blue streak running through it. Better than yellow,
he thought, with a rueful smile.
'Jonah? Are you still there?'
'Sadly, yes. And I don't know why you think I'm any different
from you and Damson.'
A loud snort told Jonah that if he didn't divert his brother, he
would be subjected to the familiar lecture on what it was to be the
hard-done-by Caspar Nobody-loves-me Liberty. 'Actually, I did go
and see him this morning, but he wasn't there.'
'So what was wrong with trying again when you'd finished work?'
'This might come as a surprise to you, but when I'm not carrying
out your dirty work, I do have a life of my own.'
'But you fetch and carry so well, brother dear. Who else can I rely
on in this splintered family of ours?'
'It's not a family you need, Caspar,' Jonah said, 'it's a battalion of
henchmen. Now, if there's nothing else, I'm in the middle of
decorating, so I'd appreciate it if you would let me get on.'
'Good God, why do you insist on living like a peasant? Get a
genuine peasant in to do it for you.'
'Caspar, was there anything else?'
'Yes. Speak to Dad as soon as you can. Every day you botch this
up, is another day of . . . well, never mind that, just do it.'
Back on the stepladder, Jonah resumed painting his bedroom
ceiling. If ever a child had been born to upset the sibling apple cart, it
had been him: Caspar and Damson had never let him forget that his
birth had precipitated their mother's death. As children they had
been cunning and wilful, had taken pleasure in setting him up as the
fall-guy and enjoying the spectacle of him being punished. If
anything went missing, you could bet your bottom dollar it would be
found in his bedroom, hidden at the bottom of the wardrobe. If
anything got broken, you could guarantee that he would be
positioned right by the smashed window-pane or the shattered vase.
Their devious schemes worked every time. They would pretend
they had decided to let him be a part of their coterie and, like the fool
he was, so desperate to be accepted, he would go along with
whatever dare or initiation ceremony they felt inclined to put him
through. He fell for it time and time again, hook, line and sinker. He
was the perfect stooge, trailing behind in their contemptuous wake,
needing their approval, wanting to be just like them: the mysterious,
all-powerful twins who were at the centre of their own universe
where, stupidly, he also wanted to be.
That was before he became scared of them.
Once, when they had said he could join in with their latest game,
they had put a blindfold around his head and shoved him into cold
water. He was only six and they said all he had to do was swim to
the other side of the river. It had rained constantly for the last week
and the river was higher than usual; as the force of the water rushed
pell-mell down the hillside, the strengthening swell had swept him
away. He could still remember their laughter as they ran along the
bank beside him, and it wasn't until he banged his head on a rock
and began to scream that they hauled him out. They shook him hard,
pulled his hair and slapped his face to make sure he didn't pass out,
then marched him back up to the house. 'We found him down by the
river,' Caspar told Val, 'causing trouble again. It was lucky for him
we happened to be passing, otherwise he might have died.'
Caspar was the most convincing liar Jonah had ever come across,
then or since.
By the age of nine he had wised up and kept his distance from his
brother and sister, shutting himself away in his room. But whenever
they got the opportunity they played their games with him. They
would sneak into his room late at night when he was asleep and steal
whatever was precious to him - stamps, comics, books, pocket
money. Gradually, though, he learned to outwit or second-guess
them. He discovered that he was smarter than they were, and by the
age of eleven he was spending more time in their father's library than
anywhere else. He discovered that trying to gain Gabriel's approval
and respect was infinitely more worthwhile than being accepted by
Caspar and Damson.
Until then his father had been little more than an occasional visitor
in his life, for ever away on business, immersed in his own affairs, an
autocratic figure. But when Jonah showed an interest in the books
Gabriel had collected over the years, the two almost connected.
Jealousy caused the twins to step up their bullying campaign but
they soon found themselves in more trouble than they could have
imagined. Late one night Gabriel discovered them in his library,
defacing two of his most highly prized first editions. Their plan had
backfired. They were grounded for a month, their allowance was
stopped, their combined birthday party cancelled, and they were put
to work by Val to clean out the attic. It was then that Val began to
question the previous crimes Jonah was supposed to have committed.
They never discussed any of these things as a family, that would
have been far too open and communicative, much better to sweep it
under the mat and pretend it never happened.
On one occasion, aged thirteen, Jonah had behaved completely out
of character. It only happened once, but it was such a shocking act of
violence, that, even now, the memory made him flinch. He had been
away at school, and the bully of his year had picked on him once too
often: he had stolen a fountain pen Val had given Jonah for
Christmas. Incensed, Jonah flung himself at the boy, pushed him to
the floor and beat him mercilessly. With no teacher in the classroom,
everyone else had left their desks and grouped around to watch the
mild-mannered swot bashing the living daylights out of the boy who,
in Jonah's mind, had become Caspar and Damson rolled into one.
But while he was hailed by his peers as a hero, the headmaster was
less inclined to .praise him: Jonas was caned and made to write a five
page essay, answering the question 'Which offers man the greater
chance of survival: pacifism or violence?' Ironically, his essay was so
good that he was awarded a prize for it at the end of term.
If Jonah had a less than generous opinion of his brother and sister,
the regard they held each other in could not have been higher. In
Caspar's view Damson could do no wrong, but as far as Jonah could
see she had spent most of her adult life switching from one good
cause to another with intermittent bouts of self-absorption. Of the
three, she was the only one to have married. She was also the only
one to have divorced twice, and lucratively so. She was currently
going through what she called her 'centred space' phase and was
living, in peace and harmony, in a commune in Northumberland,
which she had described as a self-help therapy centre in a handcrafted
Christmas card to Jonah last year.
This latest search for her inner self was just another in a long line
of explorations from which she would doubtless emerge to plunge
back into the hedonistic lifestyle she enjoyed: men, partying,
shopping, and whatever else made her think she was happy.

Jonah didn't think she had ever been truly happy.

On the stroke of midnight, Jonah called it a day. It was handy living
next door to a church: there was no danger of losing track of the time
when the bells rang out every hour and slipped in a quick chime on
the half-hour too.
He had moved into Church Cottage last August when he had come
back to the area as head of history at Deaconsbridge High. Before
then he had been living over yonder border - as die-hard Deaconites
called it - in neighbouring Cheshire. He had been ready for a change
and had followed his instinct when he had seen the post advertised. It
had seemed the right thing to do, given that his father was now on
his own with little sign of Caspar or Damson offering any help
around the house.
And it was the house that was at the bottom of Caspar's insistence
that Jonah speak to Gabriel. Caspar could dress it up any way he
liked, but Jonah knew his brother too well. Caspar didn't give a
damn about their father's welfare: all he was concerned about was
getting his hands on the capital that would be released if Mermaid
House was sold. Jonah had no idea what Caspar did with the money
he earned - he owned one of the most prestigious car dealerships in
south Manchester and had to be ripping people off for a decent
amount - but however much it was, it clearly wasn't enough. Jonah
had dared to query this the other day when Caspar had hinted that
money from the sale would come in handy. He had been told in no
uncertain terms to keep his nose out of things he didn't understand.
'Money is hardly your area of expertise, Jonah, so butt out! Just
convince the old fool that he needs to move into something smaller
and we'll all be better off.'
Much of what Caspar had said was true. Jonah wasn't a financial
pundit and their father had reached an age when he might be better
off living in a property a tenth of the size of Mermaid House. He had
been thinking the same thing ever since Val had died, but had never
found the right time, or the courage, to broach it with Gabriel, not
when he knew how insincere and grasping it might sound to their
father. It was annoying, though, that Caspar's thoughts had
coincided with his, albeit for different reasons.
What his brother didn't know was that Jonah intended - if his
father would listen to him - to make it clear that if Mermaid House
was to be sold, Gabriel should not siphon off a penny of what it
brought to his children to avoid inheritance tax, which, naturally,
was the main thrust of Caspar's argument for selling up now.
Caspar would capitalise on a third-world disaster if he thought he
could get away with it. And there were many things Caspar had got
away with over the years. Just as he had stolen from Jonah as a child,
he had continued through adulthood to help himself to anything else
to which he took a fancy. So far Jonah had lost two girlfriends and a
fiancee to his brother.
Admittedly the loss of the girlfriends had taken place during his
teens, but Emily had been another matter altogether and he wasn't
sure that he could ever forgive Caspar for what he had done.
Downstairs in the kitchen, while he washed the paintbrush under
the tap and squirted a dose of Fairy Liquid on to the bristles, Jonah
wondered if a family as bitterly divided as his could ever be
reconciled.


Chapter Nine

With Ned's help, and with the aid of a simple device that turned the
white plastic barrel into a mini garden roller, Clara was pushing their
fresh supply of water across the dewy grass of the Happy Dell
campsite towards Winnie. It was one of the many things about
camper-vanning that Clara enjoyed: the multitude of unexpectedly
clever gadgets that made life a little easier.
This was their fourth day on the road, and already Clara and Ned
considered themselves old hands at it. They were perfectly at one
with the intricacies of their cassette toilet, could turn a dinette seat
into a double bed with the speed and professionalism of a Formula
One pit stop, could knock up mouth-watering meals on the two
burner stove at the flick of a hand and, perhaps more importantly,
they could do it all without once feeling as though they were living
on top of each other. It was extraordinary how quickly they had
adapted to living life in miniature. It reminded Clara of when she'd
been a little girl and had played constantly with the doll's house her
father had made for her. She had been fascinated with the scaled
down world he had created, and it was the same for her now with
Winnie. Everything was so incredibly well designed, and appealed to
her logical way of thinking and her need for order. As a child she had
been ridiculously organised: her mud-pies were always neatly
prepared, her bedroom was tidier than any other room in the house,
her schoolwork immaculately presented - and always handed in on
time - her social life thought out with every consideration given to
when, how, where and with whom. And woe betide anyone who
interfered with this carefully ordered infrastructure. At the age of ten,
she had spent hours drawing cut-away sections of houses, each room
in minute detail, and people joked that one day she would become an
architect, or maybe an interior designer. When she expanded her
repertoire to sketch the roads the houses occupied, then mapped out
whole villages and communities of harmonious synchrony, they
suggested town planning. Her brother accused her of being a control
freak.
But if Winnie appealed to Clara's desire for pigeon-holed regularity,
it was a joy to see how Ned, too, loved their new home,
especially his bed over the cab. He would lie up there with Mermy
and his battalion of cuddly toys, pretending to read to them from his
favourite storybooks, and Clara was relieved that, so far, he had
shown no sign of missing anything he had left behind. But, as Louise
would have been quick to point out, it was early days yet.
Much as Ned loved the bed to which he had to climb up, there was
a disadvantage in the arrangement, which had come to light on their
first night. At three in the morning he had woken needing the toilet.
It was the kerfuffle of him sitting up, bumping his head and letting
out a cry that had woken Clara. It took her a few seconds to gather
her wits, switch on the reading light and climb up to him. Parting the
curtains, she had helped him down and carried him to the loo. He
was so drowsy that she had had him tucked in again and fast asleep
before she was back in her own bed.
But he had always been a good sleeper, even as a baby. At two
days old he had slipped straight into a comfortable, convenient
routine of feeds and napping that had rendered her parents
nostalgically envious. 'Why weren't you and Michael like this as
babies?' her mother had said, bending over the Moses basket and
itching to smother her first grandchild with love as he slept on, his
tiny hands balled into fists the size of walnuts, his lips quivering like
butterfly wings. 'You both had me up at all hours, never gave me a
minute's peace. Ooh, look, he's opened his eyes. Do you think I
could . . . ?'
Clara and her father had exchanged a smile. 'Go on, Mum, while I
make us a cup of tea; he's all yours.'
'And you can stop right there, young lady,' her father had said. "I
will make the tea. And if I catch you moving just one inch from that
chair, there'll be trouble.'
'Better do as he says, Clara, you know what a tyrant he can be.'
For years it had been a family joke that her father was a tyrant: the
truth was, he was the biggest softie going. And he had been
particularly kind and loving with his grandson. Once Ned was
walking and talking, her father had come into his own, reading to
him, teaching him to do simple jigsaws and taking him to the park.
'Come on, my little pumpernickel,' he would say, helping Ned into
his hat and coat, then strapping him into the pushchair. 'Time for some man-to-man business down at the park. Let's go and feed the
ducks.'
Clara knew that Ned's lack of a father tapped into her parents'
old-fashioned instinct for a nuclear family, but she was happy to let
her own father fill the void created by the man who could never be in
Ned's life. He did it so well, never overstepping the mark, just quietly
providing that indefinable extra for which Clara would always be
grateful.
In the last few days she had noticed a change in Ned: he was fast
becoming what her mother would describe as 'quite the little man'.
He was for ever insisting that he help her with everything he could.
He particularly liked doing the washing-up. He would stand at the
small sink on the step that was supposed to be used for getting in and
out of the camper-van, up to his elbows in sudsy water. The job took
a lot longer than if she did it herself, but it was such a pleasure to see
him so involved that she didn't have the heart, or inclination, to stop
him. And what did it matter how long anything took to do? They
were in no hurry now.
Since leaving home on Sunday they had slowly made their way
north. Their first night had been spent at a campsite in Stratfordupon-Avon,
where the following day they had immersed themselves
in all things Shakespearean and, more to Ned's liking, had visited a
museum devoted to teddy bears. They had seen the original Sooty,
and Clara had reminisced about her first pantomime, when she had
sat in the front row and been soaked by Sooty and Sweep with water
pistols.
From Stratford they had moved on to the West Midlands, taking
in Cadbury World and the Museum of Science and Industry in
Birmingham. Ned had been as pleased as punch when their guide
picked him out from the crowd to press the button to start the steam
engine. He was happier still when they left an hour later with a
model of it, and he had spent the evening back at Winnie explaining
enthusiastically to Clara how it worked.
Until now, they had decided together where to go each day while
curled up in bed and flicking through touring books and maps. But
their next port of call was to be a surprise for Ned, which Clara
hoped he would enjoy.
When they had packed everything neatly away, and had paid the
man in the campsite office, they were ready to go.
'Chocks ahoy,' said Ned, as he did each morning when they set
off.
She smiled. She had given up telling him it was 'chocks away'.
'Chocks ahoy' sounded just fine to her. The people on the next pitch
waved goodbye. They were an interesting couple in their mid-fifties
who called themselves 'full-timers'. They lived all year round in their
camper-van, which they had personalised by painting Ron's name on
the driver's door and Eileen's on the passenger's. Over a glass of wine
late last night, when Ned was asleep, they had given Clara their list
of the top ten campsites in Britain. They were out of the way, not
always listed in the touring guides: it was to one of these that Clara
was heading today. Ron and Eileen had also shared with her how
they had become 'full-timers': after giving up secure jobs, they had
spent the last two years fruit picking in the summer and early
autumn, then hooking up with fellow full-timers and travelling south
to Spain and Tunisia for the winter.
Now, as she tooted Winnie's horn at them, Clara wondered what
Louise and the rest of her friends would make of Ron and Eileen.

With the map spread open on his lap, his elbows resting on the
armrests at either side of him, and his finger planted firmly on the
streak of blue that was the motorway they were following, Ned
looked every inch the seasoned navigator. That the map was upside
down was neither here nor there. By Clara's reckoning they had
about thirty miles of motorway driving left before they would strike
out cross-country.
'Shall we stop at the next service station to stretch our legs?' she
asked. Ron and Eileen had said that if there were free facilities to be
had it was their duty to take full advantage of them rather than waste
their own resources.
Ned looked up from the map. 'When Nanna says that, Granda
says his legs don't need stretching. He says he's tall enough already.'
Clara smiled. 'It's called a euphemism.'
He tried the word out for himself. 'Eu-fer-miz-um. What does that
mean?'
'Well, it's when we use a word or phrase to disguise what we're
really saying, to make it sound more polite. I was really asking you if
you wanted to stop and go to the toilet.'
He thought about this. 'Like when Nanna asks me if I want to
spend a penny?'
'Exactly.'
'Eu-fer-miz-um,' he said again.
Ned's vocabulary was quite advanced for his age, and Clara put
this down to his having spent more time with adults than children.
Neither her parents nor her friends had ever talked down to him:
they had always treated him as a mini-adult and he had responded
accordingly, absorbing information at a phenomenal rate. With so
much adult company around him, she had dreaded him turning into
a precocious brat, but thankfully there seemed little likelihood of
that.

After they had euphemistically stretched their legs and spent their
pennies, they joined the motorway once more, and, with the map the
right way round, Ned looked at it hard and asked where they were
going.
She gave him a sideways smile. 'You're not catching me out that
easily. I told you, it's a surprise. Wait and see.'
'But will I like it? Surprises aren't always nice.'
'I'll make you a promise. If you don't like it we'll move on
somewhere else.'
An hour later, and with the M6 behind them, Clara took the
B5470 out of Macclesfield and found herself driving through rolling
hills of lush green farmland criss-crossed with a threadwork of
drystone walls. It came as such a surprise that she slowed down to
take a better look. It was beautiful, just as Ron and Eileen had said it
would be. 'If we could get the work up there, that's where we'd
spend our summers,' Ron had said. 'Believe me, you'll love it. It's
terrific walking country.'
But it wasn't hill walking that had drawn Clara to this part of the
Peak District, it was what, according to the guide books, had also
drawn Victorian day-trippers from the neighbouring industrial towns
and villages: the chance to see a mermaid. Not a live one, but an
underground cavern that claimed to have a rock formation that
looked just like the real thing and granted wishes for those prepared
to dip their fingers into the clear still water of its pool. Given Ned's
love of Mermy - who was currently in his hand - and his desire to
meet a real one, this was probably as near as she could get to
fulfilling a dream for him.
They drove on, the road becoming steeper, the houses fewer and
the scenery even more stunning as it stretched before them beneath a
picture-postcard blue sky with puffy white clouds. Suddenly, making
her jump, Ned pointed Mermy at the window to his left and cried,
'Mummy, look at all the sheep on the green mountains.'
'Those are what people round here call hills, Ned.'
'Even that big one over there?'
Clara smiled. 'A mere Brussels sprout. Perhaps later on our trip
we'll go up to Scotland and see some real mountains.'
'I like it here. Is this my surprise?'
'Not quite. Now, I'm going to have to concentrate on the road. I'm
looking for a sign that says Deaconsbridge. Shout if you see anything
with a big D on it.'
The road climbed higher and higher, until eventually they reached
the summit of a hill. Dropping into a lower gear, Clara took the
descent steadily, with extra care on the tight bends.
Their first sighting of Deaconsbridge revealed a small town
nestling in the shallow dip of a valley. From a distance it looked a
soft shade of industrial grey with rows of terraced houses tucked into
the slope of the hillsides, their uniformity broken by a scattering of
old mills and stately chimneys. A church with an elegant spire stood
self-consciously to one side of the town, surrounded by a cemetery,
whose gravestones seemed to flow out into the expanse of moorland
behind. As final resting places went, Clara thought it was pretty
spectacular.
With a queue of cars itching to overtake them, they trundled ever
nearer, and just as the road began to level, narrow and guide them to the centre of the town and its one-way system, Ned bounced in his
seat and let out a loud, excited cry. 'Look, a mermaid! And there's
another. Over there! Mummy, there's lots of them!'
Once Clara had squeezed Winnie into the pay-and-display car
park - no mean feat, given how busy the small town was and the
lack of space available - she could see that Ned was right:
Deaconsbridge was awash with mermaids. Almost every shop front
in the market square where they were parked had a sign depicting a
mermaid, and each one was different. They ranged from shy lovelies
coyly submerged in water, showing just a modest hint of scaly tail, to
pert blonde bathing belles posing on rocks, and buxom Page Three
beauties flaunting themselves shamelessly. But the sign Clara liked
best was the one above the antiquarian bookshop, which portrayed a
sylph-like creature reclining in an armchair reading - the spectacles
were a nice touch, she thought.
Across the square, and opposite where they were parked, a sign
showed a rosy-cheeked mermaid wearing an apron and holding a
large wooden spoon. It was a convivial and inviting sight. 'Welcome
to Deaconsbridge, Ned,' Clara said. 'Ready for some lunch?'

Chapter Ten

The Mermaid cafe was busy and at first glance Clara thought they
would have to try somewhere else. But in the furthest corner, and
beneath a large mirror flanked by two prettily stencilled mermaids on
the wall, she could see a waitress clearing a table that had just been
vacated by a couple of intimidating-looking leather-clad bikers now
queuing at the counter to pay their bill. One smiled at Ned, who
stared at his pony-tail, earrings and the shiny studs on his fringed
jacket, then smiled back, revealing two rows of perfect milk teeth.
The waitress continued to add dirty plates to a tray already
stacked high with an assortment of crockery and metal teapots, and
for a few moments Clara and Ned were forced to stand with the two
bikers. The one who had smiled at Ned did so again, this time adding
a wink. Then he turned to Clara. 'He's a cute-looking kid,' he said.
'A dead ringer for his mum, or his older sister, perhaps? If you want
a worthwhile tip,' he went on, 'we can recommend the chef's special.
You can't go wrong with it.'
'Insider knowledge,' said his friend, tapping his long straight nose.
He reached into a small basket of lollipops for younger diners and
gave one to Ned. 'Here, have this on us.'
Ned's face lit up. 'Thank you,' he said.

'You'd better keep it for when you've had your lunch, though. We
don't want any trouble from your big sister.'
Clara was about to add her thanks to Ned's when the waitress
came over. 'Sorry to keep you waiting, dear,' she said, 'but these
leather joy-boys make so much mess.' She gave the two bikers a
broad grin.
The one who had spoken first to Clara gave the waitress's red cap
a light flick. 'Mum, I've told you before, keep the wisecracks for
when we're at home. Do you want me to take that tray through to
the back for you?'
'No, Robbie, I want you to pay your bill and sling your hook.
You're cluttering the place up. Now, are you or are you not going to
make a start on the spare room for me this evening? I've got the
wallpaper and paste for you.'
'Wouldn't miss it for the world.'
Thanking the two young men for the lollipop, Clara shepherded
Ned towards their table, and quickly, before anyone else nipped in
ahead of them to claim it.
'Those men were nice,' said Ned, settling himself into his chair and
placing his unexpected gift on the checked plastic tablecloth. He
propped Mermy against a bowl of sugar.
'They were, weren't they?' she replied, letting him get away, just
this once, with pilfering a sugar cube. She could see that he was now
wondering how to slip it into his mouth without her noticing so she
bent down to her bag on the floor. She thought about the two young
men, one of whom had treated her to some friendly flattery. He must
have been at least ten years her junior. Big sister indeed!
Catching sight of herself in the mirror above Ned's head, she
supposed the new haircut made her look younger. She had gone for a
radical change in Stratford, deciding that her shoulder-length hair
would be a pain to take care of while they were away. In the salon,
everyone had agreed that the new style took years off her, that her
dark hair now framed her small oval face perfectly and accentuated
her brown eyes.
She turned away from the mirror and, with the two bikers - who
admittedly had not been her type - still on her mind, asked herself
when had been the last time a man had paid her an unexpected
compliment?
She couldn't remember and wondered when she had become so
unaware of or immune to male charm.
Since Ned had been born, she had had little time, inclination, or
opportunity to seek out a boyfriend, although there had been one or
two skirmishes, in particular a disagreeable incident on an industrial
relations course eighteen months ago. Then a pushy type with
groping hands and gin-soaked breath had tried his luck with her in
the bar one night. She had blown him clean away: 'What makes you
think an intelligent woman like me would be interested in a prat like
you? Now, push off before I throw my drink in your face.'
It wasn't that she didn't feel comfortable with men, far from it, she
usually preferred their company to that of a crowd of women, but
she knew that to embark upon a series of going-nowhere relationships
would do her no good. Also, she didn't want to confuse Ned by
bringing home a succession of men. And, perhaps more importantly,
she had a very real fear of accidentally getting pregnant again.
Not that she had ever regretted having Ned. She loved him just as
much as if she had planned his conception down to the last detail.
Through the cafe window she watched the pair of swaggering lads
in their leathers cross the road to the car park where two powerful
looking motorbikes were waiting for them, their well-polished
chromework glinting in the afternoon sun. She watched them strap
on their helmets, then heard the throaty roar of the engines and,
though she had never before had any desire to sit astride anything
more dangerous than a tricycle, she thought she could detect a
change in her view now. Goodness, less than a week on the road and
she was considering a wind-in-the-hair experience!
She plucked the menu from its wooden holder, and saw that the
chef's special they had recommended was not a body-building tough
boy three-pounder burger but a vegetarian lasagne.
'What are you smiling at, Mummy?'
She raised her eyes from the menu. 'Myself, Ned. Now, what
would you like to eat?'
They feasted on sausages, beans and chips, followed by the best
Bakewell tart Clara had ever tasted. When she commented on this to
their waitress - biker-Robbie's mother - she was told, 'I'll tell my
sister that, she'll be well pleased. It's an old family recipe.'
'Is this a family business, then?'
'No. It's just a coincidence that we work together. Are you here for
the day, or staying longer? The weather's supposed to be breaking by
the weekend, so you'd best do your walking sooner rather than
later.'
'Is that what everyone does round here - walk?'
'That, and go down the cavern to see the mermaid. To be honest,
there's not a lot else to do.'
Ned leaned forward in his seat. 'A mermaid? Is it real?'
The waitress's eyes flickered over Mermy on the table. She sucked
in her breath. 'Well, now, it's as real as you want it to be, I suppose.
But if you've come to see it, you're too early. It doesn't open for
another week. The tourist season round here hasn't got into full
swing yet. You could always go across to Castleton or down to
Buxton. Between them they've got more caverns than they know
what to do with.'
'Do they have mermaids?'
'No, my fine little fella, it's only us that can boast something as
special as that.'

They left the cafe unsure what to do next. If the Mermaid Cavern
wasn't open for another week, should they move on somewhere else
and come back, or stay put and use Deaconsbridge as a base for
visiting the surrounding area?
Keeping her options open, Clara decided they would inspect the
campsite Ron and Eileen had raved about and take it from there. She
put this to Ned as she unlocked Winnie and stood back to let out the
fuggy warmth that had built up inside the van while they had been
having lunch. But now that Ned had heard about the Mermaid
Cavern, he clearly didn't want to move on. 'If we don't like the
campsite,' he said anxiously, climbing into his seat, 'we could find
another, couldn't we?'
'If that's what you'd like to do, then yes.'
She started the engine, reached for the map, then regretted not
having thought to ask their friendly waitress for directions to the
Hollow Edge View campsite. It wasn't mentioned in the Touring
Parks magazine she had used so far on the trip, but Eileen had said it
was somewhere off the Hollow Edge Moor road. The road, or what
Clara thought was the right road, was marked on the map and, with
hope rather than solid conviction, she manoeuvred Winnie out of the
market-square car park and went in search of a pitch for the night.
Nearly an hour had passed before she gave up. 'This is ridiculous,'
she said, exasperated, when they found themselves, yet again, on
irritatingly familiar ground. 'We've been up and down this road so
many times we're on first-name terms with all the sheep. I'm sure
they're laughing at us behind our backs.'
'Sheep don't laugh,' Ned said seriously. 'They go baa.'
'And I'll go baa-ing mad if I don't find this wretched campsite. I
could also do with going to the loo. I'll just drive down this handy
little track and park up.'
Ignoring the 'Private - No Entry' sign turned out to have been a
mistake. The handy little track was longer and narrower than Clara
had expected, and with drystone walls almost touching Winnie's
sides there was no space to turn round. She had no choice but to keep
going until it either branched off into another road, or offered her the
opportunity to do a ten-point turn - reversing was not a viable
proposition: it was the only trick of driving a camper-van that she
hadn't yet mastered.
However, as mistakes went, it presented them with some of the
best views they had seen so far and confirmed what Clara had read in
the guide book last night, that Deaconsbridge, sandwiched as it was
between the Dark Peak of Derbyshire and its southern White Peak
counterpart, was home to an interesting combination of the two.
Way off in the distance, and after checking the map, she could see the
bleak windswept moor of Kinder Scout to the north. Referring to the
map again, she could see that if she carried on along this road they
would eventually come to a belt of trees and a dwelling called
Mermaid House. It looked as though the road widened sufficiently
by the trees to allow her to turn and drive back to join the main road
once more.
Her guesswork proved right and in the shelter of the trees, she
brought Winnie to a halt. 'Time to stretch my legs,' she said, smiling
at Ned as she climbed out of her seat to go through to the toilet.
When she came out, Ned said, 'Can we go for a paddle? I can see a
bridge over a stream and there might be some fish we could catch for
our tea.'
'They'll have to be very lazy fish, the type we can catch with our
bare hands.'
He slipped out from his seat. 'It's easy. I saw it on the television.
This man had a stick and he watched until the fish came right up to
him and then he--'
'Yes, I get your drift,' she interrupted, not wanting the gory details.
'Couldn't we just shake hands with them and invite them in for a fish
supper?'
He rolled his eyes. 'Fish don't have hands, Mummy.'
'You sure about that? What about octopuses? I thought they had
eight hands.'
'Now you're being silly. Everyone knows they're called testicles.'
She laughed. 'Tentacles, Ned. Come on, my little genius, let's see if
there's a nice bit of smoked salmon just waiting to make our
acquaintance. But it will have to be quick. I really do want to find
that campsite before the light goes.'
Taking a rolled-up towel with them they approached the bridge
and the length of river Ned had spied. It twisted along the lower edge
of the screen of trees, tumbled down the slope under the bridge and,
gaining speed, gushed on further down the hillside.
'It'll be cold in there,' Clara said, looking doubtfully at the clear
shallow water as it rushed over the stones. 'Wouldn't you rather play
Pooh sticks?'
Beside her Ned was already sitting on the grassy bank and tugging
at his laces. 'We could play that after. Help me, please, Mummy.
This one's in a knot.'
She untied the lace for him and rebuked herself for sounding so old
and boring. Where was the spirit of adventure that had brought her
here in the first place?
Despite the warmth of the spring sunshine, the water was icy cold,
just as Clara had predicted; it made them both gasp and squeal as
they dipped in their toes. They rolled up their jeans, and bravely went
in deeper. Clara held Ned's hand as they waded out, and now that
she couldn't feel her toes, she joined in the game of looking for their
supper. 'Do you think there are sharks here, Ned?'
'Ssh!' he whispered. 'I can see something.' He let go of her, bent
down to the water, cupped his hands, and made a sudden scooping
movement. 'I've caught something!' he cried. He peered through the
gaps between his fingers.
Amazed, she lowered her head to see what he had.
He shrieked with delight and splashed her face. 'Fooled you!'
'Why, you little monkey! For that, you can have a taste of your
own medicine.'
The water fight was noisy and spectacular, and left them both
drenched. Shivering, but still laughing, they slipped on their shoes
and went back to Winnie to change into some dry clothes. They were
soon warm again, and just as Clara was about to make them a drink
- tea for her and blackcurrant juice for Ned - they heard an engine.
Ned, who was sitting in the driver's seat, stuck his head out of the
window.
'It's a car,' he said. 'A green one. It's got two men in it and it's
stopped behind us. They're getting out.'
Clara decided it was time to investigate. After all, she had ignored
that 'Private - No Entry' sign. Maybe the owner had come to move
them along. She stepped outside and didn't like what she saw. Two
lads of about the same age as the bikers came towards her. One had a
baseball bat and was smacking it against one of his palms. They both
looked her over. She swallowed, every instinct in her screaming that
these two meant trouble. She moved back a pace to shield Ned who
was still leaning out of the window. 'Get down,' she whispered,
turning her head to the side, 'and don't say a word.' They came in
close and, one on either side of her, they pushed her hard against the
driver's door: they smelt of sour beer and stale cigarette smoke.
'Please,' she said, conscious of Ned behind her and their gaze
flickering from her to him, 'just take what you want and leave us
alone.' Outwardly she was doing her best to appear calm, but inwardly she was frantic.
They both laughed, and a coarse, fleshy hand stroked her throat.
For a split second she considered bringing her knee up into the
youth's groin, but as the hand began to exert more pressure on her
windpipe, squeezing it painfully, she heard another man's voice say,
'Take your hands off that woman and get the hell out of here.'
The grip loosened. Twisting her head, Clara saw an elderly man
dressed in a flat cap and a waxed jacket coming towards them. A
patch covered one of his eyes and raised to the other was a double
barrelled shotgun. Her legs began to wobble and she hoped to God
that the old man knew what he was doing with it.
The gun still held high, he drew nearer. 'And do it before I lose my
patience and blast both your heads off!' The voice that had started
with a low warning rumble, had now pitched itself forward into a
snarl of intent. 'Go on, get out of here!'


Chapter Eleven

The hand dropped from Clara's throat. 'Take it easy, Granddad,
don't go giving yourself a heart-attack.'
'Less of the lip, you scum. You're on my land and I want you off it.
Pronto! Do you understand that, or do I have to spell it out into
simple words that louts like you can understand?'
The two lads started backing away. 'Bloody cocky with your
words, aren't you, you stupid old git?'
Tightening his finger on the trigger and lowering the shotgun until
it was aimed directly at the youth's crotch, the man growled, 'So tell
me, just how cocky do you feel? Get out of here.'
They fled to their car and, with the gun still trained on them, they
turned it round and shot off down the track, leaving a dusty cloud
hanging in the air.
Clara realised she had been holding her breath and let it out now,
in a long sigh of relief. Her legs were still shaking and the sky spun.
She leaned against the van, steeled herself, then opened the door and
reached in for Ned. His face was as white as she felt hers must be. He
trembled in her arms and she hugged him to her.
She turned to face the formidable man who had come to their
rescue. 'I'm so grateful to you,' she said. 'If you hadn't turned up . . .'
She swallowed, then tried again. 'Well, I'm not sure how I would
have got out of that. Thank you very much.'
To her surprise, the man made no attempt to offer any further
reassurance. He simply stared at her, bristling with disapproval.
Then with a loud crack, he broke the gun and shoved the butt under his arm. 'You can save the fawning pleasantries,' he growled. 'I'm
not interested. Maybe in future you'll think twice about trespassing
on private property, especially somewhere as remote as this. Damn
stupid of you to put yourself and the child in danger. Women!
Bloody fools, the lot of you!' He turned his back and started to walk
away.
Clara was outraged. 'Why, you miserable old bugger!' she burst
out angrily. 'Come back here and apologise this instant.'
He slowed his step and twisted his head round. 'What did you call
me?'
'You heard. And if I wasn't holding a terrified child I'd call you a
lot worse.'
'If that child is terrified, then you have only yourself to blame.'
'Oh, because I'm a woman on my own I'm not allowed to take my
son paddling. Is that what you're saying?'
'Paddling?' he echoed. 'Paddling in my water? I ought to bloody
charge you for that.'
'Do that, you old skinflint, and I'll report you to the police for
behaving in a threatening manner with a dangerous firearm. It's
crazy old fools like you with guns who get innocent people killed!'
Her voice was filled with rage.
'I'll wager that wasn't what you were thinking a few moments ago.
I bet you'd never been so pleased to see a crazy old fool with a gun.'
'If I'd known it would be you, I'd sooner have taken my chances
single-handed.'
'The hell you would have!' he guffawed.
They stared at each other. In the silence that followed, Ned lifted
his head from Clara's shoulder. 'I need a wee,' he murmured, and
started to sob. Then Clara felt a wet warmth run down her front.
The grumpy old man lowered his one eye to the puddle forming on
the ground at her feet. 'Poor little beggar,' he said gruffly. 'Get him
changed and I'll make you some tea.'
Near to tears herself, but determined to hang on to her self-respect,
she said, 'I can manage, thank you. I wouldn't want to take up any
more of your valuable--'
He silenced her with a fierce one-eyed stare. 'Don't look a gift
horse in the mouth, young lady, until you're sure you can really do
without it.'

Winnie seemed terribly cramped with the three of them inside it: their
guest, as he fumbled around making a pot of tea, was too tall and
bulky for such a confined space. By the time Clara had calmed Ned
and changed their clothes, and they were sitting at the little table
with their tea, she thought she should introduce herself.
'My name's Clara Costello, and I'm sorry for some of the things I
said out there. This is my son, Ned.'
He took off his cap and laid it on the table. 'Well, Miss Costello,
the name's Liberty, Mr Liberty, and I never apologise for anything I
say.'
In spite of herself, she smiled. 'You know, that doesn't surprise me.
Do you often go for an afternoon stroll with a gun?'
'When I feel like shooting something, yes.'
'Well, much as I disagree with the ownership of guns, I'm glad you
felt the need to shoot something today.'
'Don't be so bloody patronising. Drink your tea and be quiet. That
goes for you too, young man.'
'But it's got sugar in,' Ned said, taking a sip from his mug and
screwing up his face that had now resumed its usual healthy glow.
The man gave a snort of derision. 'Hell's bells and buckets of
blood! Don't tell me your mother's one of those new-fandangled
creatures who doesn't believe in sugar.'
'I'm allowed sugar on cornflakes,' Ned said proudly. 'And
grapefruit,' he added.
'Very generous of her, I'm sure.'
'What's wrong with your eye?'
'And what's wrong with your manners, Mr Nosy Parker?'
Unabashed, Ned carried on, 'You look like a pirate.'
This seemed to amuse their guest. 'A black-bearded, buccaneering,
lash-him-to-the-mainmast-m'hearty type of pirate, I hope, not some
white-frilled, swashbuckling nancy-boy.'
The distinction was lost on Ned. 'If you chopped a hand off, you
could be Captain Hook.'
The man looked down at the badly swollen fingers that were
wrapped around his mug of tea. 'I'll bear that in mind.'
'Come on, Ned,' Clara said gently, 'drink your tea and leave our
guest alone.'
'Do I have to? It's horrible. It's too sweet. Can't I have some
blackcurrant juice? Please.'
Sliding out from the seat she was sharing with Ned, Clara went
over to the fridge, poured a cup of blackcurrant juice, and reached
into a locker for a packet of biscuits. She had no desire to prolong
their rescuer's stay with them, but she felt she owed him a Jaffa Cake
at the very least.
She sat opposite
him and offered the packet of biscuits. His distorted fingers poked
clumsily at the plastic wrapping as he helped himself and she
wondered just how good a shot he would have been if he had fired
that wretched gun. Thinking of it now, she gave it a censorious
glance. It was resting against the wardrobe at the far end of the van,
along with its owner's smelly old waxed jacket.
'Stop worrying,' he said, seeing her face. 'It's safe enough. I've
taken the cartridges out. They're in my coat pocket.'
She made no comment, but thinking that she could take advantage
of his local knowledge, she said, 'We're trying to find a campsite for
the night. Perhaps you know where it is.' She got to her feet to fetch
the map.
'I doubt that very much,' he said, when she returned. 'Camping's
hardly my scene.'
'Heavens, are you always this helpful?'
He swallowed the last of his tea. 'You've got me on a good day.'
'Lucky old us.' She put the map down on the table between them
and pointed to where Ron and Eileen had said the campsite was. 'It's
called Hollow Edge View. I was told it was--'
'It's gone,' he interrupted. 'The owners beggared off down south
last winter. Bankrupted themselves. Not an ounce of business sense.
Softies from London who thought it would be an easy option playing
Old Macdonald Had a Farm. I knew they'd never make a go of it. I
told them so too.'
'Wow, and to think they dida't stick around to enjoy more of your
warm neighbourliness. What were they thinking of?'
He looked up sharply, nostrils flaring. 'Nothing wrong in speaking
one's mind.'
'Depends on the state of the mind. Can you recommend anywhere
else for us to stay?'
'No.'
'Well, then, and since we've clearly exhausted you of your charm,
you can leave us to sort ourselves out. I wish I could say it was a
pleasure meeting you. Close the door after you, won't you, Mr Liberty?'
Gabriel was smiling to himself as he trudged home across the fields in
the late-afternoon sunshine. He hadn't enjoyed himself so much in a
long while. It wasn't often he came up against somebody brave
enough to cross words with him, but that spiky, sharp-tongued
young woman had made more of a go of it than anyone else ever
had. Dr Singh had tried it on, although he was too conscious of his
professional status to take a real verbal swing. But that Costello girl
hadn't cared a jot for what his response would be. And fair play to
her. Though he still maintained that she was a damned fool to go
wandering about the countryside on her own with a young child.
Asking for trouble in this day and age. One never knew who or what
was around the corner.
Back at Mermaid House he let himself in and went through to the
gun room. It was only then, as he stood in front of the locked glass
fronted cabinet, that he realised he didn't have the gun with him.
Damn and blast! He had left it behind with that girl and her son. A
shiver of unease crept over him as he recalled the cartridges he had
put into his coat pocket, which he had also stupidly left behind. He
hoped to God that just as that little boy had been indoctrinated with
the evils of sugar, he had been instilled with the belief that guns were
a no-go area for children.
He was about to retrace his steps across the fields, to see if the
camper-van was still there, when the telephone rang.
To his surprise he heard Jonah's voice at the other end of the line.
Now what was this about? When was the last time any of his
children had phoned him?

It was Ned who spotted it. 'Look, Mummy, Mr Liberty's forgotten
his coat and gun.' He reached out to the twin barrels and Clara
shouted, 'Don't touch!'
Ned jumped. 'I was only looking,' he said, hurt.
'I'm sorry,' she said, 'but those things can kill, and it's better that
you never get within touching distance of something as dangerous.'
'What shall we do with it?' he asked, anxiously.
'We could either wait and see if Mr Liberty comes back for it, or
we could go and find him.' She turned and looked at the map that
was still laid out on the table. 'My guess is,' she mused, 'and since he
claimed to own this land, that our friend Mr Grumpy-Pants Liberty
lives here.'
Ned climbed on to the seat to see what she was pointing at.
'Where? Show me.'
She indicated with her finger.
'If we go back the way we came, join the main road, then turn
right, just here, it's likely we'll find ourselves once again in the
company of the rudest man on earth. What do you think? Is it worth
the trouble?'
He stood up on the bench seat so that he was eye to eye with her. 'I
thought he was funny.'
'I didn't. He was rude to us.'
Ned looked thoughtful. 'He stopped those horrible men from
hurting you. And he made us tea because I was frightened.' He
lowered his gaze beneath his long lashes. 'I'm . . . I'm sorry I wet
myself.'
At the poignant reminder of what the old devil had done for them,
Clara put her arms around her precious son. 'I nearly wet myself
too,' she admitted. 'It was scary. And you're right,' she added
decisively, 'it's time I learned to be more tolerant of other people's
shortcomings.'
After Clara had put the gun inside a wardrobe, they washed up
their cups, stored them away and set a course for Mermaid House.
As to be expected, there was no helpful sign at the end of the track
that Clara was convinced would lead them to where Mr Liberty
lived. She turned off the main road, juddered over a cattle grid, and
pressed on. She soon realised that she had to slow to a steady crawl.
They rattled along for almost half a mile before they set eyes on the
most extraordinary sight. Clara whistled. 'Now that's what I call a
house.'
Ned was impressed too. 'It's a castle, Mummy!'
There weren't any battlements, but there was a tower built into
one of the corners of the house and it didn't take much imagination
to picture a cursing Mr Liberty standing at the window, shotgun in
hand, ready to defend his home from the onslaught of double-glazing
salesmen.
They came to an archway that led to a central courtyard. Clara
parked alongside a battered old Land Rover, pulled on the
handbrake and turned off the engine. Close up, the house was
gloomier than it had appeared from a distance. The sun was low in
the sky now, and the cobbled courtyard was in shadow. The
stonework was almost black in places and looked to be in need of a
good restorative clean. One wall was almost covered in ivy, which
helped to soften the grim effect of so much discoloured stone, but
otherwise the house was as saturnine and forbidding as its owner.
But how different it must have been when it was originally built,
Clara thought, as she hooked Mr Liberty's coat over her shoulder
and picked up the gun. She and Ned walked towards what she hoped
was a regularly used door - a deduction based on the pile of rubbish
bags grouped around a collection of dustbins. A nose-wrinkling pong
of rotting detritus floated out to them. 'Home, not-so-Sweet Home,'
she muttered, under her breath, as she stood on the doorstep looking
for a bell. Not finding one, she rapped loudly with her knuckles.
'No doubt he's preparing the hot oil and flaming arrows,' she said
to Ned.
'Shall I call him?' he said, pushing open the letterbox.
'That's probably not a good idea,' Clara said.
But it was too late. Ned was already peering through the gap.
'Ooh,' he exclaimed, 'it's really untidy. There's things everywhere.
Oh, I can see Mr Liberty. Hello, Mr Liberty, it's us, you forgot your
gun and we've brought it for you.'
'No need to make such a song and dance about it, young man.'
Bending down, Clara could see that Ned was nose to nose with the
formidable one-eyed owner of the house.
'We've brought your coat too,' Ned carried on, as though it was
the most reasonable thing in the world to be holding a conversation
through a letterbox. 'Your house is nice. It's just like a castle. Can I
come in and see it, please? I'll be very good. I'll take my shoes off like
I have to at Nanna and Granda's so I won't spoil your carpets. And I
promise I won't run about and knock things over.'
It was time to intervene. 'It's okay, Mr Liberty,' Clara said. 'We're
not here to bother you. I'll put your gun and coat here on the step
and leave you in peace. Thanks for your help earlier this afternoon.
Ned and I really appreciated what you did.' Taking her son's hand,
she lowered her voice. 'Come on, Ned, we mustn't make a nuisance
of ourselves. Besides, it's getting late and we have to find a campsite.'
She turned to go.
The door opened suddenly. 'You're too early.'
'Too early for what?' asked Clara.
'There's only one campsite in this area and it doesn't open for
another two weeks.'
She sighed. 'Oh, that's brilliant. Just what I needed to hear. Why
didn't you tell me that before?'
'Oh, so it's my fault you didn't do sufficient background research
before you came here, is it? How typical of a woman to blame her
inadequacies on the nearest man to hand.'
She sighed again. But now it was edged with a spark of annoyance.
'Mr Liberty, do you realise just how rude you are? Because if not, let
me tell you here and now that I have seldom come across a more
cantankerous and mean-spirited man.'
He smiled. Well, she thought it was a smile. It was more a case of
his lips stretching into what she assumed was an unaccustomed
position, resulting in the baring of two rows of large, uneven teeth.
'And I have seldom come across a woman with as much
ungracious impudence as you, Miss Costello,' he snarled, 'so I know
that if I were to suggest you use one of my fields for the night, it
would be a pointless gesture. You would only throw it back in my
face.'
Astonished, Clara hesitated. It was getting late, the light had
almost gone and she was tired. Embarking on a lengthy search for
somewhere to hitch up for the night didn't appeal. Also, the incident
that afternoon had left her more rattled than she cared to admit. Just
thinking about it again, caused her heart to beat faster. It seemed
eminently sensible to be within shouting distance of help. Even if it
came in the person of this misogynist old-timer with a serious
attitude problem.
'Perhaps we could come to some other arrangement,' she said,
choosing her words with care. 'Rather than spoil one of your fields
by driving across it, how about we stay right where we are in the
courtyard?'
He considered this. 'Just the one night?' he reiterated.
'Just the one night,' she confirmed. 'In fact, we'll be gone first thing
in the morning. It will be as though we'd never been here.'
He switched his gaze to Ned. 'And you, young man, you promise
you'll behave? I don't want any trouble from you. No crying. No
running about the place. And definitely no shouting through my
letterbox. I like things nice and quiet round here. If I hear so much as
a snore out of you tonight, there'll be trouble. Got that?'
Ned gave a solemn nod. And then one of his most engaging smiles.
'Would you like to have tea with us, Mr Liberty? We're having
pancakes. Oh, Mummy, please say Mr Liberty can have tea with us.'
Clara pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. Oh, well
done, Ned, she thought. A cosy evening with Mr Misery. Perfect.
'You're more than welcome, Mr Liberty,' she lied, 'but it will be very
simple. Nothing fancy, I'm afraid.'
Mr Liberty's enthusiasm for the idea seemed as great as her own.
He said, and dismissively so, 'Pancakes? I can't stand them. I've got a
nice bit of rump steak and a glass of claret I'm looking forward to.'
He turned back towards the house, but before he disappeared, he
tossed them one last piece of invective. 'And remember, no noise or
trouble.'

Chapter Twelve

Gabriel went to bed early that night. He often did. Sleep was a
welcome antidote to boredom. And, thank God, it was something he
was still good at. The rest of his body might be betraying him - his
hands, his bladder, his heart and the occasional limb given over to an
attack of tremors - but sleep was a nut he could still crack.
He stepped over the mess of plaster and curtains that he hadn't
done anything about since he'd pulled the track off the wall two
nights ago, and got into bed. The sheets felt cold and damp. He
didn't turn out the light straight away, but sat for a while to
contemplate his day, a habit of Anastasia's that had rubbed off on
him. 'Every day is a challenge,' she would say, 'but the real challenge
is reflecting on the bad aspects of that day and learning from them.'
It was another of her idealistic foibles that had contrasted with his
more pragmatic approach to life: anything he didn't like about his
day he wrote off. 'I haven't got the time to dwell on what's past,' he
had said once.
Smiling her knowing smile, Anastasia had stretched out beside him
in bed and stroked his cheek. 'Gabriel Liberty, I promise you that one
day, when you're old and grey, you will find you have more time on
your hands than you know what to do with and then you'll
understand.'
'We're never going to be old,' he had responded fiercely. 'I would
rather be dead than ancient and decrepit.'
He hadn't been much older than the age his children were now
when he had said this, but as he shifted his pillows against the
mahogany bed-head, Gabriel could remember uttering those words
as though it were yesterday. Anastasia had shushed him with a finger
against his lips. 'Yesterday, today, tomorrow, young or old, what
does any of it matter so long as we're together and making the most
of what we have?' Then she had kissed him. One of those long,
lingering kisses that had promised him the world. With his eyes shut
he could still feel the warmth of her moist mouth against his.
He snapped his eyes open. This was absurd. What did he think he
was doing? He reached for the book by the side of the bed - a heavy
tome of political memoirs guaranteed to see off such sentimental
nonsense. But it remained closed as his train of thought was
distracted again. Not by the distant past, but by the events of today.
He wondered how his guests were getting on.
Thinking of the pancakes they must have enjoyed, he thought of
his own supper - a lukewarm tin of Heinz tomato soup. He had lied
about the rump steak and claret just as he frequently lied to Jonah
about what he ate. Often he didn't eat what Jonah fetched from the
shops for him. The fresh fruit, the vegetables, the chicken breasts - it
was too much trouble. Cooking for one was bad enough, but eating
alone was worse.
So why hadn't he accepted the invitation to join that well
mannered little boy and his mother for supper? Especially as their
appearance down by the river had provided him with the highlight of
an otherwise tedious day.
Since Val's illness, and her death, he had got out of the habit of
being sociable, not that he had ever been gregarious. Val had been
the driving force when it came to showing one's face at local
functions; he had gone along with it to keep the peace. He had
preferred to devote himself to work. But even that had palled as the
years went on. And then came the day when, finally, he had had to
resign himself to the truth that none of his children was interested in
taking over the business he had inherited from his own father. It had
been a bitter day indeed when he sold up and retired. He had never
forgiven Caspar and Jonah for letting him down - in his heart,
Damson had never really been in the running. They could not have
found a more hurtful way to snub him. Everything he had worked
for and hoped to pass on to them, they had, by their actions, despised
and rejected. A solid engineering company with a name that was
known and respected around the world wasn't good enough for
them, was it? Oh, dear me, no.
And what had they chosen to do instead?
Not much.
After dropping out of university, Caspar, whose colossal self
regard far exceeded his willingness to get his hands dirty with real
work, had thrown himself into a series of get-rich-quick scams that
had all turned into financial disasters. During the eighties he had
fancied himself one of Thatcher's boys, but his entrepreneurial skills
were never going to sustain that ideal. He was an idle beggar who
thought the world owed him a favour. His worst commercial disaster
had been selling time-shares in Spain. When the bottom dropped out
of the hacienda market the banks foreclosed, investors lost their
money and one of Caspar's partners was sent to prison for fraud. But
what else would you expect from the Costa del Crime?
No two ways about it, Caspar was a dreadful businessman and an
even worse judge of character. Now he peddled overpriced cars for a
living.
As for Jonah, the brightest of the bunch, he was wasting what
talents he had been given by teaching in a third-rate school and
earning buttons.
It went without saying, of course, that Damson had never held
down a proper job. She had been too preoccupied with enjoying
herself.
So Gabriel had entered the twilight zone of retirement. It hadn't
suited him, isolated from the only world he had been interested in industrial
engineering: pipes, gaskets and valves - he had soon
realised he had few friends. The people he had mixed with had been
business associates in the steel-producing heartlands of Sheffield, and
other than his love of books, he had nothing else to occupy him.
Without meaning to, he had allowed the days to run through his
fingers like sand. Anastasia would never have let him do this: for her,
every day had counted. Val had tried to persuade him that they
should explore the world together, but because he had travelled so
extensively on business, he had ignored the brochures she left lying
about the house and withdrew to his library.
Then she had died, and it was easier to retreat further still: to
batten down the hatches and let the world go hang.
He knew the house was a mess and that he should do something
about it. But where to start? It had got so out of hand that the task
now seemed insurmountable.
He knew, too, that at times he was offhand and acerbic, but he
didn't have the patience to be polite. He had always been direct and
to the point - that was how one survived in business. Fannying
around with false pleasantries would have got him nowhere. If a
spade was a shovel, what the dickens was wrong in declaring it so?
When had mealy-mouthed insincerity become the alternative to good
old-fashioned honesty?
That was what he had liked about the Costello woman. She had
said exactly what she thought. She had had the guts to call him a
miserable old bugger. Good for her. That was what he approved of
and could respect. He hated it when his children took whatever he
dished out to them. It made him want to shake them and shout,
'Why can't you be more like me? Where's your bloody backbone?'
She was smart too. He could tell that by her waspish, quick-witted
manner. Take the way she had sized up the situation down in the
courtyard. He had offered her the use of a field, but she had wanted
somewhere better and hadn't been afraid to ask for it. She was a
determined woman who was used to ploughing her own furrow.
Though he doubted that she would have been able to talk her way
out of that ugly situation with those two nasty pieces of work. Lucky
for her that he frequently went down to the copse; lucky, too, that he
had been seized with the urge to take a few pot-shots at the crows.
He had hated those birds ever since, as a boy, he had seen one pluck
out the eyes of a newborn lamb. Armed with his gun he had been
intent on an afternoon's sport when he spotted the camper-van
parked on his land. He had quickened his pace, preparing to give the
trespasser a piece of his mind, when the car had appeared. It had
been satisfying to see the expression on the two yobbos' faces change
as they'd looked down the business end of a double-barrelled
shotgun. And even better seeing them run off. Rotten cowards,
picking on a young mother and her child.
Perhaps he had gone too far when he'd shouted at her, but anger
had fuelled his words. Anger that this was the kind of world in which
he lived, where young women and children weren't safe to set foot in
the countryside for fear of being robbed or subjected to God knew
what else. He thought of that poor mite wetting himself and wished
now that he'd scared those bully-boys even more.
He hated the idea that the disease-ridden scum of the big towns
and cities was now infiltrating what had always been a place of
sanctuary to him. Anastasia had loved to walk alone in the hills, and
so had the children. Jonah in particular had relished the solitude of
the moors, disappearing for hours at a time.
He had offered Miss Costello and her son the field because he had
been genuinely concerned about their welfare. What if she was too
tired to find a decent campsite and had dropped anchor in any old
place and attracted further trouble? He might be considered in some
quarters to be a bad-tempered old devil, but he was not the kind of
man who would let a young woman go without somewhere safe to
stay.
Smiling to himself, he thought of all the names he had been called
that day.
A miserable old bugger.
An old skinflint.
A crazy old fool.
A cantankerous and mean-spirited man.
Not bad for starters.
He switched off the light and wondered what he might be in for
tomorrow morning. Then he remembered that his feisty little guest
had said they would be gone by first thing in the morning - 'It will be
as though we'd never been here.'
He turned the light back on, reached for his clock and set the
alarm for six thirty. Just in case he overslept. It would be a shame to
miss out on a parting shot.

Chapter Thirteen

That night, unable to sleep, Archie stared at the ceiling above his bed.
The curtains at the window were thin and unlined, and from the
street-lamp outside, a glow of orange light shone through the cheap
fabric. It was sufficient, though, for his eyes to follow the cracks in
the plasterwork as if he was tracing a route on a map. That's me, he
thought tiredly, I'm looking for the way out. Or, at least, some kind
of direction.
He turned on to his side, hoping sleep would come if he lay in a
different position. It didn't. Now he could hear a gang of youngsters
coming back from the pub: they were kicking a tin can between them
and their care-free banter jarred on his troubled thoughts.
He had received a letter from Stella's solicitor. The grey paper with
the overly pedantic language had told him what he already knew,
that more than two decades of marriage was to be reduced to Mrs S.
Merryman versus Mr A. F. Merryman. The tone of the letter
suggested that the matter could be brought to a swift conclusion as
Mrs Merryman was happy to leave her husband's business concerns
out of the negotiations, but the house was another matter. As Mr
Merryman no doubt understood, Mrs Merryman had been a party to
the original purchase of the property as well as a regular contributor
to the mortgage payments, so she was entitled to her share of the
matrimonial home.
Archie had no argument with that. It was all true. And as much as
he wanted to avoid the upheaval of selling the house, he knew he had
no choice: he had no other means to pay off Stella.
Still restless, he rolled over on to his left side and tried to relax. But
his mind was racing through the years he and Stella had shared. The
good times, and the bad times.
It mattered to him that the past was kept intact, just as it mattered
to him that, for now, there were still traces of Stella's presence in the
house, painful as they were. Like the brush she had left on the
dressing-table with hairs caught among the bristles; the clothes she
hadn't taken with her; the magazine on the kitchen worktop, still
open at a page showing some film star with the new love of his life.
Ten minutes later, as sleep continued to elude him, he let out a sigh
of defeat.
Insomnia was a new phenomenon to him, and other than getting
out of bed and making himself a brew, he didn't know what to do.
He slipped on his towelling dressing-gown and went downstairs
quietly, not wanting to disturb his mother. She had taken to waking
during the night and thinking it was time to get up. She had done it
last night: at three o'clock, he had heard a noise coming from the
kitchen, and had shot downstairs ready to confront whoever had
broken in. What he found was Bessie setting out the breakfast things:
plates and bowls, packets of cereal and slices of bread ready to go
under the grill. His appearance in the kitchen had startled her so
much that she hadn't been able to get a coherent word out. It had
taken him some time to convince her that it was still the middle of the
night. As he led her back to her room, she had launched into a long,
heartfelt and impassioned speech, not one word of which could he
understand. He had sat on the edge of her bed, coaxing the words of
lucidity from her, soothing her frustration, until gradually he had
realised that she felt guilty Stella had left him and was trying to help
by seeing to things around the house. 'But, Mum,' he had said, 'I can
manage perfectly well. I don't want you to worry about anything like
that.' He had wanted to add that Stella had never made the breakfast
anyway, that it had always been his job.
He had spent an hour reassuring his mother that he could cope,
before he got back to his own bed. But by five o'clock she was up
again, running herself a bath.
When it came to Bessie having a bath, the golden rule was that
somebody had to be on hand to help her . . . just in case.
Just in case she slipped.
Just in case she fell asleep.

Just in case she scalded herself.
But if Archie's golden rule was that her bath time had to be
supervised, her own golden rule was that he was not allowed in the
bathroom while she was in a state of undress. With the door ajar, he
could sit outside on the landing, keeping up a steady flow of
conversation about the shop, Samson, Comrade Norm, and the
customers that came in to haggle over a stainless-steel egg-cup.
Now, in the harsh glare of the overhead strip-light, he stood in the
kitchen, listening to the kettle coming to the boil. The speech
therapist at the hospital had said that Bessie was improving, and he
hung on to this glimmer of hope, wanting to believe that his mother
would make a good, if not full, recovery.
He poured boiling water into the badly stained teapot, thinking
how unfair it was that Bessie should now be cheated of enjoying life.
She had worked hard down the years, had accepted and overcome
every challenge thrown at her. Most had been a direct result of
Archie's father having walked out on her when she was pregnant,
leaving her to cope with the daily grind of making ends meet while
struggling to bring up a child on her own. If he had stayed away for
ever, it would have been better all round, but he took advantage of
Bessie's generous nature and returned to sponge off her when the
mood took him. It was always a relief when he grew bored of regular
meals and her willingness to forgive, and left them alone.
Archie sat at the kitchen table to drink his tea, and tried to
remember what Dr Singh had said about there being swings and
roundabouts to face. He'd heard a snippet on the radio, too.
Something about keeping the stroke patient as active as possible, not
just physically, but mentally. Apparently the precariously balanced
mental capacities had to be exercised and shored up. Boredom was to
be avoided at all costs. Loneliness too.
It occurred to him that maybe he could get Bessie into the shop for
a few hours a day. She might like that. As kind as the neighbours had
been, Bessie hadn't made a lot of effort to get to know them and,
anyway, it wasn't easy for her to talk to strangers now. Her speech
embarrassed her, and she knew that it embarrassed them.
No, the solution was to get her involved in the shop. Give her
small tasks to do, such as polishing some of the small pieces of
furniture. And those horse brasses from the house-clearance job he'd
done the other day would come up a treat with a bit of tender loving
care. As would the box of commemorative plates, which were
covered in dust and grime. If he planned it carefully, there would be
any number of little jobs he could find for her to do. But he would
have to be subtle about it: his mother was no fool. He would have to
make out that she was doing him a big favour, that he needed her
help. There again, one look at Samson's huge clumsy hands would
tell her that the big guy wasn't made for cleaning delicate china.
He swallowed the last of his tea, rinsed the mug under the tap, put
it ready for his breakfast in the morning, and went back upstairs to
bed. As he pulled the duvet over him, life didn't seem so bad after all.

He had always believed that for every problem there was a
solution. It was just a matter of reasoning it through.
Drifting off to sleep, he felt better than he had in days. Maybe
things would start to pick up now.

Chapter Fourteen

Clara woke to the sound of rain pattering on the roof of the camper
van. Stretching beneath the duvet, she opened her eyes and looked at
her watch. It was eight o'clock. Goodness, as late as that. Still, there
was no hurry, and as Ned was sleeping soundly, she could savour a
rare lie-in. She closed her eyes, listened to the rain, and hoped it
wouldn't develop into a full-blown downpour. Sadly, it seemed that
the waitress's prediction at the cafe yesterday had been less than
accurate: the rain had come early. They had been lucky so far on
their trip: this was their first wet day. 'Captain's Log, Star Date 2.9
March,' she thought, with a smile, 'Day Five - rain.'
She should be keeping a diary. In years to come, when she was
slogging away on the treadmill, it would make interesting reading. It
would be nice for Ned, too. A keepsake to prove that they had been
brave enough to flout convention.
Well, it wasn't too late to start. She would buy a book in
Deaconsbridge and encourage Ned to play his part too. He could
write his own entries, draw a few pictures, and maybe stick in
postcards of where they had stayed. Another oversight. Postcards.
She was supposed to be keeping her friends and parents up to date
with their travels, but somehow she just hadn't got round to it. Nor
had she phoned Louise. But that had been a conscious effort on her
part to distance herself from home: to get the most out of this trip,
she had wanted to separate herself from what she had left behind.
So, buying some postcards was another job for today, she thought,
her orderly mind now putting together a list of things she had to do.
They needed a supermarket, and a launderette would be useful. She
didn't mind hand-washing a few pairs of pants and socks, but larger
items were a drag. After yesterday, and their several changes of
clothes, she could do with throwing everything into a machine, while
she and Ned had a nose round the shops in the market square.
Maybe they could have another meal at the Mermaid cafe and decide
what they were going to do next. If it looked like the rain was going
to settle in for the day, they could perhaps drive across to Castleton
and visit the underground caverns, some of which, according to the
guide books, were open all year.
She stretched again, and sighed contentedly. How pleasant it was
to know that one's only concern for the day was to find a washing
machine and something to eat, with a little amusement thrown in. It
was a far cry from worrying about meeting the latest production-line
quotas. She didn't miss any of it - except, perhaps the silly e-mails
from the boys - Guy and David - and their antics. Guy had lifted the
tension on many a head-banging-against-the-wall day. He would
burst through her door like a member of the SAS, rolling across the
floor and jumping up to declare that he had her covered - usually
with a staple gun. The first time he had done it she had nearly fallen
off her chair in alarm. It was also the first time she had met him. 'Hi,'
he'd said, slipping the staple gun into the waistband of his suit
trousers. 'I've been sent to introduce myself, seeing as you're new to
the department. How're you getting on, Miss Clarabelle Costello?'
'Fine until you burst in and tried to staple me to the spot. Could
you try knocking in future? You never know what I might be doing
in here. And my name's Clara, not a ding-dong to be heard.' He
never did knock, but she soon got used to his entrance - and the pet
name.
She smiled at the memory. It was the camaraderie she missed, not
the job. Already she was discovering that, away from home, her
sense of perspective was undergoing further change. Though she and
Ned had had holidays before, this one was different. There was no
rush to their days. They did not have to cram everything into a week.
Even yesterday's horrible incident hadn't dampened her enthusiasm.
She wasn't nervous by nature, but last night she had been
grateful to Mr Liberty for allowing them to stay here - for her own
peace of mind and Ned's. But she need not have worried about him:
Ned had tucked into his supper with relish and gone to bed happily.
The campsites they had stayed at previously had never been free of
noise - of caravan doors clicking shut, toilets flushing, radios and
televisions playing. Here, in the courtyard at Mermaid House, it had
been the quietest night she had known. Other than a faint rustling of
leaves on trees and the occasional distant animal noise, it had been as
silent as the grave.
Which probably accounted for the good night's sleep she'd had.
Overcome with a general sense of well-being, she thought that
perhaps when she and Ned went into Deaconsbridge that morning
they would buy a small present for Mr Liberty to thank him. She also
wanted to try to make amends for being so rude to him - fear and
tiredness must have got the better of her. She wondered if he was a
one-off, or whether there were more like him inside Mermaid House.
A whole family of eccentric Libertys slowly driving each other round
the bend. If so, it was straight out of Cold Comfort Farm.
Putting aside its cranky, eccentric owner, the house was a veritable
piece of whimsy. She had never seen anything like it before. She
hoped there would be a chance, if she made peace with Mr Liberty,
to have a look round. Maybe she could get Ned to ask him. It would
sound less intrusive coming from a four-year-old boy.
Thinking of Ned, Clara rolled onto her side and looked towards
his sleeping compartment. There was still no sign of movement from
behind the curtain. He must have been shattered last night to sleep so
long. It's all the fresh air, she thought. That would meet with her
mother's approval. As babies, she and Michael had been put outside
in their prams in all weathers. 'Toughened you up nicely,' said her
mother, who had tried to do the same with Ned. 'Just airing him,' she
claimed, when Clara arrived to collect him after work and found him
on the patio with a strong wind buffeting the pram.
'Airing him or freeze-drying him, Mum?'
Though she had made her views clear on how she wanted her son
treated, Clara knew that while her back was turned her mother did
as she pleased, but so long as Ned thrived Clara couldn't complain.
Anyway, she was glad to have parents prepared to help out. Without
them, she wouldn't have coped nearly so well.
When she had discovered she was pregnant there had been no
dilemma over whether or not to keep the baby. She had loved her
unborn child's father, so it had seemed natural to want his baby.
Telling her parents that she was pregnant had been one of the hardest
things she had ever done. She knew she had let them down.
'Is there really no chance of the father taking on his responsibility?'
her mother had asked, stricken.
'No, Mum. He's already married.'
That had been the second shock they'd had to cope with: that their
sensible, well-brought up daughter had been stupid enough to have
an affair with a married man. Initially they had wanted to blame the
despicable rotter for tricking her into a relationship with him when
he should have known better, but she told them, 'I knew all along
that he was married. At the time, though, he was separated from his wife.'
They had seized on this glimmer of hope.
'Is he divorced now?' her father asked.
'No. He and his wife are reconciled.'
Her father had picked up on the one aspect of the tale she had tried
to gloss over. 'Did you tell him you were pregnant?' he asked.
'No.'
'But, darling, why not? He's the father, he should know,' her
mother remonstrated.
'You only think that because you want to believe he'll wave a
magic wand over my pregnancy and make it nice and respectable.'
'That's a little hard on us,' her father said.
'But it's true, isn't it? Imagine this year's Christmas cards: "Oh,
and by the way, Clara's expecting our first grandchild but we don't
know who the father is."'
'You haven't told us his name,' her mother said, pushing this
uncomfortable home truth to one side.
'There's no need to. You won't ever meet him.'
In the end, and once the shock had worn off, her parents made it
clear that they would be standing right by her. 'It's your life,' they
told her, 'and we'll do all we can to help.' Their love and solidarity
was just what she needed. It still brought a lump to her throat when
she thought of their support and devotion.
By the time Ned was due, they were ready to fend off the merest
hint of criticism from anyone and drove her to the hospital when she
went into labour. She had never seen her father drive as fast as he
had that night, crashing through red lights, the horn blaring. In the
back of the car, next to Clara, her mother was breathing so hard it
was difficult to know which of them was about to give birth. Louise
met them at the hospital. She had been co-opted into being Clara's birthing partner, much to the rest of the gang's relief. 'You know I'm
your biggest fan, Clarabelle,' Guy had said, 'but to see you flat on
your back and screaming like a banshee would dispel the beautiful
illusion I have of you.'
In the early hours of the morning, Ned made his appearance. He
was the most amazing, tiny, wide-eyed, dark-haired bundle of
wonder, Clara could have imagined. She couldn't take her eyes off
him. As she gazed into his little face she felt as if she had always
known him. 'So there you are,' she almost said. 'I was wondering
where you'd got to.' Even Louise, the world's biggest child-hater, had
been moved to tears when he had wrapped his tiny fingers around
her thumb - though she claimed later that hunger and exhaustion
had overwhelmed her.
Clara's parents had been equally moved by their grandson. Her
father had hidden his wet cheeks behind a brand new Pentax specially
bought for the occasion - saying that somebody had to
capture the moment, but her mother had sniffed and gulped quite
openly, holding Ned in her arms and posing proudly for the camera.
At visiting-time later that day the gang were in her ward,
presenting her with flowers and champagne, chocolates, and a huge
teddy bear.
'It'll scare the poor mite witless,' Moira had said, taking a cautious
but curious peek at Ned, who was asleep in Clara's arms. 'Was it as
bad as Louise told us it was?'
Louise held up her hands. 'Sorry, Clara, but yes, I'm guilty of
giving the sordid details. Frankly, from where I was standing, it was
bloody awful. You've done me an enormous favour in putting me off
for life.'
Four years on, Louise said that the moment she ever felt her
hormones creeping up on her, she only had to think of that night in
hospital with Clara and they shrank back into line without another
word.
Though none of her friends had ever wanted children, they loved
Ned, and went out of their way to spoil him. He might not be in
possession of a full deck of parents, but in all other respects, he was a
lucky boy: devoted grandparents and a set of the most doting aunts
and uncles a child could wish for.
Clara slipped out of bed and filled the kettle. As she set it on the
gas ring, she made a mental note to top up the water barrel before
leaving. It held enough for two days of showers, cooking and
washing-up, but she hated the idea of running out, so she kept a
sharp eye on it. And while she was about it, she'd check their gas
supply.
After wiping away the condensation that had formed on the
window above the cooker, she opened one of the large vents in
Winnie's roof, just enough to freshen the air but not to let the rain in,
by which time the kettle had boiled and the van had acquired what she called a comforting happy-camper smell of burning gas. She
made a pot of tea, then, surprised that the whistling of the kettle
hadn't woken Ned, she stepped on to the first rung of the ladder and
poked her head through the curtains.
Her heart leaped into her mouth.
Ned's bed was empty.

Chapter Fifteen

It was every parent's worst nightmare. Cold, debilitating fear
consumed her, then sick panic took hold. She leaned across Ned's
rumpled bed and flung back the duvet as though he might be there
after all. She threw aside his pillow, too, and rummaged through his
collection of cuddly toys.
Next she stumbled down from the ladder and checked the rest of
the van, spurring herself on with the faint hope that in the night, and
without disturbing her, Ned might have used the toilet and fallen
asleep in there. No sign of him.
She stood for a moment to gather her thoughts. Had someone
sneaked into the van while she slept and abducted him? She recalled
a harrowing case several years ago of a young girl who had been
taken from a tent and murdered.
No. Ned must simply have gone for a walk. In the rain?
Without bothering to change out of the oversized T-shirt she had
slept in, she pulled on a pair of jeans and pushed her feet into her
trainers. She opened the door and stepped outside. The rain was
coming down heavier now and splashed against her face as she
scanned the courtyard. If she had thought Mermaid House gloomy
yesterday, it was even more so in the pouring rain. Beneath a pewter
sky, the walls seemed darker than ever and water was cascading from
a broken section of guttering. She made a dash for the door and, not
caring that she had promised Mr Liberty they wouldn't cause any
noise or trouble, she banged on it loudly. If she was going to find
Ned, she needed his help. He would have some idea where a curious
child might wander on his land.
Impatiently, she crashed her knuckles against the frosted-glass
panel of the door again. 'Come on, come on,' she cried frantically.

Then, just as Ned had done yesterday, she bent down, pushed open
the letterbox and peered inside. 'Mr Liberty,' she called, 'I'm sorry to
disturb you, but I need your help. Please answer the door.'
Still no response.
Desperation set in, and with no shelter from the rain, she was now
thoroughly wet and cold. Fear was making her nauseous, and
conjuring up yet more disturbing images, of Ned lost in this
unknown landscape, wandering across the fields and finding his way
down to the river where they had paddled yesterday. The water
hadn't been deep there, but what if he had discovered a more
dangerous section where . . . where a small boy could drown?
She hammered wildly on the door. At last, and almost in tears, she
heard the familiar, but welcome sound of Mr Liberty cursing. 'Hell's
teeth, what's all the rumpus?' he growled, throwing open the door
and staring at her fiercely.
'It's Ned.' She gulped. 'He's missing and I don't know where to
start looking for him. Will you help me? Please. I thought you might
know--' From behind him a head appeared, followed swiftly by the
rest of Ned in his slippers, pyjamas and stripy dressing-gown whose
belt was trailing on the ground. Clara went weak with relief. He was
safe. She pushed past Mr Liberty, knelt on the stone-flagged floor
and hugged Ned. But hot on the heels of relief came irrational anger
and, to her shame, it was all she could do to stop herself shaking him.
'You know you're not supposed to leave the camper-van on your
own,' she said, as calmly as she could. 'I was so worried. I thought
something terrible had happened to you.'
'Please don't be cross with me, Mummy,' he said, tremulously. 'Mr
Liberty said it would be all right.'
If Clara had felt like shaking Ned, she now felt like punching Mr
Liberty's good eye right out of its socket. She got to her feet. 'Let me
get this straight. This was all your idea?'
He cleared his throat. 'Saw the little lad peering out of his window
and thought he might appreciate some company. Which he did. Isn't
that right, young man?'
His cavalier attitude pushed Clara's anger to its zenith. 'What gives
you the right to think you can encourage my son to break a rule?
What did you think you were doing?'
'Mummy--'
'Ned, please, I'm talking.'
'But, Mummy, Mr Liberty showed me a secret door and the tower.
He said there used to be a ghost up there. He told me that--'
'Ahem, possibly not the time, young man,' Mr Liberty murmured.
'Maybe we both ought to be apologising to your mother. She's
looking a mite bothered to me.'
Clara flashed him a look of pure fury. 'Bothered? I was out of my
mind with worry. I thought--' She stopped. She didn't want to relive
the horror of thinking Ned might have been kidnapped by some
perverted beast, that he might be lying dead somewhere, that she
might never see him again and never feel his little body crushed
against hers. That she might never stroke his soft cheek and silky
smooth hair. Her anger subsided, and the heart-thumping pain of
relief returned. 'I thought you didn't go in for making apologies.'
He looked uncomfortable. 'On this occasion I'm prepared to make
an exception.'
'So what are you waiting for?'
'Miss Costello, I meant you and your boy no harm, and I'm very
sorry that I caused you a moment's concern.'
'I'm sorry too, Mummy.' Ned's hand crept into hers. 'Don't be
cross,' he added, shooting down any remaining vestiges of anger with
one of his heart-melting smiles.
Suddenly she couldn't speak, but Mr Liberty filled in the silence.
'Well, if we're through with the sentiment, can you decide what you
want to do next?' Contrition dispensed with, he went on, 'You can
either stand here for the rest of the day letting in the rain and freezing
to death or you can warm yourself by the fire in the kitchen while I
make you some tea. A task I've proved myself more than capable of
doing once before.'
Clara decided to accept, and she and Ned followed as Mr Liberty
led the way. She was appalled at what she saw. Mess and clutter lay
everywhere, piles of junk as far as the eye could see. The house smelt
too. She had imagined a comforting old-fashioned kitchen with a
massive fireplace where once upon a time a whole pig would have
been roasted on a spit with a lowly scullery-maid to turn the handle.
This dingy, bone-chilling room, with its grimy walls and flaking
paintwork - especially above the cooker, which was covered in a
thick film of grease - was not what she had envisaged. Nor was the
gas-fired contraption with which Mr Liberty was now fiddling. She
wondered why on earth he used such a device when behind it stood
an Aga the size of a small car.
'It's the very devil to get going sometimes,' Mr Liberty complained,
as he clicked away at a button on the side of the heater in an effort to
ignite the flame. At last it caught and he straightened up triumphantly.
'There! That showed it who's boss.' She could see from his
face that the coaxing of the heater into life was a daily battle of wills.
'Don't stand on ceremony,' he commanded. 'Sit yourself down.'
He scraped one of the heavy chairs away from the long table and put
it a few feet short of the heater. She crossed the room reluctantly, her
shoes sticking to the scummy floor with each step, and sat in front of
the meagre source of warmth. Mr Liberty threw a tea-towel at Ned.
'Don't stand there idly, young man,' he said. 'Help your mother to
dry her hair. We don't want her catching her death, do we?'
'You wouldn't be spoiling me with your best Irish linen, would
you?' she said, taking the grubby cloth from Ned.
He harrumphed loudly, turned away from her and set about the
business of making tea.
A dubious brown crust on the tea-towel made her wonder if a mug
of tea was such a good idea. Lord knows what she might catch. She
tried to lose the tea-towel discreetly by folding it to slip it under some
conveniently placed object, but Ned took it from her and tried
helpfully to dab at her hair. She ducked out of his reach. 'No, Ned,'
she whispered. 'It's dirty.'
'Shall I ask Mr Liberty for a clean one?' he whispered back. He
might as well have placed a megaphone to his lips and relayed the
message for the whole of the Peak District to hear.
Mr Liberty was rinsing mugs under the tap, and whipped round.
'Complaining again, Miss Costello? And there was me on the verge
of offering you something to eat.'
The very idea made Clara want to gag. But, to her horror, Ned
said, 'Breakfast would be nice.' He smiled at Mr Liberty. 'What have
you got to eat? I'm very hungry.'
Clara stepped in fast. 'Why don't I cook us all a fry-up in the van?'
She'd do anything to avoid being laid low with gastro-enteritis - even
cook for this vinegary old man. 'We've got plenty of eggs and bacon.'
He looked at her shrewdly. 'Are you implying that my house isn't

good enough for you? That it's not clean?'
'I'm not implying anything of the kind,' she said, rising from the
chair to escape the gas heater and its noxious fumes. 'I'm telling you
straight. The house, what I've seen of it, is a health hazard.'
He flared his nostrils. 'For one so young, you have quite a nerve,
Miss Costello. Are you always so direct with people you hardly
know?'
She gave him a conciliatory smile. 'Like you said earlier, sometimes
there are occasions when one is forced into a position of making an
exception. Which means I'm being unusually restrained with you.
You should think yourself lucky.'
He gave a short bark of a laugh. 'Ned, m'boy, you have an
extraordinary mother, did you know that? And just to prove that I
don't harbour any ill feelings, I'm going to take up her offer of a
cooked breakfast. That should teach her a lesson for shooting her
impertinent mouth off, shouldn't it?'

Inside the camper-van, Gabriel tucked hungrily into his plate of
bacon and eggs, relishing every mouthful. He couldn't remember the
last time he had eaten a cooked breakfast.
'Would you like some ketchup, Mr Liberty?' asked Ned, from
across the narrow table, a piece of streaky bacon dangling from his
fork.
'Ketchup's for caffs,' Gabriel replied tersely. 'It's the opium of the
common folk.'
'What's opium?'
'He doesn't need to know,' his mother chipped in, 'and don't
speak with your mouth full.'
'Are you referring to me or your son?'
'To both of you.'
'Why don't I need to know?'
'Yes, Miss Costello, come along now, don't be shy. Surely you
have an answer for your naturally inquisitive son. You seem to have
an answer for just about everything else.' To his delight, a slightly
raised eyebrow indicated that he had scored a point.
'It's a drug made from poppies, Ned,' she said, 'and it's highly
addictive. It melts your brain. And before you ask what addictive
means, it means that you want it all the time.'
'Like chocolate?'
'Yes. But you want it even more than chocolate.'
'But how does it melt your brain? And if I ate too much chocolate,
would my brain melt? Would it pour out through my ears, going
gloopy-gloopy-gloop if I shook my head?' He gave them a demonstration,
his eyes swivelling.
Gabriel was reminded of Caspar and Damson as small children.
They had always been on at him, question after tiresome question.
There had never seemed enough answers in the world for them.
Jonah had been the opposite, hardly opening his mouth. If he wanted
to know something he found it out for himself. 'Jonah's an intelligent
boy, Gabriel,' Val often said. 'You should do more to encourage him.
Try to show how proud you are of him.' But Jonah had thrown away
his potential.
Sighing inwardly and feeling his good humour drain out of him,
Gabriel stabbed a piece of toast into the yolk of his second egg. He
could remember the stinging blow Jonah had dealt him when he had
announced his intention to become a teacher. They had been in the
library, the setting sun turning the room amber, shafts of light
catching the motes of dust in the warm air, music coming from some
other part of the house. 'Please, Dad,' he had said, his hands stuffed
into his trouser pockets, 'don't make this any harder for me than it
already is. Just hear me out and respect my decision. That's all I ask.'
'And all I've ever asked of you is your respect, loyalty and duty, as
my father expected them of me.'
'And maybe your father was wrong to expect so much of you.
Perhaps if he had treated you differently, you might have treated us differently.'
Incensed at the doubled-edged criticism levelled at both himself
and his father - a man he had both feared and idolised - Gabriel had
done the unthinkable: he had lashed out and struck Jonah, knocking
him clean off his feet. In shock he had watched his younger son pick
himself up from the floor, then touch the bloodied corner of his
mouth. But something more than anger was raging inside Gabriel,
something far worse that made his fists itch to strike Jonah again. He
never knew whether Jonah had done it deliberately, but his gaze, as
he dusted himself down, moved from Gabriel's face to the portrait of
Anastasia above the fireplace. It was as if he was saying, 'And what
would she say of your behaviour?' But in a quiet, and wholly
restrained voice, he had said, 'Why can't you trust me to cock up my
own life, Dad? Why try to do it for me?'
Not another word passed between them. Not for the rest of that
evening, that week or the months that followed. When Jonah walked
out on him that night, Gabriel didn't set eyes on him again for a year.
He had never thought of his younger son as stubborn - that was
more Caspar and Damson's style - but his absence from Mermaid
House during those twelve months proved beyond measure that he
was as stubborn as Gabriel himself. He could almost respect his son
for that.
The sound of an engine jolted Gabriel out of his thoughts. 'Shall I
go and see who it is?' asked Ned, already slipping down from his seat
and opening the top half of the camper-van door so that he could
peer out. 'It's a car,' he announced, standing on tiptoe. 'There's
someone to see you, Mr Liberty.'
'Top marks, young man,' said Gabriel, using his hand to wipe a
peephole through the steamed-up window and recognising, with
annoyance, the mobile Japanese torture chamber that had pulled into
the courtyard. Didn't the wretched man have the sick and the dying
to attend to?
'Shall I invite him in, Mummy?'
'No, Ned, I'm sure Mr Liberty would rather entertain his guest in
the comfort of his own home.'
Gabriel put a last piece of sausage into his mouth and rose stiffly
to his feet. He had a nasty feeling that he knew why Dr Singh had
called today, and if he was ever going to get the irritating quack off
his case, he was going to have to engage his brain in some nimble
thinking.
Dr Singh was already knocking on the back door by the time
Gabriel made it across the courtyard in the rain. 'You know what
your trouble is,' he said to the doctor, 'you've got too much time on
your hands. I suppose you want to come in?'
'Good morning to you, Mr Liberty. Yes, entry to your fine house
so that we can both get out of this terrible rain would be in both our
interests, I suspect.'
'And I suspect you of foul play,' Gabriel said when they were
standing in the kitchen, and Dr Singh had removed his wet coat and
was requesting a look at his arm. 'You're keeping a close watch on
me and I don't like it.'
'Mm . . . that's good. It's improving nicely. Eye next. Foul play? In
what way?'
'You're biding your time before you start insisting that I do
something about getting help around my house. You'll pull another
of your blackmail stunts on me if I don't do as you say.'
'Tsk - tsk, Mr Liberty. I can't think what you're referring to. Mm
. . . yes, your eye looks much better. But you do need help and I'm
determined to make you see that. It's a big house you have here. And
you're not--'
'And I'm not getting any younger,' Gabriel finished for him. 'Blahdi-blah-di-blah.
You're just dying to get Social Services on to me,
aren't you? You'd like nothing better than to have me rehoused in a
tiny box with a warden banging on the door every ten minutes to
check I haven't gassed myself through boredom. Why don't you just
have done with it and measure me up for a coffin?'
'A tempting suggestion, and certainly something to consider. As
risky as it is, may I wash my hands?' He pulled out a small hand
towel from his medical bag, along with a tiny bar of wrapped soap.
'Oh, please, be my guest.'
'Talking of which, would I be correct in thinking you have one?'
The doctor looked through the window, out across the courtyard. 'A
member of your family, perhaps? Or are you about to take to the
road and broaden your horizons?'
'My horizons are plenty broad enough, thank you. If you must
know . . .' But his words petered out. 'Family,' he repeated, 'why did
you say that?'
'A shot in the dark.'
Family, echoed Gabriel privately. Now there was an idea. But
would it work? Surely it had to be worth a try? 'Actually, your stab
in the dark is spot on. My daughter's come to stay with me.'
Dr Singh turned off the tap with the tip of a forefinger, picked the
small white towel from his shoulder, and dried his hands. 'You've
had a change of heart, then?'
Gabriel looked at him blankly. 'What do you mean?'

'The last time we spoke you gave the impression that your family
meant little to you. Has a reconciliation taken place?'
'Ah . . . something like that, yes.'
Dr Singh smiled. 'That is wonderful news. So, will you be allowing
your daughter to play a more active role in your life from now on?'
'Oh, do me the honour of getting to the point. What you're really
asking is, am I going to let her help me clean up my act?'
'You put it so well, Mr Liberty.'
'And if that were to happen, would you leave me alone? Would
you stop turning up here with spurious excuses to check on my
welfare with blackmail on your mind?'
'It might.'
'Well, you stay right there while I go and fetch my daughter for
you to meet. You'll soon see that I'm now in thoroughly good
hands.'
Crossing the courtyard, Gabriel had no idea if Miss Costello
would play ball with him, but as he had just reasoned with himself, it
had to be worth a try. All he had to do was inveigle her into telling a
white lie or two and everyone would be happy.
Or, more precisely, he would be happy.

Chapter Sixteen

As she stacked the dirty plates to be washed, with Ned at her side on
his little step ready to help, Clara listened to Mr Liberty's
extraordinary proposal. Amused, she let him grind on until at last he
came to a halt and his words were left hanging awkwardly in the
confined space between them. Waiting for her response, he shuffled
his big feet from side to side like a naughty schoolboy up before the
headmaster. 'Now let me get this straight,' she said, 'you want me to
pretend to be your daughter?'
He shuffled again. 'I thought I'd just made that abundantly clear.'
'Would it be too much of an imposition to ask why?'
'I might have known you'd make matters difficult. Why can't you
just accept what I've asked you to do?'
'Because it's not in my nature. I like to be presented with all the
salient facts before I make up my mind about anything. If I'm going
to play along with your curious game of subterfuge, I think I ought
to be allowed to know the whys, the hows, and the whats. So divvy
up the information or leave Ned and me to get on. We have a busy
day ahead of us.'
'God damn it! You're the most infuriating woman I have ever had
the misfortune to meet, Miss Costello.'
'With all due respect, Mr Liberty, it strikes me that you need my
help more than I need your impertinence, so if you're through with
the name-calling, perhaps--'
'All right, all right. I need you to pretend to be my daughter so that
annoying quack will leave me alone. I need to prove to him that I
have a loving member of my family clasped to my bosom who is
eager to keep a watchful eye over me.'
'And if you can't prove that is the case?'
'I'll probably have Social Services snooping round here faster than
you can say meals on bloody wheels. And they won't leave it there.
You've seen the state of the house - their next move will be to have
me rehoused, claiming I'm incapable of taking care of myself.'
'You don't think you're overreacting just a touch? They couldn't
do that unless you allowed them to.'
'If it was your freedom in the balance, would you want to risk it?'
She considered what he had said. Okay, maybe he was being
paranoid, and perhaps he might be better off in a more wholesome
environment with a regular supply of meals, but who was to say,
other than the man himself, whether he would feel better off living
that way? If he wanted to spend the rest of his life, until he died from
bubonic plague, surrounded by his own mess, wasn't that his right?
She didn't know anything about taking care of the elderly and what
powers Social Services had, but she knew enough to understand that
a matter of principle was at stake. Clearly Mr Liberty felt that this Dr
Singh, who was currently waiting to meet his patient's loving, caring
daughter inside Mermaid House, wasn't going to leave him alone
until he had been convinced that his patient was to be looked after. If
a couple of fibs was all it would take to make everyone happy, why
not tell them?
'Okay,' she said, 'I'll do it. And given that your doctor has been
kept waiting long enough, we ought to get this over and done with
immediately. We don't have time to concoct anything elaborate so
we'll have to keep our story simple. Agreed?'
He nodded. 'If he asks, I thought you could tell him you were
coming to stay indefinitely.'
'And Ned? What do we say about him?'
Mr Liberty hesitated. 'I hadn't thought of him. I suppose he'll have
to be my grandson.'
At this last remark, and with his hands cupping an enormous
bubble, Ned turned from the sink. He beamed and gave the bubble a
long, steady blow. It moved slowly from his hands, drifted up
towards Mr Liberty and came to rest on his shoulder. Where it burst.
'Let's hope that's not what's going to happen to our story when we
meet your Dr Singh,' Clara remarked.

Dr Singh was absorbed in a three-month-old Daily Telegraph that
was lying on top of a box of old shoes and jam-jars when Gabriel
and his newly acquired family entered the kitchen. He raised his head
when he heard their footsteps.
In a loud, jovial voice, Gabriel said, 'Dr Singh, I'd like you to meet
my daughter, Damson, and my grandson, Ned.'
'I'm very pleased to meet you,' the doctor said, coming forward to
shake hands. 'But, Mr Liberty, you didn't tell me you were fortunate
enough to be a grandfather. And such a fine-looking boy. So like his
mother. The resemblance is uncanny.'
'You're not my priest, I don't have to confess everything to you.'
Dr Singh shared a conspiratorial smile with Miss Costello. 'Your
father is a very unusual man. His sense of humour is not to
everyone's taste, I think.'
'Oh, he's always been a quirky old devil, but that's his charm.
Affectionately curmudgeonly, is what we say about him. Isn't that
right, Dad?
She's enjoying every moment of this, thought Gabriel, with a half
smile. But then, truth to tell, so was he. It was particularly satisfying
knowing that he was getting one over on this interfering quack. 'If
you say so, dear.''
'He tells me that you're coming to stay with him,' Dr Singh said.
'Yes, that's right. I thought I'd take him in hand, you know, tidy
the place up a bit, maybe even encourage him to find himself a
housekeeper.'
Dr Singh smiled again. 'I wish you luck in those tasks.' He cast his
eyes meaningfully around the kitchen.
'Oh, I think I'm more than up to the task of whipping my rascal of
a father into shape. No worries on that score.'
'Well, if you've both finished discussing me as though I were a
dimwit,' Gabriel said tersely. 'Perhaps you'd be kind enough to show
the doctor to the door, Damson. There's a whole world of terminally
ill people out there who must be desperate for a good dying scene in
the arms of their local GP.'
'Yes, Dad, of course.'
Thinking how easily they'd got away with it, Gabriel watched the
doctor being lead out of the kitchen. He heard the back door open
and was on the verge of a congratulatory pat on the back when the
doctor reappeared. Gabriel froze. Damn! Had the wretched man
merely been playing along with them?
'Dear, oh dear,' the doctor said, 'you would think I'd know better
by now.' He came towards Gabriel and reached for his medical bag,
which he'd left on a chair beside the table. 'I've been told so many
times that I would lose my head if it were not joined to the rest of
me.' He laughed brightly.
Gabriel forced himself to join in. 'Got everything now?' he asked.
'I do hope so. I certainly don't want to have to make another trip
out here today. Your drive is murder on my little car's suspension.'
'You'd better keep away, then.'
Despite the rain, Miss Costello walked the doctor to his car.
Through the window, Gabriel could see that they were deep in
conversation. No need to ask who or what they were discussing.
Doubtless the good doctor was pumping the prodigal daughter about
her pathetic old father.
'Well?' he said, when she came back into the kitchen.
'Well what?' she asked, shaking the droplets of rain from her hair.
'Did we get away with it?'
'For the time being, yes.'
'Uh?'
'You've earned yourself a reprieve until next week. He said he's
going to try and pop in on Monday to make sure your eye has
recovered.'
'This is victimisation,' Gabriel roared. 'I won't stand for it. It's
outrageous!'
'A lot of people would give their back teeth for such a caring
doctor.'
'Well, I'm not one of them! I'll - I'll pretend I'm not in. Or, better
still, I'll go to the surgery. That'll show the stupid little man.' Then,
in a less acerbic tone, 'Why can't people understand that I just want
to be left alone? Is that really too much to ask?' He slumped into a
chair at the table.
With her hands resting on Ned's shoulders, Clara observed him
from across the room. The poor man made a desolate picture. And
for the first time since meeting him, she saw not a growling, teeth
baring tyrant but an elderly man who wanted to preserve his dignity.
It was just that he was going about it in the wrong way.
The modern world didn't work by the old rules of dictatorship.
Nowadays it was run on different lines, by compromise, tact, guile,
and subtle manipulation. She should know: she had used them well
enough during her time with Phoenix. She had lost count of the
number of management training courses she had been on where she
had been told that there is no such thing as a problem: problems are
challenges, and challenges are to be shared.
But how could this old man ever adapt? How could he ever wise
up to the great universal truth that it was all about give and take?

Chapter Seventeen

There was nothing else she could say so Clara took Ned's hand and
turned to leave. 'Why is Mr Liberty so sad?' Ned asked, his voice too
loud and too clear.
'I'm not sad,' rumbled Mr Liberty, his head still his hands. 'I've
never been sad in my life.'
Pulling his hand out of Clara's grasp, Ned went back to the table,
stood next to the old man and peered at him. 'Why are you hiding
behind your hands?' he asked. 'Are you playing a game? Granda
does that with me. He sits very still, makes gaps in his fingers, then
suddenly goes, boo! It makes me jump every time. Shall I show you?'
Before either Clara or Mr Liberty could stop him, Ned let out an
almighty boo! Mr Liberty jumped, but Clara could see that he was
trying to pretend he hadn't. 'Do you want to play that game with
me?' asked Ned. 'It might cheer you up.'
'Ned, I don't think Mr Liberty wants to play anything right now.
He's not in the mood. And, anyway, we've got to keep our part of
the bargain.'
At this, Mr Liberty raised his head. 'Bargain?'
'You generously gave us a place to stop for the night on the
understanding we wouldn't cause you any trouble and that we would
be gone first thing.' She looked at her watch. 'First thing was several
hours ago, but by lunchtime we should be out of your way.'
Mr Liberty seemed to pull himself together. 'Of course. Well, I
mustn't keep you. An agreement is an agreement. Where are you
going? Have you sorted out a campsite?'
'Not yet, but I thought we'd go into Deaconsbridge and stock up
on supplies. I also need to find a launderette.'
'You've as much chance of finding one of those round here as
tripping over a crock of gold.' He was sounding much more his
indomitable self. 'We used to have one, but it was turned into a fancy
art gallery selling tacky paintings to dumb tourists who wouldn't
know art if it jumped up and bit them on the nose.'
Clara smiled. 'We'll make it our first port of call, then.' Once more
she turned to go, then hesitated. 'Would you like us to fetch you
anything? It wouldn't be any trouble.'
He regarded her uncertainly. 'You're coming back in this direction?'
'Not
specifically, but I don't mind making the trip. You're not that
far out of the town, are you?'
'That's good of you,' he said gruffly. He took a ballpoint pen from
Ned, who was making an irritating noise by repeatedly clicking the
top of it with his thumb. 'But there's nothing I need.'
She looked at him thoughtfully. 'You're not used to kindness, are
you?'
He squared his shoulders and straightened his back. 'At my age,
kindness and charity become indistinguishable.'
'So you'd be much happier if you believed my offer was born out
of a desire to interfere, rather than accept it as a genuine offer to
help?'
He didn't say anything, but removed from Ned's hands a
magnifying-glass he had unearthed from an overflowing shoebox of
junk on the table. He had been using it to inspect Mermy at close
quarters.
'Look,' she said, trying to be conciliatory, 'I'm sorry things didn't
pan out better with your tenacious doctor, but the only way you're
going to get him off your back is to meet him half-way. Clean the
place up and prove to him you can fend for yourself. Can't you enlist
your real daughter's help?'
Mr Liberty brought the magnifying-glass down on the table with a
sharp bang. 'Damson doesn't show her face here unless she has to.'
His voice was hard, scornful.
'Damson's an unusual name. I meant to ask you about it earlier.'
'Sounds more like a cat's name, doesn't it? Which is quite
appropriate. Damson can be as sleek and cunning as any feline
creature I've ever known. Scratchy too, when she wants to be.'
'Was the name your idea?'
He shook his head. 'The credit goes to my first wife. She had a
fondness for the eccentric'
Clara realised that this was the first time he had referred to his
family. 'Do you have any other children?' she asked.
'A pair of sons who are both two shades of stupid. Caspar is a con
man with as much head for business as a watermelon. He's a chippy
brat who, like Icarus, hasn't yet learned the hazards of flying too
close to the sun. My other son, Jonah, is a weak-willed idealist.'
'And what terrible crime did he commit to gain such familial
approval?'
'That, Miss Costello, is none of your business. And while we're on
the subject, why have you started asking me so many questions? I
thought you said you were going.'
'I was simply wondering why you don't ask for their help. And
you've given me the answer. You've scared them off, haven't you?
But, like you said, it's none of my business so I'll say goodbye. It's
been an education meeting you.' She held out her hand.
He stared at it hard, rose to his feet, and took it in his large
distorted paw. Then he withdrew it, looking as if he was about to say
something important. 'Tell me, Miss Costello,' he said slowly, 'you
strike me as a woman who enjoys a challenge. Am I right?'
'It has been said of me, yes.'
'And you told me over breakfast that you don't have any real
plans, that you and your son are just drifting from one place to
another. Is that so?'
'Absolutely nothing wrong with your memory. Your point being?'
'I'd like to make you an offer. Help rid me of that interfering
quack by pretending to be my daughter for a while longer.'
'Are we talking more lies? And perhaps you'd elaborate on what a
while longer actually means. Another day? Another two days?' She
watched him swallow and sensed that he was hoping for more than
that from her.
'It depends on how long you think it would it take to sort out this
mess.' He indicated the kitchen.
Clara was stunned. He couldn't be serious. 'Whoa there, I'm not
sure I like where this is going. What on earth makes you think I
would be remotely interested in dealing with this little lot? Ned and I
are on holiday. Cleaning up after somebody else doesn't feature on
our itinerary.'
'But you do owe me a favour.'
'Since when?'
'Since I rescued you from those goons when you were trespassing
on my land.'
The breathtaking cheek of the man! 'Oh, nice try,' she said
derisively. 'You think you can toss that one in and hold my
conscience to ransom. Well, think again, buddy, because you've got
me all wrong. Anyway, I've already carried out one favour for you
by lying to Dr Singh about being your daughter.'
'If I can't appeal to your good nature, then maybe your purse will
be a better option.'
'Sorry, still not interested. Try flaunting your money at the Yellow
Pages.'
'I'd sooner flaunt it at a person I know and trust.'
'How can you be so sure I won't fleece you?'
'I pride myself on being a good judge of character.'
'The flattery, even from you, won't work. Get hold of a firm of
contract cleaners with a good reputation.'
'I don't want strangers in my house. Please, won't you even
consider my offer? I'm willing to pay you whatever it takes.'
She held her ground. 'Look, you might be used to bullying people
into doing what you want them to do, but you can't do the same
with me. And, for your information, I'm not for sale.'
'Come, come, everything is for sale, surely you know that. And
just think of the challenge.'
'The answer is still a resounding no.'

It was the most monstrously ludicrous idea Clara had ever heard,
and as she and Ned packed up Winnie, she didn't know whether to
feel flattered by Mr Liberty's proposal, that he clearly approved of
her, or downright insulted that he had thought she might want to
waste her holiday cleaning up his mess.
'Completely off his trolley,' she muttered under her breath, as she
moved about Winnie, putting packets and jars into their respective
cubby-holes and slamming the locker doors. 'Just who does he think
he is?'
It was a power thing, she suspected. Old Laughing Boy needed
someone he could treat as a skivvy. That was what this was about.
Well, not this girl. She was nobody's skivvy. No sirree. And how dare
he think she could be bought off? She hadn't given up a well-paid job
to become a cleaner for that miserable old goat!

Gabriel watched the camper-van trundle slowly along the drive until
it was out of sight. He turned from the rain-lashed stone mullion
window in the tower, angry and disappointed: angry because he had
been reduced to the humiliating level of begging somebody to help
him and disappointed because he knew he was going to miss having
that Costello woman and her son around. They hadn't been with
him long, but there had been something about them he had liked,
something about their company that had appealed to him.
The woman's forthrightness had been a refreshing change from the
patronising sycophancy with which he was frequently treated, and
the boy had been as bright as a button, not missing anything that
was going on around him. He had forgotten how honest children
could be. How they could put their finger on a raw spot and prod it
mercilessly. Sad, was how the youngster had described him. Well,
yes, in that moment he had felt sad. Weary too. Worn out. Shrivelled
up. A husk of his former self. Old, and ready to throw in the towel.
He knew he was bucking against the system, which held all the
trump cards. It was only a matter of time before Dr Singh and his
kind would have their pernicious way with him. It was his greatest
fear that the time would come when he would be carted off to live
the remainder of his life among a crowd of insufferable strangers
whose only excitement would be a change of incontinence pad after a
game of bingo. It was, he knew, a fear that was bordering on the
pathological, and not one based on personal experience of these
places. But he had read enough horror stories in the papers to know
that dreadful things went on in retirement homes. Last year, before
the television had broken, he had watched an appalling series of
programmes about a bunch of poor old dears and ageing Jack the
Lads living out their lives to the tune of 'It's A Long Way to
Tipperary' and 'The Hokey-Cokey'. Sometimes he had nightmares
about this from which he woke in a sweat, heart pounding, terrified
that he would end his days with sickeningly motherly women calling
him 'dear' and offering to take him to the lavatory. Dear God, he'd
rather take one of his shotguns to his head.
That was why he had resorted to pleading with the Costello
woman. He had seen in her someone capable and strong, someone he
could trust to help him sort out Mermaid House. He knew it had to
be done, and if somebody could just get the job started for him, he
felt confident he would see it through.
Nothing had been done since well before Val's death, and all of her
things were still lying about the place - clothes, jewellery, perfume,
books, stuff he didn't need, but felt he couldn't discard. It seemed
sacrilegious to dismantle her life like that.
It had been the same when Anastasia had died. It had been years
before he had emptied her wardrobes and dressing-table. But then it
had been different: he hadn't wanted to part with Anastasia's
belongings. Having them around had kept her alive somehow. For a
long time after her death, and before going to bed at night, he would open a cupboard and run his hands through her dresses, holding the
smooth fabrics against his face, breathing in her sweet, sensual
fragrance. One night, when he had thought the children were asleep,
Damson had crept up on him and asked what he was doing. She had
stood in the doorway, her head tilted to one side, looking at him as
though he were quite mad. 'You should throw everything away,' she
had said matter-of-factly, 'or burn it. Caspar and I could make a
bonfire for you.'
He could scarcely believe what he was hearing: seven years old and
she was offering to burn the few tangible keepsakes they had of her
mother. The cruelty of her words had horrified him. 'Why are you
being so disgustingly insensitive, Damson?' he had asked.
She hadn't answered, just stared at him until he closed the
wardrobe door.
He had told the twins that no amount of tears would bring their
mother back, and he could not recall seeing either Caspar or Damson
cry for her. Not even at the funeral, when they had stood beside him
beneath the hot summer sun, perfectly composed, their dry-eyed gaze
on their mother's coffin as they held hands, united by something that
had excluded him.
He crossed the dusty wooden floor to the narrow staircase that led
back to a short, unlit passageway, then on to the library, where a
secret door opened to the right of the fireplace. It was this that he had
shown Ned that morning. The little lad's eyes had grown as large as
hub-caps when Gabriel had shown him the hidden handle that made
the lower half of the bookcase swing open. 'Where does it go?' Ned
had asked, peering cautiously into the darkness.
'It goes up to the tower you can see from the front of the house.'
'Will you take me to see it, please? I'll be very good.'
'If you promise to take care where you put your feet,' Gabriel had
told him, as he dipped his head and led the way. 'It's as black as
pitch, so stay close to me.'
'Are there any spiders?'
'Lots.'
'Big ones?'
'Enormous, and wearing hobnail boots and carrying sawn-off
shotguns. So mind you don't look them in the eye or they'll have you
for breakfast.'
He had enjoyed seeing the look on the lad's face as he tried to
figure out how much to believe, and it had made him spin even more
yarns of mysterious intrigue, of ghosts who lived in the tower, shook
their chains and slammed doors at dead of night. All nonsense, of
course, but it was what children lapped up.
When he had looked through the kitchen window first thing that
morning and had seen Ned's face staring back at him from the
camper-van, he had acted on a rare impulse and gone outside to see if
the boy wanted to go round the house. He knew now that it had
been a mistake to encourage him to go against his mother's rule that
he wasn't to leave the van without her permission - but it had
seemed harmless at the time. She had been sound asleep and it
had seemed better to let her enjoy a lie-in while her son had a bit
of fun.
Which he had. He'd been thrilled by the secret passageway and
had loved the tower, asking politely to be held up high so that he
could look out at the view.
It had been ages since Gabriel had been to the tower and it had
looked worse than he had remembered it. The last time he'd ventured
up there had been to let out a bird that had got in through a broken
window - droppings were still stuck to the floor and walls.
As children, Caspar and Damson had regularly holed up in the
tower. Jonah had never been allowed in. Even when Val had
intervened, they had refused him entry. 'He's a stupid baby,' they
had yelled through the door, 'and we're not having him in here with
us. He'll spoil what we're doing.'
Back in the library, and shutting the secret door behind him,
Gabriel sighed. So many memories contained in one house. Some
good. Some not so good. And some plain awful.
Perhaps if he could get rid of some of the rubbish from the house
he might cleanse it of the memories he would rather forget. Selective
memory via a damn good spring-clean, that's what he needed.
When he'd been widowed for the second time he had imagined he
would more than cope with all this domestic malarkey. Nothing to it,
he had thought, so long as he could boil himself an egg and
remember to fill the washing-machine once a week. But he hadn't
bargained on things going wrong, or fiddly, time-consuming jobs
piling up until they had the better of him.
He cursed under his breath that the Costello woman hadn't
accepted his offer. Now she and her son were gone.
Well, good riddance! Coming here and cadging off him for free! Pah!


Chapter Eighteen

Clara had hoped to prove Mr Liberty wrong, but so far her search
had revealed that Deaconsbridge was a launderette-free zone, just as
he had said. It hadn't been a complete waste of time, though: she
now had the lie of the land and knew that there was a modest
supermarket a short distance from the market square where they
could stock up on supplies.
'Ho hum,' she said to Ned, as they circled the market square one
last time, the rain coming down harder still and the long wiper blades
swishing across the windscreen, 'I guess this is one of those rare
occasions when I'll have to admit defeat. Perhaps the next campsite we stay at will have a machine we can use. Shall we get the shopping
done now?'
'Then can we go to the Mermaid cafe for lunch?'
'Good thinking, and while we're there, we'll make our plans. We'll
look at the map and see if we can find a campsite we like the sound
of. Oh, and something else we need to do before we leave. We must
buy a large notebook and some postcards.'
Taking the next left, Clara told Ned about her idea that they
should keep a diary. He liked the sound of this. 'Ooh, can we buy
some new crayons, please?'
She smiled. What was it with children and crayons? It didn't
matter how many packets you bought them, they could never have
enough new ones. From the moment Ned had been old enough to
grasp a crayon between his fingers, he had turned into a stationery
fiend. At home, he was for ever setting out his stash of felt-tip pens,
rubbers, paper-clips and pads of paper. Her mother claimed that
Clara had been the same as a child, except her collection had boasted
several hundred pencil-sharpeners. Apparently she had always been
striving for the ultimate sharp point. 'I think the budget will stretch
to that,' she said.
'I'm going to draw Mr Liberty and his castle.'
'Steady on, Ned, this is a diary we're writing, not a horror story.'
'And next I'll draw the secret passageway and the tower he showed
me,' Ned said enthusiastically. 'He told me it was full of spiders, but I
didn't see any. He also said they wore boots and had guns, but I
knew he was joking. Spiders aren't big enough to carry guns, are
they, Mummy?'
'They might need to, living with a man like Mr Liberty. Right, here
we are. And thank the Lord, it's free parking if we're only here for an
hour. Life just gets better and better, Ned.'
The supermarket was a small independent one that Clara had
never heard of. Built of local stone and tinted glass, it was
conspicuous among the old buildings that surrounded it.
They dashed through the rain from the van to the front of the
store, grabbed a trolley and made a start. But with Ned at the helm it
was only a matter of time before they crashed into someone or
something. He gave the job his entire concentration, and their first
target was a freezer offering two packs of chicken Kiev for the price
of one and placed inconveniently in the middle of an aisle. Next they
scored a direct hit on a large wire basket of Walker's crisps. And
finally, coming into the home straight, through wines and spirits,
they rammed a trolley being pushed by a long-faced man in an
expensive suit. Miraculously they arrived at the checkout relatively
unscathed and with everything they'd gone in for, except the
notebook and crayons.
There were only two checkouts in use, so they joined the one with
the smallest queue. To Clara's embarrassment, the long-faced man
pulled in behind them. She noticed that his trolley contained a dozen
bottles of champagne that was on special offer. For a Champagne
Charlie, he looked wildly out of place. 'Come on,' he muttered
irritably after a few minutes. He tapped an expensively shod foot
impatiently. 'What's the hold-up?'
The question was directed at nobody in particular, and Clara had
no intention of answering it. Instead, she finished loading their
shopping on to the conveyor belt, and looked at the woman in front
of her. She was in her mid- to late seventies, Clara reckoned, and was
wearing the type of felt hat Clara's grandmother used to wear. She
looked upset and was glancing from the checkout girl to the purse in
her trembling hands. She said something that Clara didn't catch. In
response an over-plucked eyebrow hitched itself skyward. 'You
what?'
Whatever the older woman had said, it wasn't getting her
anywhere, and the girl - a sullen piece of work dressed in a pink and
white overall - drummed her sparkly false nails on the till and rolled
her eyes at Clara as if to say, 'Got a right one here.'
'Will you please get a move on?' the suit demanded from behind
Clara. 'Unlike most people round here in Hicksville, I don't have all
day to waste.'
Queue rage, thought Clara, with disgust. She left Ned scaling the
side of their trolley and went to see if she could help. 'What's the
problem?' she asked the checkout girl.
'Search me. The daft old bat's not making any sense.'
Clara turned to the older woman. 'Can I help?'
A pale anxious face, brimming with confusion and distress, looked
at Clara. Trembling hands showed her the snap-fastened purse: it
was empty. Oh, Lord, thought Clara, now what?
'Oh, for heaven's sake, this is ridiculous. Will somebody do something?'
Clara turned and smiled sweetly at the suit. 'For a start, you could
try piping down, mate. No, better still, take your bargain-price
bubbly and go and join the other queue.'
He stared at her furiously. 'And you should try keeping your brat
under control. He's stepped on my foot three times since I've been
standing here.'
She did the adult thing, poked her tongue out at him, then turned
back to the woman and her empty purse. 'How much is it?' she asked
the girl on the till.
'How much is what?'
'This customer's bill,' she said, slowly and with sarcastic emphasis.
'Please, do stop me if I'm going too fast for you.'
'It's three pounds seventeen.' The girl pouted.
'Goodness, a king's ransom.' Digging into her bag, Clara offered
her credit card. 'Right, stick it on this and put my shopping through
as fast as your helpful little fingers can manage it. Okay?'
'Stuck-up bitch,' the girl muttered, as Clara turned to explain the
situation to the woman. She was looking even more confused and
distressed.
'There's no need to worry,' Clara said. 'It's been taken care of. I've
paid it for you.' But her words seemed to add to the poor woman's
anxiety and she started speaking so fast that Clara couldn't
understand what she was saying. 'Here,' she said slowly. 'This is
your bag of shopping. Will you be all right now?'
But the head shook again, and a hand squeezed Clara's arm. After
an agonising pause, she said, 'You . . . with me.'
'You want me to come with you?'
A smile of relief and a nod confirmed that she had understood
correctly.
'But where to?'
Another chaotic burst of words brought forth no
further illumination.
'Do
you want me to take you home?'
Clara didn't understand the answer, but after she had bagged up
her shopping, paid for it, and insisted that she, not Ned, push the
trolley, the three left the store. It was slow going as their newly
acquired friend had something wrong with one of her legs and took
each step, with the aid of a stick, as if she was picking her way
through a minefield. They had run out of time in the car park, so
Clara explained to the woman that they would have to drive to
wherever it was that she lived. Getting directions was going to prove
interesting, though. Then she had the idea of asking the woman to
write down her address.
But when she gave the woman a piece of paper and a pen, it
became evident that her hands lacked the dexterity to hold anything
firmly. Nevertheless, after she had made a huge effort, Clara read the
word 'stroke'. Ah, so that was it. She asked the woman where she
wanted to go. It took a long time, but 'Second Best' and 'Son'
appeared.
Following the woman's hand signals, they drove back into the
market square, past the bookshop and the Deaconsbridge Arms, then
took a side road called Millstone Row and there, on the corner, they
saw a double-fronted shop called Second Best. There was just room
to park in front of it, and through the windows Clara could see an
Aladdin's cave of bric-a-brac and second-hand furniture. Seeing that
her passenger was struggling to release her seat-belt, Clara did it for
her, then called through to Ned, 'Okay, you can get out now.'
They entered the shop, their arrival heralded by a tinkling bell. It
was jam-packed with corner cupboards, wardrobes and three-piece
suites. There were coffee tables, bookcases, lamp-stands, mirrors,
ornaments, and any number of chairs - dining chairs, kitchen chairs,
garden chairs, even a rocking chair, which drew Ned like a magnet and
bar stools. Despite the quantity of furniture and knick-knacks
crammed into the confined space, there was a surprising degree of
order to the shop and Vivaldi's Four Seasons was playing on a radio.
'I'll be right with you,' a man's voice told them. 'I'm just on my
knees with Des O'Connor and Val Doonican, and how many blokes
do you know who would admit to that?'
Before she had set eyes on the voice's owner, Clara had decided she
would like him: he sounded so cheerful, a real blast of fresh air.
The old woman took a few painfully slow steps through the shop
and disappeared behind an old gas cooker.
'Hello, Mum, you back already with Samson? He found you all
right, then? What's wrong?'
This was progress, thought Clara. They'd found the son. After a
torrent of jumbled words, he appeared with his mother. In his arms
he carried a cardboard box of old LPs.
Clara explained who she was and what had happened in the
supermarket. At the man's side, his mother kept muttering something
that sounded like 'Bunny. Blow bunny,' and twice showed him her
empty purse. Then she started to cry. Her son placed the box of
records on the floor and put his arm around her. 'Hey, it's okay,
mum, it doesn't matter. You took the wrong purse, that was all. It
could have happened to anyone. Now, why don't you sit down, and
I'll make you a cup of tea?'
Helping her out of her coat, he hung it on a convenient coat-stand
and settled her into a chocolate brown leatherette sofa. Clara was
struck by his kindness and patience and that he didn't seem at all
embarrassed that his mother was crying in front of a stranger. He
was well over six feet tall and struck Clara as very much the gentle
giant. She put him somewhere in his mid-fifties. He was overweight,
but his bulk seemed to emphasise his naturally warm-hearted
manner.
'Would you excuse me for a minute?' he said to Clara, when the
worst of the tears were over. 'I'll just go and put the kettle on for a
brew.' In his absence, Clara joined his mother on the sofa. The
woman reached out to Clara's arm, squeezed it as she had in the
supermarket, and eventually produced, 'Bes-sie. Name . . . Bessie.'
'I'm pleased to meet you, Bessie. We forgot to introduce ourselves
earlier, didn't we, what with all those rude people at the checkout?
My name's Clara, and in the rocking chair is my son, Ned.'
The anxious expression gave way to a smile. 'Juggly poy. Juggly
pies.'
'Juggly poy?' Clara repeated, hoping for enlightenment.

'She's saying he's a lovely boy, and has lovely eyes.'
The son was back. He set a mug of tea on a small reproduction
sherry table beside his mother, even rustled up a coaster from
somewhere.
'I'm Archie Merryman, by the way,' he said, holding out a large,
strong hand to Clara, 'and I'm extremely grateful to you. My mother
had a stroke not so long ago and the words don't always come out as
they should.'
'So I understand. I had what I thought was a brilliant idea of
getting her to write things down, only I didn't realise it would be so
difficult for her.'
'The stroke did its worst down your right side, Mum, didn't it?' he
said, turning to his mother to include her in the conversation.
In the silence that followed, Clara realised that the music had
stopped, as had the creaking of the rocking chair. She looked to see
where Ned was, and located him on the other side of the shop where
he was inspecting a commode. 'What's this for, Mummy?' he asked,
his voice echoing slightly.
'I'll tell you later.' She glanced back at the owner of the shop, who
was smiling. 'Children,' she said, with a shrug, 'questions, questions,
questions. And at the least appropriate moment.'
'Eshooks berryou,' Bessie said.
Clara looked to Archie for help.
He interpreted, without a second's hesitation: 'She said he looks
like you.'
'Yes, poor lad, there's no disputing his pedigree. You don't mind
him poking around, do you?'
'Of course not. It's good to see someone enjoying themselves. He's
a grand little chap. Are you here visiting Deaconsbridge?'
'Is it that obvious we're interlopers? I thought we were blending in
rather nicely.'
He laughed. 'I've been here more than twenty years, and I still stick
out like a sore thumb. But where are my manners? I should have
offered you a drink. What can I get you?'
'That's kind, but no thanks. I've promised the chip off the old
block lunch in the Mermaid cafe.' Ned had moved from the
commode to a coffee table where he'd found a Star Wars jigsaw. 'No,
don't tip it out, Ned,' she called, seeing him ready to settle in for the
afternoon - there were enough things here to keep even the most
hyperactive child amused. She stood up to go. 'Goodbye, Bessie, it
was lovely meeting you. You take care now, won't you?' Then to
Archie Merryman, she said, 'I know it's a cheek, but would it be all
right if I left our van outside your shop while we have something to
eat? We won't be very long.'
'Sure. It's the least I can do for you, sweetheart. Enjoy your lunch.'
The bell tinkled merrily behind them as they left, and while they
waited for the traffic to pass so that they could cross the road to go
back to the market square, Clara thought how nice Archie Merryman
was. 'A juggly man,' she said to herself, with a smile.

'It's beginning to feel like home, this place,' Clara said to Ned, when
they were sitting at the table they had used yesterday and had been
served by the same waitress, whose name was Shirley.
'Why couldn't that lady speak properly?' Ned asked, while they
waited for their food.
She told him that Bessie Merryman had had a stroke, and tried to
explain what that was without frightening Ned. 'It can happen when
you're young, but usually when you get older.'
He thought about this, tracing a finger along the squares on the
checked tablecloth. 'Will it happen to Nanna and Granda?' he said,
when his finger reached the salt cellar and knocked it over.
'I hope not, but we never know what's round the corner for any of
us. It's what life is all about.'
'Why was she crying?'
'Well, in the supermarket people weren't treating her very kindly.
The man in the smart suit probably doesn't think about anyone but
himself, and the young girl on the till was probably worrying about
what she ought to wear that night to go out. To them, poor Bessie
was a nuisance who they couldn't be bothered to understand or help.
She knew that, and it was horribly embarrassing for her and made
her very upset.'
'I didn't like that man.'
'Was that why you kept stepping on his foot?'
He looked at her coyly from beneath his long lashes.
'I thought so, you little rascal.'
The cafe was even busier today and it was a while before the
waitress brought them their meal. She explained that it was always
like this when the weather turned wet. 'It brings the walkers down
from the hills and moors in search of something warm to stick their
ribs together,' she said. 'It'll be crazy like this for some days.'
'I thought you said the weather was breaking at the weekend.
What went wrong with the forecast?'
She wiped her hands on her red overall. 'I was only out by a couple
of days. And any road, we have our own climate round here. We're a
law unto ourselves.'
'It means that, like any true Deaconite, she makes it up as she goes
along.'
The three turned to see who had spoken.
'Ah, and what would you know about the weather, Archie
Merryman? Are those flowers for me by any chance?'
He gave her a wink. 'Another bunch, another time, Shirley. Mind
if I join you for a couple of seconds? I won't keep you,' he said to
Clara.
'No, no, of course not. Please, sit down. What's wrong?'
'Nothing. It's just that I forgot to pay you back for my mother's
shopping. And . . . and I also wanted to give you these, to say thank
you for what you did.' He handed the flowers across the table.
Clara was touched. 'I don't know what to say except thank you.
They're lovely.' She breathed in the heady scent of the purple freesias.
'Mm . . . wonderful. But there was no need for you to go to all this
trouble.'
'I'll have to disagree with you on that point. And this is for you,
Ned.' From a carrier-bag that Clara hadn't noticed until now, he
pulled out the Star Wars jigsaw Ned had been looking at in the shop.
'Ooh, thank you,' he said, putting down his knife and fork with a
clatter and kneeling up on his chair for a better look.
'This is very generous of you,' Clara said, 'but really--'
'No buts, sweetheart. Definitely no buts.' From his shirt pocket he
retrieved a roll of money. 'Now, then, how much was my mother's
shopping?'
'Glory be, do you always carry that amount of money round with
you?'
'In my trade, cash is the best currency.'

'Well, you can put it back in your pocket. I don't need
reimbursing.'
He frowned. 'That arrangement really doesn't suit me. I'm used to
paying my whack.'
'It was hardly anything. I was just pleased I was there to help.'
He turned to Ned who, while tracing the outline of Luke
Sky walker on the lid of the jigsaw box with a finger, was working on
a long strand of spaghetti. His cheeks were sucked in hard and his
lips were pasted with Bolognese sauce. 'Ned, you have a peach of a
mother. You take good care of her, won't you?'
Clara laughed. 'Please, stop it, you're embarrassing him. To say
nothing of what you're doing to me.'
'In that case, I'd better go.' He stood up abruptly.
Disappointed to see him leave so soon, she said, 'Have you left
your mother on her own in the shop?'
'No, Samson's with her now. He got held up in traffic and didn't
make it in time to fetch Mum from the supermarket as we'd
arranged. I'm trying to give her as much independence as possible,
but it's not easy. Anyway, enough of the moaning from me. Are you
leaving Deaconsbridge today or will we be lucky enough to see you
around town for a few days yet?'
'If I can find a suitable campsite nearby, there's every chance you
might see us again. Our plans are fairly flexible.'
'We're going to see the Mermaid Cavern,' Ned piped up. 'And I've
got a mermaid of my own. She lives in my pocket. Do you want to
see her?'
'A mermaid in your pocket? Now, this I have to see.' He watched
as Ned dug around inside his pockets. 'You know the cavern's not
open yet, don't you?' he said to Clara.
'Yes, Shirley gave us the bad news yesterday.'
'Mummy,' Ned said, his voice wavering and his face crumpling, 'I
can't find Mermy.' His lower lip wobbled. He got down from his
chair, came round to Clara and buried his tomatoey face in her lap.
'I've lost Mermy,' he wailed.

Chapter Nineteen

Ned was inconsolable. He had only ever mislaid Mermy once before,
during an overnight stay with Nanna and Granda when Clara was
away on business. He was so distraught that his grandparents had
ransacked the house, combed every square inch of the garden and
turned the car inside out. When, in desperation, they emptied the
kitchen bin they had found Mermy hiding inside a crushed tea-bag
box. Nobody knew how she had got there, but her reappearance had
instantly dried Ned's tears.
Clara knew now that if she was going to calm her son, she would
have to convince him that, no matter what it took, she would find
Mermy.
With most of the occupants of the crowded cafe looking
sympathetically in their direction, Clara lifted Ned on to her lap. She
took a paper napkin from the holder on the table and wiped his eyes.
'It's okay, Ned,' she soothed, 'we'll find her. Don't worry. She
probably slipped out of your pocket in the supermarket.'
'Or she might be back at my shop,' Archie said, bending down so
that he was eye to eye with Ned.
But Ned was far from consoled. 'Someone might have taken her,'
he whimpered, his breath catching in shaky gulps. He buried his face
in Clara's shoulder.
Shirley came over. 'You been upsetting the little boy with your
ugly mug, Archie?' she asked.
Clara explained what had happened.
'Oh, dearie me,' Shirley said. 'Nothing for it but to retrace your
steps. Where've you been today?'
Ned peeled himself away from Clara's shoulder. 'Mummy, I think
I know where she is.'
'You do?'
He sniffed loudly. 'I left her at Mr Liberty's house.'
Clara didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. A
return visit to Mermaid House and its splenetic owner - just how
much fun could a girl cope with? 'Are you sure?'
Another messy sniff and a nod. 'I was playing with her at the table
when you were talking to Mr Liberty.'
Clara vaguely remembered Ned inspecting Mermy with a magnifying
glass. 'And you haven't seen her since?' she clarified. 'Not in
Winnie, perhaps?'
'I don't think so.'
'Well, that looks like it's settled,' Archie said. 'Where does this Mr
Liberty live, by the way? Will you have far to go?'
'He lives in a castle,' Ned said, wiping his eyes with the backs of
his hands. 'He has a tower and I've been up it. And he has a secret
passageway.'
'This wouldn't be Mr Liberty of Mermaid House, Hollow Edge
Moor, would it?' asked Shirley.
'You know him?' Clara said.
'Probably safe to say that most folk know of him,' Shirley
answered. 'He comes in here every Friday lunchtime. None of the
others,' she tilted her head in the direction of the kitchen, 'will serve
him. I'm the only one thick-skinned enough. The man never has a
civil thing to say for himself. If I was being polite I'd say he was a
poor old fool who was losing his marbles. But if I was being honest,
I'd say he was a disagreeable old crosspatch who ought to learn some
manners.'
'You don't think he's just a lonely old man who's a touch
eccentric?' Clara wondered why she felt the need to defend him.
'Try serving him in here when you're rushed off your feet and he's
banging his spoon on the table to grab your attention.'
'She's a sweet, tolerant little thing, isn't she?' Archie said, when
Shirley had moved on to clear another table.
'So what's your opinion of Mr Liberty?'
'If he's the same chap I ran into at the hospital the other day, I'd
say he's a man of elusive charm and has a way to go in the tact and
diplomacy stakes. What will you do? Go up to Hollow Edge Moor
now and see if the little lad's toy is there, or would you like a hand
checking out places closer to home first?'
Touched again by his thoughtfulness, Clara said, 'Ned seems
pretty sure that he's left Mermy at Mermaid House, so we'll start our
search there. If we draw a blank,' she added, lowering her voice, not
wanting to dash Ned's hopes, 'we'll come back and have a look at
the supermarket. Thanks for the offer of help, though.'
'I'll give the shop a good going-over as well, just in case. If I find it,
I'll put it somewhere safe for you. Anyway, I'd better be getting back.
Take care now. And thank you again for what you did for Bessie.'

It had stopped raining by the time they left the cafe and crossed the
market square to where they had left Winnie. Through the window
of Second Best, Clara could see Archie talking to an enormous young
man with a pair of weight-lifter's shoulders. As she started the
engine, they both turned. In response to Archie's wave, she waved
back and pipped the horn.
'Right,' she said to Ned, 'fingers crossed that Mermy is where you
think she is.' And fingers crossed, she thought, joining the flow of
traffic, that Mr Liberty hasn't done something unspeakable to her.
And there you go again, she told herself. She was badmouthing a
man she scarcely knew. Perhaps she ought to stop and ask herself
why he was such a misery? What had happened to him to make him
so unlovable? Why had he lost his respect for and pleasure in the
world around him? And why was he deliberately isolating himself
from it and those who should have given him the most reward: his
children?
Having experienced nothing but love and support from her own
close-knit family, and been lucky enough to have such wonderful
friends, Clara couldn't imagine what it would feel like to be so alone.
As for cutting herself off from Ned, she might just as well consider
lopping off a limb.
Before she conceived Ned, she had never been one of those
naturally maternal women who go all gooey at the merest glimpse of
a Mothercare catalogue. Not once had she been conscious of her
biological clock ticking away its indubitable message that time waits
for no woman who wants to start a family. Perhaps it was because
she had always thought that she would get married before she had a
child. And with her not being married, or in any hurry to be so, she
had not felt the lack of a baby in her life.
But then she had met Todd and she began to think that marriage
might be something she could entertain, maybe even children. Being
in love had made her think and act quite differently. She had thrown
caution to the wind and tripped headlong into a passionate affair
with a man recently separated from his wife. If she had been at home,
her friends and family would have told her she was mad to get
involved with a man on the rebound. But she was not and she gave
no thought to the consequences.
Todd Mason Angel was his name and he was as attractive as his
name sounded. He was seven years older than her and had a smile
that lit up his face and softened the lines around his mouth. He was
from Wichita, Kansas, and had worked for Phoenix at their
headquarters in Wilmington since graduating from Harvard. He was
ambitious and dedicated to his career, but he wasn't ruthless and
hard-nosed as his position within the company might have implied.
He was honest and up-front, and never hid the facts from her about
his marriage, which had recently broken down, or the emotional tie
he still felt to the woman he had been married to for nearly ten years,
and who was the mother of the two daughters he adored. Clara had
insisted they kept their affair secret at work because she didn't
wanted anyone to accuse her of getting on by sleeping with someone
so senior. He had gone along with this, but she had always felt that it
was less out of respect to her than because he hoped that one day he
would be reconciled with his wife. To put it bluntly, she had known
all along that she was playing with fire and that she would have no
one to blame but herself should he end their relationship.

Ironically, the day of reconciliation came twenty-four hours after
Clara discovered that she was pregnant. She and Todd had arranged
to go away for a long weekend, during which she planned to tell him
her news.
On the day they were due to set off, he had come into her office an
hour before lunch, closed the door behind him, and told her that
Gayle had phoned him to say that she wanted to give their marriage
another try. Though he had tried his best to let Clara down gently,
and to conceal his happiness, the thud with which her heart had hit
the floor had rocked her world and she had known she could never
tell him she was pregnant. She had smiled bravely and said she
wished him well, that if there was a chance of his marriage being put
back together, he had to take it: he owed it to himself and his
children.
'I'll never forget what we had, Clara,' he had said, rising from his
chair, already wanting to get on with rebuilding his marriage. He
added, 'I've only ever loved two women, and you're one of them. I
just hope you don't feel that I've used you, because I haven't. I'm
really not that kind of a man.'
With an airy wave of her hand, she had said, 'Go on, get out of
here. You've a family to get back to.'
'No hard feelings, then?'
'You know us Brits, stiff upper lip right to the finishing line.'
He had leaned over her desk and kissed her forehead. 'I'm sorry,
Clara. I wish we didn't have to end it like this.'
Another shrug. 'Hey, it was always going to have to end. We both
knew that. And I'm really pleased about you and Gayle. Now, let me
get on with some work.' She had wanted him gone from her office. A
moment longer, and her resolve would have been shattered. Much
better to stay in control and nurse a shattered heart that no one could
see.
Some might say that she had behaved heroically, but she saw it
differently. Such was her love for Todd that she knew she had to
sacrifice her own happiness for his by letting him go.
She had spent the rest of that day going through the motions at
work, until eventually she gave up and went home early, claiming she
was feeling sick. It was true. She did feel nauseous. For the next two
months, her morning sickness was so bad the weight fell off her. A
month later she returned home.
Louise was the first person she told and, predictably, she was
horrified. But no amount of questioning would make Clara reveal
who the father was. She tried lying to preserve Todd's anonymity,
but made a poor job of it. Louise said, 'Don't give me any of that "it
was just a casual fling" business. I know better than anyone that
you're not into one-night stands, Clara Costello. This man must have
meant something to you, or why would you want to keep his child?'
But Clara held firm. It was the one area in her friendship with Louise,
and the rest of the gang, that remained a closed subject. Much as she
loved Louise, Clara knew that she was a blabbermouth and would be
sure to tell David, who would tell Guy, and before long, the whole of
Phoenix Pharmaceuticals would know that Todd Mason Angel, the
company's newly appointed finance director, was the father of Clara
Costello's baby.
And every time Clara's mother said that Ned had a smile straight
from the angels, she had no idea how close to the truth she was.
Todd's could warm the coldest heart and Ned had inherited it.
Now, as she drove over the cattle grid to Mermaid House, Clara
hoped that Ned's face would soon be its normal smiling self when he
was reunited with his pride and joy.
Whether Mr Liberty would be smiling when he saw them again,
was another matter altogether.

When Gabriel looked out of the kitchen window as he washed his hands at the sink and saw the camper-van drive through the
archway, his face broke into a wide, sardonic smile. So she was back,
was she? The insolent little shrew had a price, after all. Well, now
they were in for some fun.
He dried his hands on the back of his trousers and went to meet
them. 'Looks as if you can't keep away from me, Miss Costello,' he
said, as she climbed down from the driver's seat. 'But I knew you'd
reconsider, that it would come down to a simple act of bartering. So,
what figure have you in mind?'
But his words went unanswered. Ned came barrelling up to him:
'Mr Liberty, have you got my mermaid? Is she in the kitchen where I
left her on the table?'
And then he understood why they were back: not to help him but
to help themselves.
'You'd better go and take a look,' he said to the boy. 'You know
the way. But be careful not to touch or disturb anything of mine,' he
called after Ned as the little boy shot inside the house.
Embarrassed at his mistake, and staring down at the cracked
leather of his shoes, he said, 'It seems I've just made a colossal fool of
myself, haven't I?' His voice was mute with despondency and his
shoulders sagged.
Clara felt a pang of sadness for him. How hard he made life for
himself, she thought. And what a contrast he was to Archie
Merryman, who would go out of his way to help anyone. 'Perhaps
only a mild fool of yourself,' she said softly. 'But tell me, just as a
matter of interest, when was the last time you bought anybody
flowers?'
He raised his one-eyed gaze. 'I beg your pardon?'
'It's a simple enough question. But what I'm really getting at is,
when was the last time you made a spontaneous gesture of kindness
to another person and felt good about it? Because if you did it more
often, I'm sure you wouldn't be in the position you are now bullying
a stranger into helping you. If you were nicer, people would
be queuing up with offers of help.'
'Are you saying that if I was nicer you would want to help me?'
'I was talking generally, about you being nice to your fellow man.'
'I'm not interested in talking generally. And as for my fellow
man--'
'Don't split hairs.'
'Why not? You are.'
'Look, Mr Liberty, stop being so quarrelsome. Be more gracious
and see where it gets you. For instance, instead of blackmailing me
this morning by saying I owed you a favour, you should have just
asked me politely if I would help you. As it was, you got my back up.
I suspect that's what you do to people all the time, isn't it?'
'A man should be allowed to be himself,' he said stubbornly,
drawing in his breath and pulling himself up to his full height.
T couldn't agree more with you, but some common courtesy
wouldn't go amiss.'
The sound of Ned's voice made them both turn. 'Mummy,' he
cried, 'I've found Mermy. She was on the table just where I left her.'
He came running towards them, and threw himself against Clara,
who scooped him up and hugged him. You see, she wanted to say to
Mr Liberty, it doesn't take much to be happy, does it? Then a more
dangerous thought occurred to her. What effort, what real effort on
her part, would it take to make Mr Liberty happy? Why had it been
so simple earlier today to help Archie Merryman's mother in her
hour of need but so difficult now to help this pugnacious old man?
Okay, his demands were on a different scale, and he might not seem
such a worthy cause, but who was she to judge? Here she was
lecturing him on how to be more gracious, so why wasn't she leading
by example?
Because she was on holiday! His problems were not hers.
But it would still be a holiday, she argued with herself. And Ned
would enjoy himself just as much here as somewhere new. Besides, if
she agreed to help him for a week, how big a hole in their schedule
would that make? On the up-side, it would be a week of earning
some money as well as landing themselves free lodging, and by then
the Mermaid Cavern would be open. She thought of what Ron and
Eileen had told her about their lifestyle, which they so enjoyed, about
taking each day as it came, of rising to the myriad challenges that
crossed their path and of always being the richer for having
experienced them.
But it was a decision that couldn't be made in isolation. Still
holding Ned, whose legs were wrapped tightly around her hips, she
whispered in his ear, 'How do you feel about staying on here for a
short while?'
'Will we still go to see the mermaid in the cave?' His lips tickled
her ear.
'Of course.'
He nodded and smiled.
She lowered him to the ground. 'Mr Liberty, I'll do you a deal. I'll
give you one week of my precious time, and in return you have to
agree to certain conditions, the principal one being that you must
promise me you will try to be less disagreeable, so that when Ned
and I have gone, you will be enough of a human being to attract
further offers of assistance. How does that sound?'
'Sounds to me as though it's a deal heavily weighted in your
favour. What are the other conditions?'
She smiled archly. 'We'll sort those out as we go along. For now,
though, I need to hook the van up to an electricity supply. For which,
I'd like it made clear, you will not be charging me. I also need water.'
'Anything else?'
'Yes. I want an up-to-date copy of the Yellow Pages.'
'I'm not having any contract cleaners in. I told you that. You do
the job, or no one does it.'
'It's a skip I'm after. My guess is you have a lifetime's rubbish lying
about this place and ditching it will be the only way forward. Well,
don't just stand there, let's be about our business.'
'I'm not going to regret this, am I?'
'Let's hope that neither of us does.'

Chapter Twenty

It was raining again as Jonah drove home from school, the light
already fading. Other than a stack of essays to mark on the rise of the
Nazi Party. in the 1920s, he was looking forward to a quiet,
uneventful evening. Supper and the pleasure of listening to the latest
recording of Mahler's Symphony No. 5 was all he had in mind.
Despite the dreary weather, he was in a relaxed and happy mood.
The day had been constructive and rewarding. With the exception of
a couple of students, he was pleased with his GCSE students and had
high hopes for them when they sat their exams next term. If he could
keep them motivated, crank them up another gear, and make them
believe that education was power, he reckoned he could get the best
history results Dick High had had in years. Already a large number
of his students were saying that they wanted to take the subject on
into the sixth form and it was particularly gratifying to know that
within his short time as head of the department, he had turned it
round so dramatically. His predecessor had long since lost the plot:
he'd grown tired of battling against cuts, damning league tables and
hostile Ofsted recommendations. Worse than this, he had lost the
will to cope with disaffected pupils who, once they knew they had
the upper hand, could grind a vulnerable teacher into the ground
faster than a pile-driver. Last autumn a group in year eleven had tried
it on with Jonah during his first week. They had sat in the back row with their feet on the desks, their ties no more than a stubby two
inches long. Passing round copies of Loaded and FHM they had
pretended to ignore him as they shared with the rest of the class the
details of the previous night's excitement on the estate where they
lived. Modern world history had as much relevance to them as the
FTSE index to their future giro cheques, or so they thought.
'Warfare,' Jonah had announced, slipping off his jacket and
putting it on the back of his chair. 'Anyone up for it?'
Their attention caught, just for a second, he wrote on the white
board 'No Man's Land', 'War of Attrition' and 'Going Over the
Top'. He then asked for a volunteer, specifically from the back row,
to come and draw a rough map of the estate he and his mates lived
on.
'Don't be shy, ladies and gentlemen,' he said, his eyes resting on
one lad in particular. His name was Jase O'Dowd and Jonah had
heard nothing but bad reports of him since he had arrived at Dick
High. Like a lot of the boys in the class, he wore his hair
intimidatingly short, but with the most extraordinary gelled-up quiff
at the front. He gazed insolently at Jonah, tucked a half-smoked
cigarette behind his ear, and said, 'I thought this was a bleeding
history lesson. Maps is for geography.'
The others urged him on. 'Go on, Jase,' they chorused. 'Show Sir
where we live.'
'Yeah, and don't forget to make it look pretty. We don't wanna be
shamed with Sir thinking we're not as lah-di-dah as him.'
Whistles and chants accompanied Jase as he lumbered to the front
of the class. He snatched the marker pen out of Jonah's hand, and
drew two large rectangles facing each other separated by a thin strip.
With stabs and slashes of the pen on the whiteboard, he marked off
little boxes within the two rectangles.
'For that extra-artistic touch, can you put arrows where you and
your friends live, please?' Jonah asked. Just as he knew they would
be, they were all congregated in the one rectangle. 'And who lives
here?'
To the side of the other rectangle, Jase drew a skull and crossbones
and wrote underneath it, the Tossers.
'Okay, so tell me what this space between the two rectangles is.'
'It's a friggin' road, Sir - what d'yer think it was? DurrV
'So, would I be right in thinking that when you're in the mood to
give someone a good kicking, you have to cross it?'
Jase smirked. 'Yeah, got it in one. You're not as stupid as you
look, Sir, are you?'
'Well, Jase, you'll be delighted to know that the tactics you use to
exert your reign of terror on your neighbours are based on the same
rules employed by the generals who devised trench warfare on the
Western Front in 1915.' Taking the pen from him, Jonah drew a
swastika over one rectangle and a Union Jack over the other, then an
arrow from the words No Man's Land to the road Jase had drawn.
'Now, one more job for you, Jase. While I draw a slightly more
detailed map of Belgium and northern France, can you rig up the TV
and video for me, please?'
A loud cheer went up. 'What're we watching, Sir? Hot Mammas
Spank My--'
'I'm afraid not, you'll have to save that for your role-play sessions
in Drama. For now you're going to watch Blackadder Goes Forth.'
By the end of the lesson, he knew he had achieved what he'd set
out to do: he'd got their attention. It was all the start he needed. Six
months on, and a class of low achievers who had long been dubbed
in the staffroom as tomorrow's social misfits could now make a
reasonable fist of an essay and display an above-average interest in a
subject they had previously dismissed - just as they had been unfairly
dismissed.
Skirting round the centre of town, he swung the car into Church
Brow and took the steep, cobbled road slowly. A row of cars was
parked on the right-hand side, and as he drew near to his cottage, at
the top of the narrow road next to the church, the easy-going evening
he had planned evaporated. Outside his front door, in a flashy
electric blue Maserati, was his brother, Caspar.
What was he doing here?
Jonas parked alongside the cottage, gathered up his old leather
briefcase from the back seat of his dilapidated Ford Escort and
approached the immaculate sports car, the latest in an ever-changing
range. This one, even at trade, must have set his brother back a small
fortune: the numberplate alone - Caspar 1 - had probably cost him
more than Jonah's heap of mobile rust when it had been showroom
new.
The only thing that Jonah and his brother had in common was
their love of classical music, although Caspar's penchant for the
pretentiously esoteric works of some latterday composers was where
their commonality divided. It was a piece of this shrill, discordant
music that Jonah could hear now as he tapped on the driver's
window to attract his brother's attention. Caspar's head was resting
against the smooth cream leather of the headrest and his eyes were
closed as his fingers conducted an imaginary orchestra lined up along
the dashboard.
The electric window slid down. 'You're getting wet, brother dear,'
Caspar said, above the excruciating ting, ping and scrape.
'Could be something to do with the inclement weather. Are you
coming in, or are you happy to stay out here showing off your new
car to my neighbours?'
Caspar gave him a look of disdain. 'You mean these little shacks
are occupied by real people? Heavens, whatever next?'
Jonah let them in. He shed his leather jacket and hung it up in the
understairs cupboard, then took his brother through to the kitchen.
He knew Caspar hated his house, that he found the old weaver's
cottage cramped and claustrophobic. Caspar lived alone in a stark
loft apartment in Manchester that was a temple of clean lines and
minimalism. To Jonah's knowledge, he never entertained there, never
encouraged visitors. The only time Jonah had been allowed in had
been when Caspar wanted to show it off. He had come away feeling
that whatever his brother had paid to live in such superficial
splendour, it wasn't money well spent.
He watched his brother prowl uneasily round the tiny, low
ceilinged kitchen, his cold grey eyes seeking out the least offensive
spot on which to stand. He was dressed in an expensive dark blue
suit with a crisp white shirt, a red silk tie and black lace-up shoes. His
fine hair was a light-brown version of Michael Heseltine's, and
showed signs of grey just above the ears. The contrast between the
two brothers could not have been greater. Jonah wore baggy
corduroy trousers, a loose-fitting shirt with the odd splash of paint
on the shoulder, and a tie he'd owned for more years than he cared to
recall. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy, the opposite of
Caspar's smooth well-cut locks. The kids at school often teased
Jonah that his tousled mop made him look like David Ginola on a
bad-hair day.
'I see you haven't got round to doing anything about the state of
this kitchen,' Caspar remarked, still prowling and trying to avoid
hitting his head on the pans hanging from one of the beams. He came
to a stop in front of a bookcase crammed with paperbacks and CDs.
Giving the handpainted cupboards a dismissive glance, he added, 'It
really is the last distasteful word in folksy charm. You should gut it
and start again. Maybe extend it into something worthwhile.'
'Actually, Caspar, this is done. Are you stopping long enough to
warrant me offering you a drink?'
'Depends what you've got.'
'You'll have to be a lot more honey-tongued if you want anything
better than instant coffee.'
'What do I have to do for a decent glass of Chablis? Fawn all over
you?'
'No, go out and buy one. I don't have anything here of the ilk that
would agree with your sensitive nose and palate.'
Caspar gave him a pitying look. 'Ha, ha, as droll as ever, I see.'
'I like to keep my hand in. One never knows when one's older
brother is going to come calling and wreck one's evening.'
'You had plans? You do surprise me. A night of unbridled passion
with a colleague from the staffroom? A lissom games mistress fresh
out of college? Oh, do tell.'
Jonah turned his back on Caspar and reached for a bottle of
Merlot from the wine rack. 'An evening of marking essays on the rise
of the Nazi Party is what I had in mind,' he said. 'Just think, if you'd
been around at the time as one of Hitler's right-hand men, he might
have made a go of it.' He poured two glasses of wine and passed one
to Caspar.
Caspar sniffed his suspiciously, then made a great play of picking
out a rogue piece of cork. 'Not bad,' he said, giving the wine a swirl.
He took a sip. 'Better than that acidic, enamel-stripping Sauvignon
you gave me last time I was here. Argentinean, wasn't it?'
'Chilean.'
'Whatever.'
Did he have any idea how ridiculous he was, thought Jonah,
standing here in his expensive suit, pretentiously appraising a bottle
of plonk that had cost three pounds from the local supermarket?
How could anyone become such a monumental prat and assume
such an affected air of moneyed arrogance? Sadly, affecting the right
air had always been of paramount importance to his brother. Having
the right credentials, knowing the right people, owning the right car,
it was all part of Caspar's carefully projected image. For what it was
worth, Jonah suspected that Caspar had become a victim of his own arrogance: he didn't have any real friends, only hangers-on.
'What are you doing here, Caspar?' he asked. 'The phone not good
enough for you, these days?'
Caspar shifted position. He went and tried out a space by the old
Rayburn that Jonah had bought second-hand and patiently restored.
'I've been sampling the heady delights of Deaconsbridge,' he said, 'in
particular, Mainwaring's, the estate agent. It's just as I thought. It's
the perfect time to sell Mermaid House. I spoke to Mainwaring, and
he's of the opinion that by the end of the summer the property boom
will be over. It's now or wait another year, maybe longer, until things
pick up again.'
'Anything wrong in doing that?'
Caspar narrowed his grey eyes. 'I told you, Jonah, we need to
move on this sooner rather than later. If we let the old man stay put,
the house will slide into a total decline. It's bad enough as it is, but
another year and God knows what the place will be like.'
'And how do you know what state the house is in now? When was
the last time you paid Dad a visit?'
Caspar banged his glass down on the table between them, his cool
imperious manner giving way to temper. 'That is hardly the point!
Why do you always have to be so damn picky? Can't you just accept
that I'm right? God! You always were a bloody pain in the backside.
I should have known better than to come here and expect a civilised
conversation with you!'
Jonah leaned against the sink, casually crossed one ankle over the
other, and considered his brother's outburst. He was used to seeing
Caspar flip, but this struck him as different. Usually he could keep up
the act of supercilious prig for at least two glasses of wine before he
launched into an attack. What was the urgency about selling
Mermaid House? Had he, yet again, got himself into a financial
mess? He decided to push. 'Seeing as you're in the area,' he said
blandly, 'why not go and see Dad this evening? If it's money you're
short of, he might find it in his heart to bung you a few quid.' He
knew his remarks would incense Caspar, but he didn't care. If it got
his brother out of his house, so much the better.
Predictably, Caspar rose to the bait. 'Who the hell said anything
about me being short of money? That's an accusation I find vaguely
absurd coming from someone who knows nothing about business.'
'It was a logical assumption. You've been on at me to go and see
Dad and--'
'Yes, and I'd like to know why you haven't.'
'I've been busy. If you must know, I've arranged to see him
tomorrow.'
This seemed to mollify Caspar and he reached for his glass again.
'Oh. Right. Good. Well, it's about time too. But mind you be firm
with him. Don't give in to his bullying.'

The amusing irony of this instruction stayed with Jonah, long after
Caspar had left. The essays dealt with, his supper coming along
nicely, and Mahler well into his stride, Jonah reflected on his
brother's unwelcome visit.
He's desperate, he concluded, stirring the pan of mushroom
risotto, then adding more stock. He must be, to have forced himself
to drink cheap plonk in a house he hated with a man he despised.
Caspar's need for money must be greater than it had ever been,
which might mean that he was even more determined than usual to
get what he wanted.
It was a grim prospect.
Caspar's scheming skulduggery over the years would make
humorous reading if there wasn't always some poor soul who had
lost out to his ruthlessness. Lying, cheating and trampling over other
people's feelings to get what he wanted - it all came quite naturally
to Caspar. It was a sport for him.
The most breathtaking example of this had occurred two and a
half years ago when Jonah had unwisely, and against his better
judgement, decided to introduce Emily to his family. He had been
putting it off for nearly six months, but now that they were planning
to marry, it seemed only right that Val and his father should meet his
future wife. Val had been forever trying to bring them together as a
family, and had insisted on a full Liberty turn-out with everyone
spending the weekend at Mermaid House. Damson was in her most
recent post-divorce state and Caspar came with his latest girlfriend, a
model of half his age with a fake tan, whom he ignored for the entire
weekend. He was much more interested in Emily.
It was just what Jonah had been terrified of. Until then he had
deliberately kept Emily away from Caspar; he had even told her why.
She hadn't taken him seriously, though, and had said he was being
paranoid: 'It's you I love. Why would I be remotely interested in your
brother?'
But that evening during dinner, he had seen Caspar working his
charm on Emily, and that she was flattered by his attention. And why
wouldn't she be? He was good-looking, and when he wanted to be,
he was erudite and witty. He was the perfect dinner-party guest,
regaling Emily with stories of Jonah growing up, telling her what a
great kid brother he had been, what hilarious and companionable
larks they had had together.
'You make your childhood sound so idyllic,' Emily had said, 'like
something out of Swallows and Amazons.'
Looking across the table with his steely-eyed gaze on Jonah,
Caspar had said, 'She's right, isn't she, Jonah? We did have a
glorious childhood.'
To have told the truth would have seemed churlish and petty, so
he had said, 'It had its moments.'
Caspar had laughed. 'Just listen to him.' Then, 'But what I don't
understand, Jonah, is why the long face? Anyone would think this
was a wake and not a celebration of your forthcoming nuptials with
this heavenly creature. For heaven's sake, cheer up.'
While they were getting into bed that night, Emily had said, 'Your brother was right, you did look miserable during dinner. Are you
sure you haven't exaggerated the stories you've told me about him?'
'Why would I do that?'
'Because you're jealous of him.'
'Jealous? You have to be joking!' He had tried to laugh off her
accusation, but she had pursued the subject doggedly.
'You kept looking at him as though you hated him, Jonah. I've
never seen you like that before. It's very worrying. You're showing
me a side to you that I didn't know existed.'
All he could say was, 'You've never seen me in the bosom of my
family before.' He had tried to make love to her, to reassure himself
that her feelings for him hadn't changed. But it hadn't worked. He
had been too anxious, too convinced of his own failings. Defeated,
he had slept with his back to her.
The next day, after breakfast, Caspar had suggested they treated
themselves to some fresh air by going for a walk. Val said she wanted
to go to church and their father said he had more important things to
do. Damson said she needed to be alone so that she could meditate
and realign her aura, and Caspar's girlfriend, who was getting the
message that she was history, pouted and said she didn't have any
suitable footwear. But Emily had reacted as though she had just been
invited to fly to Paris for lunch. 'What a wonderful idea, Caspar. You
must have been reading my mind. A walk is exactly what I need to
blow away the cobwebs.'
'Cobwebs, Emily? Don't tell me my brother doesn't take you out
enough and he's allowed you to collect cobwebs.'
It was no kind of joke, yet Emily seemed to find it hysterically
funny, and Jonah knew that the only thing being blown away was
his chance of marrying Emily.
Caspar and Emily strode on ahead, leaving Jonah to plod along
with the sulky model who was wearing a pair of Val's boots as well
as a borrowed waxed jacket.
'Is Caspar always like this?' she said, pausing for the umpteenth
time to catch her breath as they climbed the gentlest of slopes - she
might have been racehorse thin, but she had as much stamina as a
soggy Ryvita.
'Always like what?'
'So rude. And why don't you stop what he's doing with your
girlfriend? Or are you so stupid you haven't noticed?'
Oh, he'd noticed all right, and if the skinny, lettuce-nibbling girl
hadn't stopped every few hundred yards, Caspar and Emily wouldn't
have got so far ahead. Way off in the distance, and in the shelter of a
rocky outcrop, he could see Caspar standing behind Emily, an arm
over her left shoulder as he supposedly pointed out the landmarks to
her - Kinder Scout, Cracken Edge and Chinley. Then he saw the
hand stroke her windblown hair. When Emily turned to face him, her
face tilted upwards so that he could kiss her, Jonah knew it was over.
Leaving Caspar's girlfriend to sort herself out, he took off back to
Mermaid House. He packed his things and left without telling Val or
his father what he was doing.
Another man - a real man, as his father would have been quick to
say - would have confronted Caspar and beaten the living daylights
out of him. But apart from that one incident at school, Jonah had
never resorted to violence and preferred to keep it that way.
That evening, Emily called to tell him what he already knew, that
their engagement was off. Riding high on the euphoria created by
Caspar's attention, she told Jonah she hadn't realised until now how
dull he was. She told him that she was moving in with Caspar, that
she had never known anyone so amazing. 'It was love at first sight,'
she went on. 'I hope you can understand that. He's literally swept me
off my feet.'
But in less than a month, she discovered what it felt like to
be swept aside. As was to be expected, Caspar had lost interest in
her. She wrote to Jonah, apologising for what had happened, saying
that she had been a fool, that she didn't know what had come over
her. She even asked if there was any chance of them getting back
together.
He never replied to her letter. What was there to say? He had
warned her that Caspar liked nothing better than to play games with
other people's emotions.
There was no point in him asking why Caspar had done it. His
answer, as it had been the first time he had taken a girlfriend from
Jonah, would have been, 'Because I can, Jonah.' When the dust had
finally settled, all he said on the matter was, 'She clearly wasn't in love with you, Jonah. If she had been, I wouldn't have been a
temptation for her. Think of the episode as my having done you a
favour. You're better off without her. No need to thank me.'
Now, as he tipped his mushroom risotto on to his plate, and
poured himself another glass of wine, Jonah wondered if anything,
or anyone, could shame Caspar into behaving like a decent human
being.

Chapter Twenty-One

Archie had been too tired to face cooking supper that evening, so he
had picked up fish and chips on the way home from the shop. He
unwrapped the two parcels and tipped the contents on to the plates
he had warmed under the grill, then put them on the table where
Bessie was doing her best to butter some slices of white bread. Her
movements were heartbreakingly slow and clumsy, and all at once he
was reminded of past Christmases, when Bessie would cook the
largest turkey they could afford and invite any neighbours who were
on their own to share it with them. One Christmas morning, she had
sent Archie out on his bike to round up Miss Glenys Watson, a
retired music teacher, who was so proud she would rather sit on her
own listening to the radio than admit she couldn't afford to celebrate
Christmas. Nor did she want it known that, other than her ageing
cat, she didn't have anyone to spend it with. 'Please, Miss Watson,'
he had said, after knocking on her door, 'Mum says she needs your
help. She wants us all to sing carols after lunch and you're the only
one she knows who can play the piano without her getting a
headache. Will you come?'
Miss Watson must have known what his mother was up to, but
she never let on. She had accepted the invitation graciously, pulled on
her hat and scarf, her gloves and coat, locked the door and walked
alongside him as he pushed his bike. They had almost reached home,
when she said, 'Do you play the piano, Archie?'
'Oh, no, Miss Watson. I'm not at all musical.'
'Perhaps it's time someone taught you. I could give you lessons
after school.'
He had said he would like that very much, but he didn't think his
mother could afford it. 'But you mustn't tell her I said that,' he had
confided.
She had smiled and said, 'I'm sure we can find a way round that
little problem.'
At ten years old, he didn't understand that he had just become a
bridge between his mother's warm-hearted generosity and an old
lady's pride. All he knew was that it was Christmas morning and a
whole day of seeing his mother happy lay ahead of him. She liked
nothing better than having people around her, especially those she
thought she was helping. 'The world is full of sad and lonely people,'
she would say to Archie, 'so it's down to the rest of us to put a smile
on their faces.' One of her favourite games was to sit on a bus and see
how many people she could make smile during their journey. The
bigger the challenge, the more she enjoyed herself. 'See that poor old
soul just getting on, the one in the tatty gabardine and the rucked-up
face to match,' she whispered to him one day. 'Two peppermint
humbugs says I can have her lips twitching by the time she gets off.'
And, of course, she had, and with so little effort. 'It doesn't take
much to spread a little happiness,' she always claimed.
The first Christmas Miss Watson spent with them was also the
year his father had turned up unexpectedly on Boxing Day. They had
heard nothing from him for years, then out of the blue there he was,
sprawled on the settee, throwing peanuts into the air and catching
them in his mouth, expecting to be fed before he strolled down to the
pub to pick up where he had left off with his drinking cronies. In bed
that night, Archie had heard his mother telling his dad that, for the
sake of their son, if he was back, it had to be for ever or not at all.
Archie had held his breath. He didn't want his father around: he
knew it would make his mother unhappy, that it would mean more
drunken, violent rages. There would be no more amusing bus rides
together, no more cosy evenings by the fire while his mother read to
him. His heart had crashed to a stop when he heard his father say,
"Course I'm back for good, Bess. What can I do to convince you I'm
a reformed character? I'm gonna take the first job that comes along
and prove to you I'm as good as my word.'
That first job never did come along and he lay on the settee
smoking and drinking beer while Bessie worked at the bakery. He
even suggested, since he was around to see to the boy - he always
called Archie 'the boy' - that she ought to work more shifts because
the extra money would come in handy.
Archie had never been able to understand why his mother, when
she could be so strong - she was known as the rock of the
neighbourhood - was so weak when it came to dealing with a
husband who treated her so badly. Perhaps her feelings for him
overruled common sense and allowed her to compromise where
otherwise she would have held firm.
And wasn't that what he had done with Stella? Even when he had
known she was having an affair, he had held on to the hope that she
would once again feel for him what he still felt for her.
When he had met Stella, she had bowled him over: she was tall,
elegant and knew how to dress to make the most of her long legs.
How proud he had been to catch such a stunner. She could have had
anyone, but she had settled for plain old Archie Merryman. 'It's
because you're going to take me away from all this,' she would
laugh, when he asked her why she loved him. 'All this' had been the
noisy, robust family in which she had grown up. Archie had thought
her parents, brothers and sisters were full of fun and knew how to
enjoy themselves, but she said they embarrassed her, that they didn't
aspire to anything. There was so much Stella wanted out of life, and
that was one of the reasons he had started up his own business.
Nobody in her family had done that: the men had all been employed
at the local steel works in Sheffield, while the women had cleaned
and had babies.
'Archie?'
He looked up from his plate, realising that his mother had been
trying to talk to him. 'Sorry, mum, what did you say?'

'Sad?'
He shook his head. 'No, just tired. It's been a long day.'
She forked up a chip with her good hand. 'Sorry.'
'What for?'
Her words came out in a long jumble, but eventually he
disentangled them. 'I told you earlier, there's nothing to apologise
for. It was great that you felt strong enough to go shopping, and it
was a simple mistake you made, taking the wrong purse with you. It
was only because you got flustered that your speech went all to cock.
Remember what the therapist said? It's when you get upset that the
words get clogged up inside your head.'
And if those people at the supermarket had been more understanding,
she wouldn't have got into such a pickle, he thought, and stood
up to put the kettle on. Thank heavens that young woman and her
little lad had been on hand to help. He didn't like to think what
would have happened if they hadn't been there. It broke his heart to
think how distressed Bessie must have been at not being able to
explain what was wrong with her.
Water was gushing over the top of the kettle and he turned off the
tap as his sadness turned to anger. His mother had been treated as if
she was batty, until a stranger had come to her aid. Not so long ago,
Bessie had been as strong and capable as any of them.
His mother was still eating her fish and chips when he sat down
again with their mugs of tea. She never had been one to rush her
food, but now she took twice as long. He wasn't bothered. He didn't
have anything else to do that evening and was happy to sit with her.
He reached for the local paper and flicked through to the classifieds
to make sure his regular house-clearance advert had gone in. The
'What's On' section caught his eye. It was years since he had been to
the cinema - Stella could never sit still long enough to watch a film and
he was seized with the urge to go. 'What do you think to seeing a
film at the weekend?' he asked his mother.
Without needing to disentangle her response, he could see that she
approved of the idea. In the old days, going to the flicks had always
been something of a treat for her. Clark Gable, Rex Harrison,
Audrey Hepburn and Omar Sharif had provided her with a much
needed touch of glamour and excitement.
He folded the newspaper and laid it flat on the table so that they
could make their choice. Today's movie stars might not be as
glamorous as they'd been in Bessie's day, but they might give her a
chance to escape the unfairness of her life for a little while.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Their breakfast eaten and everything tidied away, Clara was keen to
make a start on Mermaid House. Her only concern was keeping Ned
occupied while she got down to work. Though he could amuse
himself for quite long spells, she wasn't sure how soon it would be
before he was bored. And, like any parent, she knew that boredom
might lead him into danger or mischief.
The answer was to keep him busy, and having already glimpsed
some of the ground-floor rooms, she felt there was enough relatively
safe-looking junk lying about the place with which Ned could play
for hours.
Mr Liberty had offered to give them a tour of the house last night,
but Clara had declined. Instead she and Ned had driven back into
Deaconsbridge and made a return visit to the supermarket where,
with a sub from Mr Liberty's wallet, she had bought several carrier
bags of cleaning products, rubber gloves, cloths, tins of polish, air
fresheners, and several rolls of bin-bags.
She never did anything by half, and having made a deal with the
old man she was determined to see it through. There had been no
danger of her waking this morning and regretting her decision. That
was not her style. She had always been the same, even as a child - so
her mother had frequently told her. If she had wanted to come top in
French she went all out to achieve it. Conversely, if she didn't want
to do something, like finish a piece of embroidery for a needlework
lesson, there was no making her do it.

Louise and the gang had always teased her that she saw life so
clearly. 'Nothing ever muddies the water of your vision and thinking,
does it?' Guy had said to her one day at work, after she had dealt
with a dispute on the packing line between two women who claimed
they couldn't work together. And she supposed he was right. She
wished, though, that he hadn't made it sound like a criticism.
Much to her amusement, and Ned's delight, Mr Liberty had joined
them for supper in the van last night. 'No steak and claret this
evening?' she had asked, when he had accepted her offer of grilled
lamb chops and easy-cook noodles. His gruff reply had got lost
somewhere in his rattling throat and confirmed what she had
suspected: that it was a while since he had cooked himself such a
meal. If ever.
Over supper he had brought up the subject of how much she
expected to be paid. 'I'm nobody's fool,' he said, pointing his knife at
her. 'You're not going to con me.'
'And I'm no mug, either, so you'd better brace yourself. This won't
be cheap. If you want the best - me - you're going to have to pay
accordingly. I assume you have sufficient funds.'
'That's damned impertinent!'
'Just making sure we both know where we stand. For all I know,
you might be a penniless old codger who's down to his last shirt
button.'
'I resent the implications of that last remark. I'll have you know
that I'm not an old codger and, what's more, I'd bet my last shirt
button that I'm better off than you.'
'I'm glad to hear it. So why haven't you got around to throwing a
wad of cash at some other idiot to do the job for you? Or are you just
mean with your money?'
'I've never been mean with money, just prudent. If I was a Scrooge,
do you think I'd be providing you with free electricity and water
while you're here? And I didn't replace my last cleaner because I saw
no reason to put up with another light-fingered woman helping
herself to my belongings.'
'So what changed your thinking?'
'That blasted doctor started poking his nose in.' He went on to tell
her how he had burnt his arm and reluctantly paid a visit to the
surgery. 'I knew I was in trouble the moment that doctor started
asking me how I was coping after my wife's death. Fine, I told him.
But they don't want to believe that, do they? And then he turned up
here and I'd got something in my eye and he blackmailed me into
going to the hospital to have it checked.'
'Blackmailed you?'
'It was what happened, true as I'm sitting here. He threatened me
with Social Services if I didn't get into the car with him there and
then to go to the hospital.'
Clara had wanted to laugh at the doctor's audacity, but refrained,
and again she felt sorry for Mr Liberty. He was clearly terrified that
he was going to have his independence taken from him. It convinced
her that she was doing the right thing in helping him and that her
main objective was to make him see the sense in getting regular help
once she had gone. If he didn't, he would be back to square one
within weeks with the threat of Social Services still hanging over him.
If indeed they were a real threat.
She had smiled at the thought of the days ahead when she would
be giving Mr Liberty a taste of his own medicine - a generous dose of
bullying.
Carrying the bags of cleaning things, Clara let Ned run on ahead
to knock at the door. It was opened almost immediately, as if her
employer had been waiting for her to arrive and clock on. 'Is your
eye better now, Mr Liberty?' asked Ned. The patch had gone and
without it he looked a little less fierce.
'It's as good as new,' he replied starchily, and stood back to let
them in. 'Where will you start? The kitchen?'
'We'll start first with improving labour relations,' Clara said. 'You will bid us a good morning, then you will offer to put the kettle on.
And while you are making us some coffee, I will survey the wreckage
and assess the extent of the damage.' She handed him one of the
carrier-bags. 'There's a jar of instant in there, along with a packet of
biscuits which will add to your onerous duties as tea and coffee
maker.'
He grunted and led them through to the kitchen.
'Ever thought of buying a dish-washer?' she asked, when she saw
once more the piles of dirty crockery still untouched on the draining
board.
'A waste of money just for one person.'
'There are some reasonably priced ones on the market, small
machines designed for people on their own.'
'Reasonably priced,' he repeated. 'I don't need things to be reasonably priced. I told you, I have money.'
'Well, try spending it! Or are you hell bent on leaving it to the
family of whom you've spoken so highly?'
He snorted, then reached for a pen and a used envelope. He
handed them to Clara. 'Make a list of all the things you think I need.'
'I'll put "new heart" at the top of it, shall I?'
Her first job was to clear the decks by shifting most of the junk on to
either the table or the floor so that she could get at the work surfaces
to scrub them clean. Once she had done the sink, she tackled the
washing-up, then moved on to the cupboards, which were chock full
of things she doubted were ever used. At the back of one she found a
two-year-old bag of self-raising flour crawling with weevils. Cringing,
she threw it into a bin-bag, along with a dozen pots of out-of
date Shippam's paste, two opened jars of pickled cabbage, another of
horseradish sauce that was a dubious shade of yellow, and a tin of
rock-hard Oxo cubes. It wasn't difficult to work out what the poor
man was eating on a daily basis: the stockpiled cans of pilchards and
tomato soup were a dead give-away.
With Ned helping to empty the lower cupboards of old pans,
buckled lids, steamers and fish kettles, the like and size of which
Clara had never seen before, she called Mr Liberty. He appeared in
the doorway and looked aghast at the mess. 'You've made it worse,'
he said, as he surveyed the scene.
'Oh, bring on the gratitude, why don't you?' said Clara sharply.
'Now, listen, I need you to decide what you want to keep.'
He shrugged. 'You decide for me.'
She took him at his word, and deciding that it was highly unlikely
that he would be cooking a whole salmon in the near future, or
steaming enough vegetables to feed an army marching on its
stomach, or making vats of jam and marmalade, she put together a
modest collection of pans for his basic cooking needs and instructed
Ned to take them over to the sink. He could mess around with soapy
water under the guise of washing them.
'What will you do with the others?' asked Mr Liberty.
'Some are fit for the dustbin - which reminds me, that skip I
ordered should be here around lunchtime - but the better ones could
go to a charity shop. Do you have such a thing in Deaconsbridge?'
'There was one, but when the rents on all the shops in the market
square went up, it closed.'
'It seems a shame to ditch them when they're in pretty good nick.
Put the kettle on again and I'll have a think.'
With a bucket of hot water dosed liberally with disinfectant, she
started to clean inside the cupboards. There was something satisfying
about bringing order to chaos, and though she would never admit it
to Mr Liberty, she was enjoying herself. By the end of the day she
would have the pleasure of knowing that she had personally
conquered this grubby wreck of a kitchen. She would have it
shipshape and Bristol fashion, or her name wasn't Miss Clara
Costello.
Calling herself by her full name made her think about the formal
way in which she and Mr Liberty referred to each other. It amused
her, and if she wasn't mistaken, it amused him.
Behind her, she could hear Ned talking to Mr Liberty as he
spooned coffee into mugs. He was chattering nineteen to the dozen,
just like he did at home with Granda, and she realised that as long as
Ned had someone to talk to, he would not get bored.
When Mr Liberty handed her a mug of coffee, and she indicated
for him to place it on the floor next to her, he said, 'You've been
working like a Trojan ever since you got here, why don't you take a
break?'
She wrung out the cloth into the bucket and doffed an imaginary
cap. 'Gawd bless you, guv'nor, for taking pity on a humble scullery
maid. I'm touched.'
She was even more touched when he held out a hand and helped
her to her feet. 'Bring your coffee with you, and I'll give you a guided
tour,' he said gruffly.
She tugged off her rubber gloves and, Ned following with the
biscuits, Mr Liberty led the way. He stood for a moment in the vast
hall, as though getting his bearings - it was a large house, after all.
'Do we need a map?' she asked, good-humouredly.
He threw her a disparaging look. 'Suggesting I'm so far gone I
don't know how to get round my own home?'
'Not at all. I was merely implying you live in an above average
sized house. How many bedrooms are there?'
'Just the ten.'
'Just the ten,' she repeated. 'A bit cramped, then?'
'I know the way,' said Ned, and sped off down the gloomy length
of the hall, whose panelled walls were decorated with an incongruous
mixture of African masks, a barometer, a large, heavily worked
brass plate that looked Indian, and a moth-eaten bear's head.
Everything was covered with a peppering of dust, including the
ornate gilt frame of a massive oil painting depicting a Highland stag.
'Where's he taking us?' she asked. 'And do you mind?'
'To the library, and it doesn't look as if I have much choice.'
When they caught up with Ned, he was swinging open a heavy
door. 'Slow down, partner,' Clara told him. 'And you've had enough
biscuits.'
She took the packet and handed it to Mr Liberty. For the first time
she noticed his arthritic hands, how swollen and clenched they were.
Slipping a thumbnail under the top biscuit, she raised it so that he
could easily get at it. He caught her eye. 'Don't go putting yourself
out on my account,' he muttered.
'Don't flatter yourself.'
The library felt cold and damp, but was comparatively tidy, in as
much as it contained a few basic items of furniture: two leather
armchairs either side of a stone fireplace, another two in the bay
window either side of a large rent table, a footstool, and a lampstand
with a dented shade and an unravelling gold fringe. Two of the walls
were lined from floor to ceiling with books. But it was difficult to
make out anything in any detail: the curtains were drawn, keeping
out the light - and holding in the musty smell of age and soot. Clara
guessed that the chimney needed sweeping. 'Do you always have the
curtains like this?'
'Not always.' He went over to the window and gave the burgundy
velvet drapes a hefty tug. 'But it stops the light destroying the books.'
So the man had a weak spot. Books above humans, by the looks of
things.
She changed her mind when light flooded the room and she saw
the painting above the fireplace. 'Who's that?' she asked.
Mr Liberty stood beside her. 'My first wife, Anastasia.'
Clara stared at the young woman, her confident gaze and the
beguiling gentleness in her expression. The eyes were full of warmth
and humour and were as dark as her thickly tousled hair, which was
painted so luxuriantly and with such depth that Clara could almost
feel the silky curls in her fingers. 'Is it a good likeness?' she asked
softly.
He took a noisy swallow of his coffee. 'Yes.'
'She was very beautiful.'
'And I suppose you're wondering what she saw in someone like
me?'
Before she could deny or refute this, Ned called, 'Mummy, come
over here. This is where the secret passage is.'
She went to where he was standing. She stared at the rows of
leatherbound books that he was pointing to. 'Are you sure?' she
asked, playing along with him. 'All I can see is a load of old books.'
His eyes danced with excitement as he glanced at Mr Liberty.
'Shall I show her?' he asked, his hand already reaching to the shelf
where, presumably, the handle was hidden.
Mr Liberty sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly with a
doubtful shake of his head. 'I don't know, lad. Can she keep a secret?
We don't want her blabbing all over the county, do we?'
Ned's face grew solemn. 'Mummy, you won't tell anyone, will
you? Do you promise?'
'Hand on heart,' she said, as seriously as she could. 'I promise not
to tell a living soul about Mr Liberty's back passage.'
Mr Liberty snorted. But the hint of a smile on his face didn't
escape Clara.
Despite the misty rain, the views from the tower were spectacular.
They would be even better if the windows were clean, thought Clara,
wondering if there would be sufficient time in the coming week to
add the tower to her agenda. But was there any point? Dr Singh was
hardly going to rate his patient's ability to stand on his own two feet
if this extraordinary piece of whimsical architecture was spick and
span. Stick to the essentials, she told herself.
'When was the house built?' she asked.
'In 1851. John Temple, a local quarry owner, had it built for him
and his family. He called it Temple House, but when his son
inherited it, and later discovered an underground cavern in the area
with its dubious rock formation, the whole ridiculous mermaid saga
was set in motion. As a consequence, and to plump up the son's ego,
the house was renamed.'
'You sound like you don't approve.'
'I don't approve of scams.'
'What's a scam?' asked Ned.
Not wanting Ned's anticipation spoiled, Clara gave Mr Liberty a
warning look. To her grateful surprise, he said, 'Nothing you need
worry about, young man.'
'Any particular reason why the secret passageway was built?'
asked Clara. 'The age of the house precludes priest-holes, and the
geography's certainly wrong for smuggling.'
'No real reason as far as I'm aware, other than that John Temple
wanted something none of his neighbours had. Now, if you've seen
enough, shall we get on?'
He took them down the creaking narrow staircase, along the dark
corridor and back into the library. From there he showed them the
rest of the ground floor: the dining and drawing rooms that, like the
library, both smelt of soot, the gun room, where Clara had no wish
to linger, and the laundry room, which was a glory-hole with bells
on. Piles of yellowing newspapers and boxes of empty whisky bottles
littered the stone-flagged floor, with dirty clothes, towels and bed
linen. Mr Liberty kicked at the heap of washing. 'Machine's not
working,' he muttered, embarrassed. He picked up a wooden clothes
horse and set it against one of the damp-spotted walls.
'Do you know what's wrong with it?' She bent down to
investigate.
'Haven't a clue. It's too modern and fancy for me. Jonah bought it
last year and it's been nothing but a damned waste of money. It's
supposed to dry as well as wash. All it does is bang about a lot.'
'I'll take a look at it later,' she said, 'though presumably it's still
within its guarantee.'
He looked at her scornfully. 'You can mend a washing-machine?'
'Sure. So long as it's not the electronics, they're usually straightforward
enough. Sounds like the drum belt may have worked itself
loose.'
'Mummy can mend all sorts of things,' Ned said, helping himself
to an empty whisky bottle and unscrewing the lid. He pulled a face
when he held it to his nose. 'Pooh!'
'Is that right?' Mr Liberty said, taking the bottle from him and
replacing the lid.
'I don't like things to get the better of me,' she responded.
'Or people, I should imagine.'
'How astute of you. Now, then, shall I get back to work, or will
you show us the rest of the house?'
The tour continued upstairs, and mercifully the mess didn't get any
worse. As far as she could see, the damage was relatively superficial,
but it was the scale that was so awesome. That, and the poignancy of
some of the bedrooms.
'This was my second wife's room ... It was where she died.' Mr
Liberty unlocked the door and let them in. It was strange the way he
said it, and prompted Clara to ask how many wives he had had.
'Just the two. And don't look at me as though I was careless with
them.'
It was a long oblong room with a view over the garden and the
moors beyond. 'Val loved to look across to Kinder Scout,' he said,
moving to the window, 'which is why she chose this room. We never
shared . . .' He cleared his throat. 'We didn't have that kind of
relationship.'
Clara would have liked to pursue this tantalising confidence, but
wisely held back. Instead, she said, 'What did she die of? Ned, don't
touch!'
They both looked at Ned, who had settled himself on a stool in
front of a dressing-table. Set out before him was a dusty array of
scent atomisers, pots and tubes of cream, lipsticks, powder compacts,
necklaces, and bottles of nail varnish. At his mother's words his
hands, which had been hovering over a pair of reading glasses,
dropped to his sides.
'It was heart trouble,' Mr Liberty said, joining Ned. He picked up
the glasses and slipped them inside a tapestry case. 'I should have got
rid of this lot, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Makes me look
like a sentimental old fool, doesn't it?'
Without answering him, she said, 'Would you like me to sort it out
for you?'
'There's clothes too.' He indicated two large mahogany wardrobes
and a matching pair of chests of drawers.
'Just let me know what you want to keep, and I'll bag it up for you
... if that's what you'd like.'
Next he showed her the rooms that had belonged to his children. It
was at this point, standing in what had been his daughter's room,
that Clara realised it was what Mr Liberty didn't say, coupled with the emptiness of some of the rooms in this huge house, that revealed
most about him. She realised, too, that she hadn't seen a single
photograph of any of his children. Other than the portrait of the first
Mrs Liberty, and the second wife's belongings, there was no record
of anyone else having lived here. She thought of her parents' modest
little semi-detached house and the rogues' gallery of pictures they had
of her and Michael growing up, with treasured photographs of Ned
and their latest grandchild. As a teenager she had been mortified at
the number of photos around the house recording her transition from
gummy baby to spotty adolescent. But by the time her graduation
photo adorned the wall of the dining room, along with Michael's,
she had come to terms with her parents' pride, and knew that when
the time came she would probably do exactly the same.
Which she had. From his birth, Ned's likeness had been framed
many times over. When she had been clearing the house ready for the
young couple who would be renting it, she had spent hours removing
them, wrapping them and storing them in a box to go in the attic.
Ned had been captured in every conceivable pose: smiling, frowning,
chewing, laughing, crawling, clapping, sitting, walking, even sleeping.
Caspar,
Damson and Jonah's bedrooms were shabby and bare.
Each contained an uncovered wooden-framed bed, a rug, a few
pieces of functional furniture and a series of ghostly marks on the
walls where once there had been shelves and pictures. It struck Clara
that someone had gone to a lot of trouble to strip these rooms. It
seemed such a callous act. Vindictive. Almost a threat.
But as Mr Liberty went on to show them the rest of the bedrooms,
which were piled high with trunks and huge ugly pieces of furniture,
with faded wallpaper coming away from the walls, she began to
think it was no wonder he was so miserable. If she had to live in this
mausoleum, she too would turn into a crabby old devil. Suddenly she
felt angry with his children. How could they have left him to rot
here? Okay, he clearly wasn't an easy man, but why hadn't they
persisted and won him over? Because it was easier to turn their backs
and forget him. They were a bunch of idle, pathetic cowards and they
ought to be ashamed of themselves.
This thought was still with her when Mr Liberty showed her his
bedroom. It was almost thirty feet long with a spectacular view over
the garden and the moors beyond. She made a mental note to deal
with the curtains, which were lying on the floor.
When he made a surprising offer to take Ned off her hands and
play a game with him, she returned to the kitchen with renewed
vigour and determination. She switched on the radio, moved the dial
to Classic FM and pulled on her rubber gloves. Her plan now was to
tackle at least one room a day, so that by the end of the week, a
minimum of seven would have been scrubbed and polished, which
would go some way to restoring the house to what it had been.
She turned her attention to the Aga and hoped it wasn't a lost
cause. If she could get that running smoothly, it would make all the
difference to the dreary atmosphere in the kitchen.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Gabriel passed Ned the pack of playing cards and told him to shuffle
them.
'I'm not very good at that,' Ned said, kneeling up on the chair and
taking the pack uncertainly in his small hands.
'I'm sure you'll make a better job of it than I would.'
As he jumbled the grubby cards, Ned said, 'Why are your fingers
so funny, Mr Liberty? They're all knobbly and crooked.'
'That's because I'm the crooked old man who lives in the crooked
old house.'
'No, you're not. And your house isn't crooked at all. What are we
going to play?'
'What can you play?'
'Urn . . . Pairs. But we usually use picture cards. Nanna gave them
to me for my birthday.'
'Well, let's try it with these. Have you finished messing them up
yet?'
'I think so. Shall I spread them out for us?'
'Be my guest.'
Leaning across the dusty table, placing the cards face down, Ned
said, 'That's what Granda always says to me.'
'Uh?'
'If I ask him if I can play outside, he says, "Be my guest."'
'I'm surprised Granda ever gets a word in edgeways with you
around. Don't you ever stop talking?'
'Nanna and Granda are in Australia,' Ned carried on. 'Granda
sometimes calls me his little pumpernickel. I have a baby cousin now.
I've seen pictures of him on the Internet. Do you think Nanna and
Granda will see any kangaroos? Kangaroos are funny. They go boing, boing, boing.'
Just as Gabriel was despairing of ever keeping up with such a
butterfly brain, the child got down from his seat and gave an
impromptu demonstration of how he thought a kangaroo would
bounce around the library of Mermaid House: ankles together,
elbows tucked in and hands sticking out in front of him.
'And you'll go boing in a moment if you don't get back into your
chair. I thought we were playing Pairs.'
Gabriel watched the boy climb up into the leather armchair and
resume setting out the cards. At least he wasn't cheeky and
constantly running about the place, smashing into the furniture. He
had an enquiring nature, and Gabriel approved of that. His spitfire of
a mother was doing a good job of bringing him up. Just as she was
doing a good job of sorting out the kitchen. He was still surprised
that she had changed her mind about helping him. Perhaps, after all,
the money had swayed her.
But she didn't seem the sort to be strapped for cash. People like her
- quick-witted, intelligent, well-spoken and confident - didn't usually
struggle to make ends meet. They knew where they were going; they
had a goal and went for it. They weren't drifters who sponged off
others in the hope of handouts. Which brought him right back to
where he had started: why the dickens was she mucking out his
kitchen?
He hoped it hadn't been an act of charity. Charity was for those
too weak to help themselves. That wasn't him. And it never would
be.

He caught the sound of music coming from the kitchen - blast the
woman, she'd gone and fiddled with his radio - and his gaze moved
from the boy to Anastasia's portrait above the fireplace.
She was very beautiful, had been Miss Costello's words earlier, but
they didn't cover half of what Anastasia had meant to him.
Her inner strength, humour, and dazzling candour had attracted
him to her when they had first met at a mutual friend's wedding.
Compared to his contemporaries he had left marriage relatively late.
He claimed it was because he was so busy, but until Anastasia he had
never met a woman with whom he had wanted to spend more than a
night, let alone the rest of his life. She had changed that as soon as he
had taken his seat beside her at the back of the church. During the
excessively long sermon on the sanctity of marriage, delivered by a
vicar who plainly liked nothing better than a captive audience, she
had leaned into him and whispered, 'I know one is supposed to be
awfully generous in these moments but, goodness, don't you just
want to heckle the man down from the pulpit so that we can get on
and enjoy ourselves at the reception, which, hopefully, will be a lot
more jolly?'
He had smiled and agreed.
'I can't tell you how tempted I was a few moments ago to leap to
my feet and say I had a just cause and impediment as to why the
marriage shouldn't be taking place,' she had added, her wide
brimmed hat knocking his head as she leaned closer to him.
'What is it?' he had asked, amused.
'That I know they'll split up within the year. I can't think of a
more unsuited couple.'
When they were outside the church, watching the ill-fated bride
and groom pose for the photographer, she said, 'Do you think
anyone would object if I removed my hat?'
He had wanted to say that if anyone did, he would personally
knock them to the ground. He had watched her take it off, remove
several pins and let an autumnal rustle of curly brown hair fall
around her shoulders: it enhanced her long, slender neck and made
her even more alluring. 'I don't think you should bother with hats.
You look perfect without one,' he said.
She had given him a brilliant smile. Not one of those brittle, glued
on social smiles, but a flash of sunny brightness. 'Do you really think
so?' she said. 'Between you and me, I paid a ridiculous amount of
money for that one, and all to disguise my unfashionable hair. Every
other woman here, including the bride, is dyed blonde like Grace
Kelly. Had you noticed?'
Truth was, he hadn't noticed a single woman until he had sat next
to her.
'I went all the way to London for that hat. It seems a shame to let
it go to waste,' she said.
There was no vanity in her, just a mild touch of irony. It was
something he soon came to love. She was at her best when she was
being entirely herself.
'Have you seen Grace Kelly's latest film, The Country Girl?' she
asked. 'For such a natural beauty, she was surprisingly good as a
plain girl.'
'No. I don't go to the cinema. I don't have time.'
'What do you have time for?'
'Work mostly. Sorry if that sounds dull.'
'You need someone to change that for you.'
He stared at her to see if she was mocking him, but she wasn't. Her
smile was genuine and he knew in his heart that there was no guile or
cunning in her. He didn't know her name or where she lived, but
suddenly he wanted to know everything about her. More importantly,
he wanted to know that he would see her again. He said,
'What are you doing when this tortuous shindig is over?'
Confident brown eyes as dark as her hair had gazed at him, and he
had momentarily lost his nerve. Why would this dazzling young
beauty be remotely interested in a man whose friends described him
as a confirmed, gone-to-seed bachelor?
'Having dinner with you, I hope,' was her answer.
A year later, in 1956, her prediction that their mutual friends'
marriage would end in separation was proved right. They heard the
news two days before their own wedding, and it prompted him to
say, 'Do you know any just cause or impediment why our marriage
should not go ahead?'
'None whatsoever. We are the best suited couple I know.'
She had been right. They had been the best of companions, the
best of lovers. She was reassuringly self-sufficient, which suited him:
being so busy with work and travelling as extensively as he did, he
had needed to know that she wouldn't be lonely without him, or
unable to cope with the running of such a large house on her own.
Too often he had seen marriages collapse because one half of the
couple relied too much upon the other. He and Anastasia relished
being independent spirits, but the welcome he received when he came
home after a long trip away never left him in any doubt that his wife
loved him as passionately as he loved her.
Still staring at the portrait above the fireplace, he sensed that, in
many ways, Miss Costello was from the same mould as Anastasia.
She was a confident young woman who would glide through life on
the strength of her own determination. She was just the kind of
person to take everything in her stride and make the most of it.
Anastasia had never made a drama out of anything that went wrong
- not even when the tower had been struck by lightning while he had
been in Canada. No doubt about it, they were two of a kind, and
perhaps that was why he had felt compelled to seek Miss Costello's
help. He had known instinctively that because she saw things so
simply, she would be able to cut through the chaos of Mermaid
House so that he could take control again.
But while he could appreciate her many strengths, he realised that

he knew little about her. What did she do when she wasn't roaming
the countryside in a camper-van with her young son? Where did she
and the boy live? How did they live? Where was the boy's father?
Was he her husband? And why had he himself made the assumption
that she wasn't married? He tried to picture her left hand to see if he
could recall a ring. He couldn't, but observation had never been his
strong suit.
He knew he shouldn't do it, but with his curiosity fully aroused,
and with the means to satisfy it sitting opposite him, he saw no
reason not to ask a few questions.
'Finished!' Ned said, sitting back in the large chair and admiring
his handiwork. The circular table was now a patchwork of blue and
green tartan. 'Shall I go first?'
'As Granda would say, be my guest.'
A short while later when Ned's pile of successfully matched cards
was greater than his own, Gabriel said, 'You're not bad at this. You
sure you didn't look at the cards before you put them down?'
'No!' Ned's voice rang with indignation. 'I just have a better
memory than you.'
'Depends what one uses one's memory for. I can remember things
very clearly a long time ago--'
'But not where the Queen of Hearts is!' Gabriel turned over the
wrong card and Ned claimed the pair. 'I'm beating you, aren't I?'
'Do you play this a lot at home with your mother?'
'I do now. But not when we were at home. Mummy was too busy
then.'
'Oh? Busy with what?'
'Work. She had a very important job. She told lots of people what
to do.'
Gabriel caught the past tense - had a very important job.
Redundancy, eh? Well, there was a lot of it about.
'She gave up her job to be with me,' Ned said, with unashamed
pride. He claimed another pair of cards. 'She said she wanted to give
me an adventure I wouldn't forget.'
'And here you are playing cards with an old man who can't
remember where the nine of clubs is . . . Aha, got it.'
'You're getting better, Mr Liberty. But I'm still winning.'
'So who looked after you when your mother was busy telling
people what to do?'
'Nanna and Granda. And I went to nursery too. Nanna and
Granda are in Australia.'
'You said. Do you miss them?'
He nodded. 'Yes. But not so much now.'
'Why's that?'
'Because I see Mummy all the time now.'
'And you prefer that, do you?'
'Ooh, yes. I wish it could be like this for ever and ever. I wish I
never had to go to school.'
'But you'll have to go home some day, won't you?'
'I suppose so.'
'And your mother will have to go back to bossing people about. I
can see she'd be good at that.'
'She's not bossy with me.'
'She isn't? You sure?'
'She loves me.'
When he heard the boy express himself so simply and honestly
Gabriel was jolted by something he didn't understand. It was a faint
stirring of an emotion that was buried deep. There was a squeal from
across the table.
'Look! I've found the Jokers.'
'And what about your father?' Gabriel ventured, after he had
watched Ned rapidly unearth another series of pairs. There was
hardly anything left on the table now: the child's memory was
extraordinary. 'You never speak of him.' As soon as the words were
out, he regretted them. The boy, normally so bright and open, looked
confused, as though he didn't understand the question or, perhaps,
didn't know how to answer it. Gabriel suddenly felt horribly
unworthy. Supposing his father was dead?
'There's lunch on offer if anyone's interested,' said a stiff voice.
It was the boy's mother and Gabriel reddened with shame. Damn! How long had she been standing there? And just how much had she
heard?

His guilt was multiplied many times over when he stood in the
kitchen and saw the transformation.
The surfaces were all cleared and scrubbed to a high sheen and the
cupboard doors were so shiny that reflections bounced off them. The
floor was no longer sticky underfoot, the windows looked as if the
glass had been removed, and the cobwebs that had been hanging
from the ceiling like last year's Christmas decorations were gone.
There was no sign of grease or burnt-on stains on the cooker, the
fridge door looked as if it had been given a coat of white gloss paint,
the rubbish that had covered the table had vanished, and lunch had
been set for three. There was a white embroidered tablecloth he
didn't recognise, and in the centre of the plates of sandwiches and
glasses of orange juice, there was a small vase containing some purple
flowers. He could just about discern their delicate scent above the
more powerful odour of cleaning fluids.
It was as if he had walked into someone else's kitchen. He
wouldn't have thought that just a few hours could have wrought
such a change. 'I don't know what to say,' he murmured. A lump
was firmly wedged in his throat. The more he looked, the more he
was staggered.
'"Thank you" would be a start.'
He could hear in her voice just how very cross she was with him.
'Ned, do you want to go to the loo before we eat?' she said, in a
more kindly tone. 'It's down by the laundry room, where Mr Liberty
keeps his empty bottles. Be sure to wash your hands. I've put a clean
towel in there.'
Gabriel walked awkwardly over to the Aga, which had also been
given a clean and a polish. He ran his hand over the smooth green
enamel and caught a distorted view of a bulbous-nosed face in the
shiny chrome of the hot-plate cover. 'Miss Costello, I'm truly amazed
at what you've done. Thank you very much.'
She gave him a steely glance and turned off the radio, which she
had moved from the top of the fridge to the window-sill. 'And if you
want me to stick to our agreement I'll thank you not to interrogate
my son. Got that?'
He hung his head. It was a long time since he had felt so ashamed.
'I'm sorry,' he mumbled.
'At least have the decency to look at me when you're apologising.'
'I'm sorry,' he repeated, more clearly this time and looking straight
at her. 'Shouldn't have done that to the little lad. Not on at all. Not
my business.'
'Good,' she said briskly. 'Should you feel the disreputable need to
play the part of grand inquisitor, please just ask me what you want
to know. Okay?'
'Agreed.' Contrite. Meek. These were strange feelings to him, but
that was exactly what he felt. That and the need to put things right
with another person, whom he'd clearly upset. But how?
What could he do to make her think better of him? And when was
the last time he had ever been concerned with what anyone thought
of him?



Chapter Twenty-Four

Still beside herself with barely controlled fury over Mr Liberty's
scurrilous behaviour, Clara was putting the surge of energy to good
use. After lunch, and after she had instructed him - rather curtly - to
wash up the plates, cutlery and glasses, she took the grimy curtains
she had earlier unhooked from the kitchen windows and took them
outside into the courtyard. She wanted to get the worst of the dust
and sticky cobwebs off before washing them. The fine misty rain had
stopped, and as she shook the curtains her anger began to subside.
'Just let him try a stunt like that once more,' she muttered, 'and I'll be
out of here faster than . . . well, faster than anything he's ever seen
move!'
Marching through to the laundry room, she threw the curtains
onto the floor. Then, with the contents of the toolbox she had
fetched from Winnie, she started to take the washing-machine apart.
To her satisfaction, her diagnosis was correct. Fortunately nothing
was damaged and in no time at all she had it in working order. Not
only that, but she soon had two loads of washing pegged on a line
she had rigged up in the courtyard. While a third load was sloshing
around inside the machine, she went outside to catch her breath. The
sun was making a valiant effort to shine now, and while she stood in
the courtyard, watching the clothes and curtains billow in the light
breeze, the skip arrived.
'Sorry I'm late,' the man said, when he had lowered it into position
and she was signing the form confirming its delivery, 'but it's been
one of them days.'
'Tell me about it,' she said, with feeling.
Ned and Mr Liberty came to investigate just as the man was
driving away. 'You don't do anything by half do you, Miss
Costello?' Mr Liberty said, when he surveyed the scene - a large
yellow skip and a line of his freshly laundered clothes, including
some items he would perhaps rather not have had on show quite so
visibly.
'Not if I can help it,' she said. 'Aren't you going to thank me for
mending your washing-machine?'
'I was just about to. But why aren't you using its dryer?'
'No need - not when we can dry your unmentionables for free.
Looks to me as if you could do with investing in some new ones.'
He scowled in embarrassment.
Enjoying his discomfort, she said, 'Now, then, as you're both here
you can help me ditch some of the rubbish I've collected. First to go
will be those boxes of bottles from the laundry room.'
Under her directions, they worked steadily for the next hour and a
half, until Mr Liberty suggested he made some tea. 'Got to keep the
workers happy,' he said, and sloped off.

The moment Jonah had driven through the school gates that
morning and the exhaust had dropped off on to the Tarmac, he knew
that it was going to be one of those days.
Now it was three o'clock and he was accompanying Jase O'Dowd
to the doctor's surgery in Deaconsbridge. He had been in the staff
room, drinking a cup of coffee while standing over the temperamental
photocopier and thinking about year eleven's parents' evening
next week, when Larry Wilson, the design-technology teacher, poked
his unwashed head of grey hair round the door and asked if anyone
would mind taking O'Dowd to the vet's to be put down. 'The bloody
idiot's tried to chisel off a finger,' he grumbled, when Jonah agreed to
forgo his hour of free time. 'If I've told him once not to muck around
in my lessons, I've told him till I'm blue in the face. Serve the time
wasting blighter right if he's done himself some serious harm.'
Jonah found Jase waiting outside the secretary's office, and while
he looked his normal cocky self as he leaned against the wall, kicking
it idly, his face was as white as the notices on the board behind him.
He raised his temporarily bandaged hand at Jonah. 'I'm gonna sue,'
he said. 'It's not safe making them chisels so friggin' sharp. I'm gonna
get the best lawyer Legal Aid can give me.'

'A cracking idea, but first things first. Let's get you stitched up,
shall we?'
Exhaustless, they roared unceremoniously through the school
gates, through the town and into the surgery car park, where Jonah
pulled on the handbrake, switched off the engine and said, 'I'm not
doing much for your street cred, am I, Jase?'
'Could've been worse. Could've been old Ma Wilson bringing me
here.'
'I was referring to my car, not the status and quality of one of my
colleagues.'
'Yeah, but you agree with me all the same, don't you? He's a right
poxy old woman.'
Jonah kept his expression unreadable. 'I couldn't possibly comment.'
They
reported to the receptionist, then took a seat in the empty
waiting room. Jonah said, 'By the way, Mr Wilson did contact your
parents, didn't he?'
'Nah, I told him there was no point.'
Jonah sighed. 'Jase, school has to let them know. You know that
as well as I do. We have to do things by the rule book or that hotshot
Legal Aid lawyer of yours will be down on us like a ton of
bricks.'
His face set, Jase said, 'Leave it, sir.' Then, 'How long do you think
it will take for this to get better?'
Jonah looked at Jase's bandaged hand. 'Depending on how badly
cut it is, a week or two. Why? Worried it might get in the way of
your love life?' He knew from corridor and playground gossip that,
since last Christmas, Jase was devoting less time to fighting on the
estate where he lived and more to Heidi Conners, an anxious girl
who was painfully thin - Jonah thought she might be anorexic.
Jase's face coloured, all the way to his sharp-curled quiff. He got to
his feet and went over to a table where there was a pile of pamphlets
on family planning. 'Friggin' hell, sir, you ain't 'alf got a filthy mind!
I was thinking of my exams next term and whether or not I'd be able
to write.'
Suitably put in his place, and mildly surprised, Jonah apologised. 'I
expect it'll be fine by then.' He knew that Jase could now put
together a history essay that covered enough salient points to get him
a C grade, possibly even a B with a bit more attention to detail and
the wind blowing in the right direction, but as to his other GCSE
subjects, he wasn't so sure. Occasionally he heard mutterings in the
staff room that Jase O'Dowd was nothing but a load of trouble and
Jonah was annoyed that the youngster could be so easily written off.
'Sir?'
'Yes?'
'What d'yer think my chances are of getting a job when I leave in
the summer?'
'Do you have something in mind?'
Jase gave him a withering look. 'I thought with the qualifications
I'm likely to get I'd start off with something easy - investment
banker, summat like that.'
Jonah ignored the sarcasm. 'You don't think you might want to
stay on in the sixth form, then?'
'What? Me? Have you flipped or what?'
'Heidi's staying on, isn't she?'
Another flush rose to Jase's face. 'Yeah, well, it's okay for her,
she's got brains.'
'And so have you, Jase. You're just a bit more selective about how
you use yours. I think you should consider it.'
He came and sat down again. He chewed at a grubby thumbnail.
'No point in considering it. It's too late.'
'Says who?'
'Old Ma Wilson for one.'
Jonah mentally cursed Larry Wilson, remembering now that he
was Jase's form teacher. What hope was there for this disillusioned
sixteen-year-old boy if the person who was supposed to be offering
support and guidance was consigning him to the burgeoning number
of disenfranchised young people the length and breadth of the
country?
A shrill bell announced that whoever would be attending to Jase
was ready to see them. Looking at his watch and seeing that they had
only been waiting a short while, Jonah was glad that Dick High's
policy was to use the local surgery in Deaconsbridge rather than the
hospital.
Expecting a nurse to stitch up Jase's finger, Jonah was surprised to
be greeted by a slightly built man, who introduced himself as Dr
Singh.
'I've heard of educational cutbacks,' the doctor said, unravelling
the bandage from Jase's hand and focusing his attention on his
patient, 'but removal of a pupil's finger is going a step too far in my
opinion. Ah, there we are, and what an impressive attempt has been
made to slice through this fine finger. And what a lot of blood you
have to spare.'
It was at this point that Jase's eyes rolled back and he fainted.
Jonah caught the boy before he slid off the chair and helped the
doctor resettle him. Then, at his instruction, he went over to the
small sink in the corner of the room and filled a paper cup with cold
water.
Conscious again, Jase took the cup from Jonah, but without
meeting his eyes. Jonah knew that he was embarrassed by what had
happened and would have liked to reassure him that nobody would
hear of it from his lips, but the doctor was gesturing for him to get
out of the way.
'Now, Mr O'Dowd, to avoid a repeat performance, I suggest you
avert your eyes while I tidy you up.' While Jase studied a poster that
advocated a healthy diet of fruit and vegetables, the doctor
completed his task with speed and efficiency. His small-talk never
once dried up as the needle dipped and rose, and a layer of gauze and
a finger bandage were expertly applied. 'I see from your notes that
you're up to date with your injections, which means you'll be spared
the ignominy of a tetanus jab, so it's not all bad today, is it? Now,
tell me, is school as awful as I remember it? Are your teachers,
present company excluded, of course, as sadistic as they were in my
day?'
Jase shrugged. 'Some of them are, but Mr Liberty's okay.'
Standing at the sink now and ripping off his surgical gloves, the
doctor looked at Jonah. 'Either the young man is terrified of you, or
you have a loyal and devoted fan.'
'He's terrified of me,' Jonah smiled. 'Terrified I'll do a better job of
chopping off a finger next time.'
Coming back to his desk, the doctor paused. 'Forgive my
inquisitiveness, but are you by any chance related to Mr Gabriel
Liberty of Mermaid House?'
Surprised at the question, Jonah confirmed that Gabriel Liberty
was his father.
The doctor sat down and rearranged his sleeves. 'Well, how
extraordinary. And isn't life strange? Suddenly the world is full of
Libertys. They are crawling out of the woodwork, so to speak.' He
laughed at his own joke.
'I'm sorry, Dr Singh, I'm not with you.'
'Forgive me again, please. But in one week I meet first your father,
then your sister, and now you.'
'You've met my sister?' It was news to Jonah that Damson was in
Deaconsbridge. What had brought her here? Then he remembered
Caspar. Of course, the two of them were planning a pincer move on
their father.
'Oh, yes,' Dr Singh said. 'I met her yesterday, your nephew too.
They're staying with your father, didn't you know?'
Jonah gaped. Nephew? Good grief, Damson had had a baby!

There was no point in going back to Dick High - school had finished
twenty minutes ago. Jonah dropped off Jase at home, and headed
back towards town and the supermarket, as he usually did at this
time on a Friday afternoon. Next he went to Church Cottage where
he left his own shopping, then drove on to Mermaid House, still
unable to get his head round the idea that Damson was not only
staying with their father but was a parent herself. He hadn't seen her
since Val's funeral, but he couldn't imagine she had changed in the
interim to the extent that she was now a doting mother.

The light was fading when Clara remembered to bring in the
washing. It was dry enough to be ironed, so she folded it neatly into
the pitiful excuse for a laundry basket, thinking that if she wasn't too
tired, she might tackle it later that evening. She was just adding the
last of Mr Liberty's threadbare underpants to the pile when she
heard an almighty racket. The throaty rumble grew louder and
nearer. Someone's car was in need of a new exhaust.
She went inside the house to find Mr Liberty, to warn him that he
had a caller. It was probably Dr Singh again. And if it was, she
needed to know if Mr Liberty wanted her to keep her head down, or
to be a visible presence in the guise of helpful daughter.
Interrupting a rumbustious game of Snap in the library, she told
Mr Liberty he had a visitor. Like her, he assumed it was Dr Singh.
Instantly every inch of him was bristling, ready for battle. She
followed a few steps behind him, but stayed out of sight when they
reached the kitchen. Peeping round the doorframe, she saw that they
had leaped to the wrong conclusion. Standing beside the table, and
with several plastic bags at his feet, was a tall man in a leather jacket.
His collar-length hair was thick and wavy and, as he stared round
the kitchen in obvious amazement, his profile and stance reminded
Clara of a Renaissance painting.
'Good God, Jonah, what are you doing here?'
He turned. 'It's Friday, Dad, the day I always go shopping for you,
and the day we agreed I'd come and see you. What's been going on
here? It looks fantastic. Has Damson done this?' He plonked the
bags on the table, carefully avoiding the vase of flowers.
Mr Liberty looked incredulous. 'Damson?' He snorted. 'Damson
be damned!'
Having sized up the situation, that this was the youngest of her
employer's uncaring darlings made flesh, Clara decided to leave them
to it. She turned to join Ned, who was still in the library, but a
commanding voice bellowed, 'Oh, no you don't, Miss Costello. You
come right back here and take the credit for all your hard work.'
She stepped into the kitchen. 'I'm in no need of credit,' she said
briskly, making her tone hostile. Irrationally she wanted this casual
looking Renaissance man to know that she disapproved of him. That
she despised him for being too weak to take his father by the frayed
scruff of his neck and whip him into shape.
'Miss Costello and I have what one might call an arrangement,
Jonah,' Mr Liberty explained, a wry smile twisting his mouth. 'For
an exorbitant sum of money, she is staying with me for the week to
do my bidding.'
'What your father is trying to say, in his clumsy way,' Clara said
sharply, 'is that I'm here to tidy up Mermaid House.' She gave them
both an accusing look. 'And since you're clearly about to settle in for
a family bonding session, Ned and I will be off.'
Mr Liberty guffawed loudly.
But his son continued to stare, confused. 'Could someone please
explain exactly what's going on here?' he said. 'And where's
Damson?'
'Hell's bells, what makes you think she's here?'
'I was told she was. Apparently I have a nephew, who I'm curious
to meet.'
Clara exchanged glances with Mr Liberty. She said, 'Have you
been talking to a certain Dr Singh?'
'Yes, this afternoon. I was at the surgery with a pupil and he told
me--'
'That your sister was staying here,' interrupted Mr Liberty. He
smiled triumphantly at Clara. 'Didn't I say we'd taken him in? Hah!
We reeled in the poor stupid fool good and proper! What a team we
make.'
But Clara wasn't so triumphant. 'Hang on a moment. Before you
start ringing the bells of victory, hadn't you better check with your
son that he didn't dispute the matter and blow your little scam out of
the water?'
Liberty Junior held up his hands. 'Whatever scam it is that you've
got going here, I'm not guilty of trying to spoil it.'
His father needed convincing. 'You sure about that?' His tone
implied he might reach for a shotgun if the answer wasn't to his
liking.
'I played my part beautifully, dumb schmuck, right to the end.'
'Now why doesn't that surprise me?' muttered Clara.
Even by her standards the remark sounded more caustic than she
had intended, and Liberty Junior frowned at her. He started to
unpack the bags of shopping, and said to his father, 'I'm sorry to run
the risk of repeating myself and appearing doubly foolish, but would
it be too much to ask you why you've gone to the trouble of duping
Dr Singh into believing that you have a daughter staying with you?'
'I would have thought that was obvious.'
'Please, indulge me.'

A short while later, the shopping put away, a pot of tea made and
explanations given, Jonah watched his father leave the kitchen to
fetch Miss Costello's son. Standing in front of the Aga, and running
his fingers over the shiny surfaces, he was overwhelmed by the shame
this acerbic, one-woman dream-team had made him feel. He wanted
to thank her for what she had done, and for what she was prepared
to go on doing for the rest of the week, but he was mortified that a
stranger had walked into his father's life and achieved what no
member of his own family could do. Or, more precisely, what none
of them had even tried to do.
Behind him he could hear her opening a packet of biscuits he had
brought. He turned and watched her tip the chocolate chip cookies
on to a plate to form a perfect spiral. He wondered if things always
turned out so well for her. 'This must seem strange to you,' he said.
'From the outside looking in, it must appear as though we, his
children, don't care.' He hoped she wouldn't judge him too harshly.
She gazed at him severely. Astutely. Assessingly. 'You probably don't care. Not enough, anyway.'
'That's not fair,' he said, defensively.
She crumpled the empty packet into a tight ball and put it into the
swing bin. 'Okay, then,' she said. 'I'll be generous and say you've
simply got used to the chaos and squalor in which your father has
been living and turned a blind eye to it.'
'Are you always so blunt?'
'Yes.'
'Then that's probably what my father likes about you. Few people
ever gain his approval. And just because one is related to a person, it
doesn't mean you understand each other. Or even get on.'
She surveyed him steadily, her eyes cool and measuring. Unnerved,
he turned away.

As unlikely as it was, Jonah had never seen his father talk to a child
before, and intrigued, he watched him with Miss Costello's young
son, Ned. He was a sweet-faced boy, whose expression ran the
gamut from solemn to bright as if at the flick of a switch. He was
immensely confident, not at all shy, and seemed extraordinarily
comfortable with Gabriel, whom Jonah would have expected to
terrify the child senseless. He had a shiny cap of dark brown hair, the
same colour as his mother's, intensely dark, alert eyes and an
engaging smile. Jonah had no way of knowing if his mother had
passed this on to him, too, because he had yet to see her smile. But
from the disapproving glances she flung at him, Jonah was getting
the message that she despised him for not doing more to help his
father.
Though Jonah was more used to teenagers, he had to admit that,
for four years old, Ned was remarkably well behaved, never once
spilling his drink or dropping crumbs. The nearest he got to making
a faux pas was when he had told his mother with his mouth full that
Mr Liberty was going to teach him to play draughts tomorrow
morning. 'He says I can be white and go first. He's shown me the
board, it's very old.'
'Mr Liberty won't teach you anything if you spray everyone with
biscuit crumbs, Ned,' his mother reprimanded him gently. 'Finish
what's in your mouth, then talk to us.'
His lips tightly sealed now, he was chewing extra fast, his
miniature eyebrows rising up and down. He swallowed hard and
continued excitedly, 'But he says I might not be clever enough to play
draughts because I'm so young. Do you think I'm clever enough to
play, Mummy?' Suddenly he looked grave, his eyes wide.
'You're as clever as you need to be, Ned,' she said reassuringly.
'No more, no less.'
'Another of your inscrutable replies, Miss Costello. Bravo. Do you
lie awake in bed at night practising them when you can't get to
sleep?'
'Not at all, Mr Liberty. I'm naturally inscrutable. Moreover, I
never have trouble sleeping. I put it down to having a guilt-free
mind.'
As he got up to add more hot water to the teapot, Jonah felt
strangely isolated. There was a level of light-hearted repartee going
on between this woman and his father that seemed designed to
exclude him. It was as if he had walked in on the middle of
something - which, in a way, he had. Oddly, he felt as though he was
playing gooseberry to their extraordinary double act of sparky
lovebirds.
He stared out across the darkening courtyard to where the yellow
skip stood and, beyond, to where Miss Costello's camper-van was
parked. Lifting the kettle, he poured freshly boiled water into the pot
and wondered what was really going on here. Who was this
confident, efficient woman who could sit so at ease at his father's
table playing verbal pit-pat with him? And why did their obvious
rapport rankle so much with him? Why did it make him feel even
more of a failure than he usually did at Mermaid House? It was the
same every visit, as if the bricks and mortar contained a magnetic
force that made him revert to the anxious boy he had once been.
Hearing his father laughing behind him - and not the usual
scornful barked-out guffaw he was more used to but full-throated
good cheer - an ugly thought occurred to him: he was jealous.
Jealous that this stranger with her sharp no-nonsense way of talking,
who had probably never suffered a moment's doubt, could make his
father happy and he could not.
Suddenly he felt a flash of searing pain. He hadn't been
concentrating on what he was doing and had poured boiling water
over his hand. Stifling a yelp of pain, he moved to the sink and
shoved his fist under the cold tap.
'Here, let me see.' It was the efficient Miss Costello.
'It's nothing,' he said, but he allowed her to inspect his hand.
'Keep it under the tap while I go and fetch my first-aid kit,' she
instructed.
While he watched her through the window as she hurried across
the courtyard, his father joined him at the sink. 'You wouldn't be
attention-seeking, would you, boy?'
And you wouldn't be making a fool of yourself over a pretty
young girl, would you? Jonah wanted to retort.
Within minutes she was back and showing him a tube of cream.
Slightly out of breath, she said, 'It will sting at first, but then it will
feel quite cool.'
'What is it?' he asked, turning off the tap and reaching for a clean
handkerchief from his trouser pocket to dry his hand.
'A homeopathic remedy for burns. Works every time. Now
remember, I said it would sting at first--' 'Ouch!' He pulled away his hand.
'You're worse than a baby. Honestly, men, you're all the same.
Merest hint of pain and you go pathetically weak-kneed.'
'Whereas you brave women lap it up and ask for more.'
'No, we simply grin and bear it.'
He forced a grin and held out his hand again. 'Go on, then. I'll
bear the agony just to prove to you that I'm no coward. I'm sure
inflicting pain on a mere man will give you great pleasure.'
She smiled unexpectedly and for the first time he registered that
there was more to her than the prim, judgemental woman he had
thought her. 'Sorry to disappoint you,' she said, 'but I get my kicks in
a much more satisfying way. There, that's it. And not one tear shed.
Give yourself a pat on the back.'
'I would if I had any feeling left in my hand.'
'You have two hands, Mr Liberty Junior, or is the glass always
half empty for you rather than half full?'
Before he could answer, she was screwing the top back on the tube
of cream and had turned to his father. 'I think Ned and I have earned
ourselves the rest of the day off. Eight o'clock suit you tomorrow
morning? I want to finish sorting out the laundry room. Then I'll
make a start on getting the dining room into apple-pie order.'
He grunted. 'Eight o'clock? Working part-time already, are you?
Thought you were too good to be true.'
'And you're too full of sweetness. Come on, Ned. Time for some
supper and our own more congenial company.'
Suppressing a yawn, Ned climbed down from his chair. 'Goodnight,
Mr Liberty,' he said. 'You will teach me that game in the
morning, won't you?'
'A promise is a promise, young man. Now be off with you before
you fall asleep and I have to carry you across the courtyard to your bed.'
Both Jonah and his father saw them to the back door and watched
them go. When a soft light glowed from the windows of the camper
van, giving it a warm, cosy look, Gabriel shut the door, led the way
back into the kitchen and said, 'Right, then, what was it you wanted
to talk to me about?'
Remembering why he was here, Jonah suddenly felt every inch the
coward that only moments ago he had denied.

Chapter Twenty-Five

It didn't matter how many times Jonah replayed the scene at
Mermaid House, or how often he tried to convince himself that he
was overreacting, he knew that last night he had been judged by the
snappish Miss Costello and, worse, that he had been found wanting.
It was Saturday morning, and he was lying in bed, trying to enjoy
the slow, potentially relaxing start to the day. But it wasn't working.
His enjoyment levels were at an all-time low. He laced his hands
behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. His mood took a further
nose-dive when he noticed that the indigo-blue paint he had applied
earlier that week looked patchy in the bright sunlight shining
through the uncurtained window.
No doubt that would never happen to Miss Costello. Anything she
painted would be perfect.
Irritated that she had come into his thoughts again, and that he
was forced to refer to her so formally - as though she were an old
fashioned school marm - he reminded himself that what she didn't
know, and could never understand, was that there were other
dimensions to the truth about his family. A whole kaleidoscope of
dimensions that no outsider could appreciate. But far from making
him feel better, this added to his guilt. He was making excuses for
himself.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again, hoping he had
imagined the flaw in the paintwork. No, he hadn't. Haphazard crisscrosses
were clearly visible. It was an infuriating mess. Why hadn't he
noticed it before? And why hadn't he done something about his
father instead of leaving him to turn to a stranger?
Frustrated with going round in this same futile circle, which kept
dumping him where he had started, he launched himself out of bed.
He went to the window and gazed down at the long stretch of garden
at the back of the house, which he was in the process of taming. It
ran parallel to the churchyard and fell away to merge with the
landscape of gently rolling hills. At the bottom of the garden there
was a tangle of brambles, which for years had got the better of a
beautiful old rose that must once have reigned supreme. Against the
wall of the brick-built shed there was a forsythia that had also taken
more than its fair share of space, and that, too, needed his attention.
He had always thought it was just the kind of space in which Val
would have liked to potter. The garden at Mermaid House had never
lent itself to a quiet afternoon's pottering. It was too big, much too
wild and exposed for anything tender to flourish in it.
Normally the view from his bedroom window cheered him: the
lush green pastureland had a pleasantly soothing effect. But this
morning his mood was still clouded by the severity of Miss Costello's
words and the reproachful way in which she had treated him. There
had been something unnervingly proprietorial in her manner towards
his father. He had wanted to explore this with Gabriel after she and
her son had left them alone last night, but there had been no
opportunity to steer the conversation in that direction, not without
annoying his father. He had soon sensed that the proprietorial thing
went both ways. Gabriel hadn't been prepared to divulge any
information about her. Or maybe he hadn't anything to divulge.
Certainly he didn't seem to know much about Miss Costello.
'What does it matter where she's from?' he had said, in response to
Jonah's probing. 'She's on holiday with her son and doing some
work for me. What more do I, or you, need to know about her?'
'But I still don't understand why you wanted to play a practical
joke on Dr Singh.'
'And frankly, Jonah, I don't understand why you're suddenly
paying me so much attention. Do I interfere in anything you do? No.
I leave you to get on and cock up your own life, just as you told me
to do when you walked out on me.'
Those words reminded Jonah too poignantly of the scene in the
library when his father had struck him, so he had changed the subject
and suggested that he cook them supper. But Gabriel had turned the
offer down flat. 'I'm quite capable of getting my own supper. Why
don't you stop wasting our time and get to the point as to why
you've come here?'
Which he did, but only when his father was searching the
cupboards for a bottle of whisky, banging doors and muttering,
'Where the hell did that infernal girl put it?'
'Dad, have you thought that maybe it might be a good time to
think about selling Mermaid House?'
The last of the cupboard doors crashed shut and his father turned
round, a bottle of single malt in hand. He banged it down on the
table, spun off the top, poured himself a large measure and, without
saying anything, raised it to his lips. He took a long gulp. 'And why
would I want to do that?' he asked finally.
'Because you might be more comfortable in something smaller,
easier to manage.'
Gabriel topped up his glass. 'How small were you thinking? Coffin
size?'
'Don't be ridiculous, Dad.'
'That's rich! You don't think you're being ridiculous by coming
here and suggesting I change my lifestyle to suit your conscience?'
'It's got nothing to do with my conscience.'
'No? Then perhaps it's more to do with lining your pockets.
Caspar and Damson's bottomless pockets as well, no doubt. Have
they bullied you into coming here tonight to convince the old duffer
that it's in everybody's best interest for him to sell the house so they
can get their hands on the loot?'
'Of course not!'
He gave a contemptuous snort. 'You never did have any talent for
lying, Jonah. Unlike your brother. So what's the line he's taking?
Death duties? Am I expected to sell my home and make a gift of the
proceeds to my beloved children in the hope that I would live long
enough for there to be no heavy tax penalties to pay? A happy-ever
after scenario for everyone . . . except me.'
'Whatever Caspar may or may not have in mind, you don't have
to go along with it.'
He snorted again. 'What's this? Rebellion in the ranks?'
'Look, Dad, you might get some kind of vicarious thrill from
pitching me against Caspar, but the truth is, I've come here tonight to
suggest that it might be in your interest to think about moving to a
house that would be more convenient for you to live in. No one else
should come into the equation. What's more, what you chose to do
with the proceeds of Mermaid House would be your affair.
Personally, I'd rather you used it for your own pleasure and
satisfaction, or gave it away to someone a whole lot more deserving
than anyone with the name of Liberty.'
'A dog's home, perhaps? Or how about Miss Costello? She strikes
me as being eminently deserving.'
In spite of himself, Jonah had looked up sharply at this. 'It's your
money, you can do with it what you will. If you think Miss Costello
would benefit from it, then give it to her.' Slipping his jacket on, he'd
added, 'I've said all I came to say, so now I'll go before either of us
says anything we'll regret. Goodnight.'
It wasn't until he was driving home that he knew he had omitted
to say one important thing: that above all else, he cared about his
father's welfare and happiness.
Downstairs in the kitchen, eating a piece of toast and scanning his
mail, Jonah thought of how his father could never resist fanning the
smouldering flames of a difficult conversation into a roaring
argument. His comment that Miss Costello was an eminently
deserving case had been a blatant attempt to keep their heated
exchange going. Even so, he couldn't help wondering how Caspar
would react if he thought there was a chance that the threat might be
carried out.
The thought stayed with him for the rest of that day. So when the
telephone rang later that afternoon and Caspar demanded to know
the outcome of his visit to Mermaid House, he couldn't stop himself
pursuing what could only be described as a wanton act of malicious
stirring.
It was petty and foolish, but none the less he relayed the goings-on
at Mermaid House to his brother, labouring the point that their
father seemed very taken with the attractive woman who had
appeared from nowhere to work for him.
To hear the taut shock in his brother's voice and visualise his
fuming face was worth every second of the ear-bashing to which he
was then subjected.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Caspar gave the matter no more than a minute's thought. He
cancelled his plans for that evening - the opening of a new restaurant
in Manchester - and phoned Damson. Not that he held out much
hope of speaking to her.
Poor deluded Damson, so fully immersed in mystical mumbo
jumbo that she was away with the fairies at the bottom of some
sacred garden, getting high on pungent candles and herbal tea-bags
while extolling the merits of Celestial Sex.
It vexed him that he couldn't remember the last sensible conversation
they had shared. She was constantly on about biorhythms and
her karma. It was like being with her in an Edward Lear poem at
times: the words came out fluently enough but he was damned if he
could understand a word she was saying. As far as he was concerned,
she was going from bad to worse. 'It's all New Age funk, Damson,'
he'd said, 'shallow and meaningless. Dare one ask how much you're
paying for the privilege of being brainwashed?'
'Darling Caspar, I know you only have my best interests at heart
but, please, the reward of finding one's centred self is beyond
measure. You should give it a try.'
Yes, he'd thought, when hell froze over. The idea that she could be
taken in by such a massive con appalled him, though part of him
admired the person who had set up the scam: as commercial ventures
went, it had the potential to be a lucrative money-spinner.
Still waiting for some idiot in Northumberland to get off his or her
backside and answer the phone, he crossed one leg over the other and
stared around him. Of all the things he had ever possessed, his loft
apartment was the one from which he derived the most pleasure. It
was a conversion of an old brewery warehouse in close proximity to
Manchester's gay village, and though a high percentage of his
neighbours were gay, they had good taste, were tidy, and seldom
gave him much trouble - so long as they kept their mattress-wrestling
behind closed doors, he had no complaints. The local restaurants and
wine bars weren't bad either, pandering to the strength of the local
currency, the vibrantly pink pound.
Since the day he moved in, he had felt at home: the stark
barrenness of the place appealed to his keen sense of the aesthetic.
Not for him the wild confusion with which he had been surrounded
while growing up at Mermaid House. He preferred everything
stripped back to the purity of line and form. And that was exactly
what he had achieved here: polished wooden floors, white-painted
brickwork, large sheets of plate glass, stainless steel and slabs of
granite gave him the austerity he craved. He had kept away from
colour too, never straying into the garish palette of vulgar tones for
which so many people opted. The only relief to this hard-edged
simplicity was a large cream leather sofa and a specially commissioned
circular bed on the mezzanine level.
But unless he could work a miracle in the next month or so, there
was a danger that he would lose it. His car too. In his line of business
he didn't need to own a car - a perk of the job was that he could
have the use of more or less whatever he fancied - but such a
transient arrangement didn't suit him. Outright ownership was what
counted, and selling his Maserati would be a last resort. And he'd be
damned before he did that. That was why his father had to see the
sense in selling Mermaid House and freeing up its considerable
capital. It was going to happen one day, no matter what. The old
man couldn't stay there much longer, not at his age, so why not get it
over and done with now and let his children have the benefit of the
money that would come to them anyway?
It was spite that was stopping him from selling. It had been the
same earlier that year when he had approached his father for a loan
to get the bank off his back. 'Enough is enough!' Gabriel had roared.
'Not another penny, Caspar. So long as I'm breathing, you'll not
scrounge another bean out of me.'
At last somebody in Northumberland answered the phone.
'Rosewood Manor Healing Centre,' announced a reedy voice, which
sounded as though it needed a boot taking to it.
'This is an emergency,' lied Caspar, sitting upright and uncrossing
his legs. 'I need to speak to Damson Liberty. Tell her it's her brother
and that it's imperative she comes to the phone.'

'Damson who?'
'Damson Liberty - I mean Damson Ackerman,' he repeated
impatiently. He never could keep up with the changes to her
surname. Peevishly he added, 'Just how many Damsons do you have
there?'
'Oh, you mean Damson. Hold the line and I'll see if she's
available.'
'You do that. Now trot along quick as you can and find her for
me. Meanwhile, I'll cope with the pain of your absence by slipping a
rope around my neck and pulling it tight.'
Drumming his fingers on the smooth leather arm of the sofa, he
listened to the woman's footsteps recede down what he imagined was
a dark, draughty passageway, and in the minutes that passed, he
went over what he was going to say to his sister. He had to attract
her attention in the first nanosecond of their conversation. Let
Damson run so much as an inch with the ball and he would never get
a coherent word out of her. She would be off on one of her surreal
planes of fantasy.
What he needed to get across to her was that they had to work
together on their father, persuade him to sell Mermaid House now,
while the property boom was still at its height. Leave it till next year
and they would lose out. Despite what Jonah thought, every pound
counted. For some annoyingly perverse reason, his brother seemed
intent on missing the crucial point that they must cash in on a
buoyant market. Just as he was woefully naive about the appearance
of this unknown woman at Mermaid House.
What the hell was their father up to? And just who was she? A
gold-digging opportunist who had caught the whiff of money?
He brought the flat of his hand down on the arm of the sofa with a
loud smack. As if he didn't have enough to worry about without his
father getting involved with a travelling New Age hippie! He could
picture her perfectly. An irresponsible single mother who was
shaven-haired, pierced all over, and who clomped around in boots
and khaki trousers that were three sizes too big for her. It was the
thought of her getting her unwashed feet under the table at Mermaid
House that was causing him to act without delay.
He wanted Damson to understand that unless they took immediate
action they might find themselves out in the cold with a scheming
new step-mother calling the shots. Gabriel Liberty wouldn't be the
first or last old man to make a fool of himself over a much younger
woman.
Footsteps in his ear told him Damson was about to pick up the
receiver. He felt himself relax and realised how tense he had become.
He knew that once he had his sister on board, it would be like old
times, and they would be invincible.
But he was wrong. They weren't Damson's footsteps he had heard.
They belonged to the woman with the reedy voice. 'Are you still
there?' she asked.
'More's the pity, yes. Where's Damson?'
'I'm afraid she can't come to the phone just now. I've been told to
tell you she's in the middle of a very important holistic--'
'But I need to speak to her!'
A timid silence seeped down the line, followed by the sound of a
loud gong. 'I'm terribly sorry,' the woman simpered, 'I'm going to
have to go. I should ring back later if I were you.'
'And if I were you, I'd have a full-frontal lobotomy!' He slammed
down the phone.
Now what?
He'd have to deal with the problem direct. Scooping up his keys
from the glass bowl on the table by the front door, he locked his
apartment, took the lift down to the garages on the ground floor and
slipped behind the wheel of his Maserati. He nosed the car into the
early evening traffic and tried to steady his temper by switching on
the CD player, at the same time focusing his thoughts on the
smoothness of the drive.
It worked.
By the time he had picked up the A6 and had driven through
Disley, he could feel the knots easing in his neck and shoulders. He
knew he shouldn't let things get the better of him, and knew, too,
that as long as Damson was under the thumb of those hippies up in
Northumberland, he could no longer rely on her. But old habits died
hard: he still saw her as his rock. As children she had always been the
more daring and cunning of the two of them. If ever he thought he
was losing his nerve, it was always Damson who reassured him that
nothing could go wrong.
But where was she now when he needed her support and
reassurance?
Hanging around with a bunch of navel-gazing screwballs who had
as much chance of finding their inner selves as he had of becoming
the next Queen of England.
The tension was building again in his shoulders, and he tried not
to think of how much he missed Damson. It was ages since he had
last seen her - Val's funeral probably.
He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and sped on towards
Mermaid House and the devious woman who had designs on his
father.
She might have met his younger brother and concluded that he was
as much of a threat to her plans as a wet paper bag but she hadn't
reckoned on coming face to face with Caspar Liberty.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The day had gone well for Archie. The shop had been busy from the
moment he had opened. A cold north-easterly wind had provided
him with a steady flow of day-trippers coming in for a browse and a
warm. There had also been a number of more serious customers, like
the well-dressed couple who wanted to furnish a cottage in
Castleton, which they were letting to the holiday trade. 'Naturally we
don't want to fill it with anything new and expensive,' the wife had
said, in a tight, haughty voice, 'not when cheap tat will do the job
perfectly well. And what a lot you seem to have. I suppose it's all
clean?'
Ignoring the implied slur, Archie smiled and got on with
offloading as much furniture and knick-knacks as he could and
arranging for its delivery on Monday morning.
Another couple had come in soon after them, a husband and wife
in matching fleeces, whom he recognised from their monthly trawl of
his shop. They were dealers from Buxton who made it their business
to check out the bottom end of the market for the antiques of
tomorrow. It always surprised him what they picked from his
shelves. Last month it had been an ugly chrome ashtray - one of
those silly things on a stand that always got knocked over. Today it
had been a Bakelite clock. He couldn't see the attraction in Bakelite; in fact, he hated it. It reminded him of when he had been in his
bedroom as a child, listening to his father shouting at his mother
downstairs. To keep himself awake, just in case his mother needed
his help, he would leave his bedside lamp switched on. But then it
would overheat and give off a horrible fishy smell.
Alone in the shop now, he was locking up. Samson had given
Bessie a lift home earlier so that she could take her time to get ready
for their big Saturday night out at the pictures. Just as he was
slipping the last of the chains and bolts across the door, the telephone
rang. Because Archie was thinking of his mother, he rushed through
to the office and snatched up the receiver, fearing the worst.
'Is that Mr Merryman at Second Best?' asked a woman - an
assured young woman.
'Yes, it is. What can I do for you?'
'You might not remember me, but my name is Clara Costello and
my son and I--'
'Of course I remember you. How are you? Still enjoying the
delights of Deaconsbridge?'
'Yes, but not quite in the way I thought I might. I know it's a bit
late in the day but I've got a proposition for you. Have you got a
moment?'
'I'm all ears.'
When he'd heard what she had to say, he laughed. 'Well, I think I
could manage that. I'll put it in the diary for Monday afternoon,
around three o'clock. That soon enough for you?'
'Yes, that'll be fine. Do you need directions?'
'No, thanks. I've a nose on me like a bloodhound.'
After he'd rung off, he reached for the diary to make a note of his
appointment with Clara Costello at Mermaid House. It was only
then that he remembered he'd be delivering an entire house's worth
of 'cheap tat' for Mr and Mrs Hoity-Toity over in Castleton that
morning. Oh, well, he and Samson would just have to make sure
they got through the job in double-quick time.
Feeling surprisingly chipper, he left the shop to walk home. He
crossed the square, waved at Shirley through the window of the
Mermaid cafe, then made his way slowly up the steep hill of Cross
Street. The early evening air was sharp and it sliced through his thin
jacket. He paused to catch his breath in the usual spot, leaning
against the rail. The coldness of the metal scorched his hand and he
wondered if they were in for a late snap of winter. Just because they
were on the verge of April, and had recently experienced a few
welcome days of spring weather, it didn't mean they were out of the
woods. He could recall many an April morning when he'd had to
scrape ice off the windscreen. Then he remembered he had left his car
at the shop. He had driven to work that morning because he had
taken his mother in with him on the pretext of needing her help
again. 'I'm knee-deep in stuff that needs cleaning,' he had told her the
night before. 'I don't suppose you'd come in for another day and give
me a hand with it, would you?'
By the time he had parked the Volvo outside his house, it was
almost seven. He'd have to get his skates on now or they'd miss the
opening minutes of the film. As he let himself into the house at the
back, he called to his mother. It was the moment in the day he
dreaded most, other than first thing in the morning when he knocked
on Bessie's bedroom door. He told himself repeatedly not to keep
imagining the worst, but the memory of finding Bessie on the floor of
her own home last year was difficult to shake off.
Hearing voices, and thinking she was in the sitting room watching
the television, he pushed open the door and found her rigged up in
one of her best dresses - collar and buttons askew - listening
attentively to an earnest young man who could be no more than
seventeen. He was reading from a copy of the Watch Tower and next
to him was an older woman pouring tea. All three looked up as he
came into the room.
'Hello,' he said, cheerfully enough, but inwardly annoyed. 'What's
going on here?'
'Archie,' his mother said, unaware of the tension that his presence
had caused, 'this is Rickie and his hummer.'
'I think she means mother,' the woman said, lowering the teapot.
'And I think she may have lost track of the time,' Archie said
firmly. 'We're due out shortly, so I think it would be better if we
brought this cosy chat to an end.' He was livid now. How dare these
people think they could take advantage of a defenceless woman and
indoctrinate her with their religious beliefs?
'Another time perhaps?' the woman said smoothly, rising to her
feet and pulling on her coat. She had probably been thrown out of
more homes than Archie had had hot dinners.
When he had hustled them to the front door, he realised how
uncharacteristically rude he was being. 'Look,' he said, 'I'm sorry, it's
just that you could have been anyone - robbers, murderers, you
name it. She's too sweet-natured for her own good. She thinks well of
everyone.'
'A fault with which more people should be blessed,' the woman
said, with a smile of such forgiveness that he felt twice as churlish.
Watching them close the wrought-iron gate behind them, Archie
noticed that the boy's trousers were too short for his long thin legs
and his conscience pricked again. He wished he could replay the
scene and deal with it better. It's not your religion or beliefs I have a
problem with, he wanted to call after then, it's the world we live in. A
dog-eat-dog world that takes advantage of innocent children and old
ladies.
Later, as he was driving to the cinema, he thought how heavy
handed he had been. He knew he had hurt his mother's feelings by
behaving like a boorish, arrogant bully, taking it upon himself to
censor her enjoyment, which was bad enough, but what pained him
more, was that he had reminded himself of his father.
Determined not to let this thought put a dampener on the evening,
and knowing that Bessie was still upset, he said, 'I'm sorry about
turfing Rickie and his mother out, but in this day and age you really
ought to be more careful who you let into the house.'
What she said next made him feel even worse. 'Lonely, Archie, on
my bone.'
Cut to the quick, he drove on in silence. Then he thought of
something that might cheer her up, and told her about the call he had
had from Clara Costello. 'She's only gone and got herself working
for that dreadful man I told you about at the hospital. You know, the
one who was so rude to Dr Singh. I hope he doesn't take advantage
of her.'

Chapter Twenty-Eight

'Mr Liberty, please don't think you can take advantage of me. I'm
really not that sort of a girl.'
Gabriel scowled. She was merciless in the way she kept twisting his words. But two could play at that game. 'Miss Costello, I may have
lost some of my social skills of late, and the use of plain English may
have changed since I last made anyone such an offer, but as far as I'm
aware I believe I only suggested I'd cook you supper. There's not the
slightest chance of me wanting to seduce you. As disappointing as
that might be to you.' Hah! Let's see you bat that one back!
They were standing in the dining room where she had been hard at
work all day. She was polishing a pair of silver candlesticks he hadn't
seen in a long while. He couldn't even remember where they had
come from. She stopped what she was doing, folded the yellow
duster in half, then in half again and turned away to place the
candlesticks on the stone mantel above the fireplace. Without
looking at him, or giving him an answer, she said, 'What are you
hiding behind your back?'
He cleared his throat and mentally conceded the point to her. She
was good, very good. But now they'd got to the tricky part. This was
when he had to apologise. 'Ahem . . . It's a peace-offering.'
She turned slowly and he held out a tightly wrapped bunch of red
tulips, their petals still closed. She didn't say anything. Feeling a
desperate compulsion to fill the awkward silence with words, he
heard himself rambling out of embarrassment: 'You rather rudely
asked me the other day when was the last time I had bought anyone
flowers-- well, I saw these when I was in Deaconsbridge this
afternoon and they reminded me of you.'
She made no move to take the tulips from him, but lowered her
gaze to them. He could see the curious doubt in her eyes. 'Reminded
you of me, eh?' she said. 'Care to explain?'
He cleared his throat again. 'I've always thought of tulips as an
efficient-looking flower. Upright and businesslike. They give the
impression of not wanting to waste their time frolicking about the
flower-beds. In short, they strike me as purposeful. Like . . . like you.'
Her gaze met his. It was softer than it had been. 'Hush now, Mr
Liberty, go easy on the schmooze or you'll have me blushing to the
tips of my ears. But you mentioned they were an apology. For what
exactly?'
'You wouldn't be trying to extract blood from a stone, would
you?'
'But of course. That goes without saying. So, come on, let's hear it.
And no mumbling. I like apologies to be loud and clear. Then I can
be sure they're genuine.'
Corralling what was left of his shaky resolve, he pulled at his nose,
scratched his chin, and tried to recall the exact words he had
prepared for this moment while driving back from town. He pictured
himself as a newsreader, lifting the words from an auto-cue, but
trying to add some meaning to them. 'I just want to say that I've been
left with a nasty taste in my mouth after that incident with your son.
I had no business prying into your affairs and I wanted you to know
just how sorry I am.' His mission completed, he clumsily thrust the
flowers at her and turned to flee.
He was nearly at the door when she said, 'That was really quite
good, Mr Liberty. Full marks for content but running off before
taking a final bow loses you valuable points when it comes to artistic
expression.'
He didn't risk looking at her, kept his face to the door. 'Please
don't make fun of me. Not when I'm--'

'Trying to be nice?' she finished for him. 'Now, why don't you
come back here and let me thank you properly? That's if you have
the nerve.'
It was a challenge he couldn't refuse. He'd never been short of
nerve. Who did she think she was to accuse him of such a thing? But
when he stood in front of her again and she raised herself on her toes
and softly kissed his cheek, he wondered if he hadn't met his match.
'We'll make a decent human being of you yet, Mr Liberty.' She
smiled.
Caught so thoroughly off guard, he couldn't stop himself from
lifting a hand to his cheek and touching, with his fingertips, the spot
where he could still feel the light pressure of where her lips had been.
Then he discovered he hadn't shaved that day. Had he even washed?
Burning with self-loathing, he edged away from her.
Still smiling at him, she said, 'I hope you're not going to withdraw
your offer of supper.'
With a supreme effort of will, and managing to sound his normal
self, he said, 'You should know well enough by now that I'm a man
of my word. But don't expect anything other than plain fare. I've got
some boil-in-the-bag cod in parsley sauce knocking about in the
freezer. Jonah keeps buying it for me and I keep forgetting to eat it. Is
that good enough for her ladyship and her son?'
'Quite good enough. Talking of Ned, where is he?'
Glad of the diversion, he led her out of the dining room and along
the hall. 'I took the liberty - no pun intended - of buying him a little
something while I was in Deaconsbridge.'
In the kitchen, Ned was kneeling on a chair, his head bent over the
table. When they came in he looked up. 'Mummy, Mr Liberty
bought me a scrapbook and some postcards. I've been drawing a
picture of his house. Do you like it?'
Out of the corner of his eye, Gabriel watched the boy's mother
anxiously. Had he overstepped the mark? Would she think he was
interfering? But he had only done it because the boy had told him
during their walk before lunch that she had forgotten to buy them for
him. 'We're going to keep a diary of our holiday,' Ned had said,
releasing himself from Gabriel's grasp and running on ahead like a
giddy spring lamb.
'Don't go too far without me,' he had called after the lad, his voice
catching on the wind. 'Your mother said you had to stay close to me.
And if I have to go home and tell her I've lost you, she'll have my
guts for garters.'
The boy had slowed down until Gabriel caught up with him.
'What are guts and garters?' he had asked.
Prodding at his small belly, he said, 'Guts are inside there, your
squelchy innards. And garters are elastic bands that people used to
wear years ago to hold up their socks.'
Considering this, the boy had unzipped his anorak and felt his
stomach through his clothes. 'But how would Mummy get your guts
out?'
'Depending how angry she was, and bearing in mind I'd just told
her I'd lost you, she might take a large knife to me and cut my
stomach open.' He drew a line from his own chest down to his
trouser belt. 'Then she'd take a stick and coil my innards around it.'
'And then?'
'Well, she might hang them up on the washing-line and let them
dry before cutting them into the required lengths for the garters.'
'Would she sew you up afterwards?'
'Probably with the biggest, rustiest and bluntest needle she could
lay her hands on.'
They continued their walk, the child's small warm hand now
locked in his. Gabriel was taking Ned to the copse where he hoped to
show him a badger's sett. As they took the downward slope of the
field, their muddy shoes skidding on the wet grass, and a nippy wind
hustling them from behind, Ned said, 'I don't believe you, Mr
Liberty.'
'Hmm . . . what don't you believe?'
'About Mummy and your squelchy bits.'
'You think I'd tell you lies?'
'You were joking, weren't you? Are you frightened of my
mummy?'
'Good Lord! Frightened of a slip of girl like your mother? Now it's
you who's joking.'
But standing in the kitchen, as Gabriel awaited her verdict on his
purchases, which had now been added to the bonanza of coloured
pencils and glue that covered the table, he had to admit that part of
him was scared of her - of stepping on her toes and offending her.
He watched her move in beside the lad. She stroked the top of his
head absently and studied his drawing. 'Ned, it's brilliant. How
clever of you to draw the tower so well.' She placed the tulips on the
table and bent down to his level for a closer inspection. 'But, my
goodness, who is that handsome man?'
The boy beamed. 'Mr Liberty.'
Curious, Gabriel drew near to see how he had been depicted.
Expecting to see a scowling old man with wild hair, he saw instead
an enormous matchstick man who dwarfed the tower of his house which
bore an uncanny resemblance to the leaning one in Pisa. His
massive head was wearing a ridiculously large pair of ears, and
stretched between them was a crescent-shaped smile. 'You've
forgotten my nose,' he said.
The boy reached for a coloured pencil and gave the matchstick
man a pastel pink swirl that obliterated one of his eyes.
'Perfect,' his mother praised him. 'And thank you, Mr Liberty.
You couldn't have given Ned a better present. It was very kind and
thoughtful of you.'
Twirling the pencil in his hand, then trying to balance it on his top
lip, the boy said, 'Mr Liberty said he'd help me with some of the
writing tomorrow.'
'But only if you're good,' Gabriel said, moving away from the
table and crossing the kitchen to the freezer compartment above the
fridge. When he had finished rummaging through the bags of frozen
peas and sweetcorn, and had found the stockpiled cod in parsley
sauce, he realised that Miss Costello was standing behind him.
'What's that smirk on your face for?' he asked.
'You wouldn't be going soft on me, would you?'
'Of course not. I'm feathering my own bed. By keeping the boy out
of mischief I'm ensuring that you get more work done. I don't want
you having an excuse for slacking.'
'And while I'm not slacking, I'll defrost that for you tomorrow . . .
and in case you're wondering, I'm referring to the freezer, not your
frosty exterior.'

To round things off, Clara decided that they would eat their supper
in the room she had spent all day cleaning. It had proved a lot less
trouble to sort out than the kitchen. The dining room had been left to
its own devices and it was more a matter of treating neglect to a large
dose of tender loving care.
She had started by throwing open the windows and letting in some
much-needed fresh air, then vacuuming the parquet floor, the rugs
and the curtains. Using a full-height ladder she had found in an
outhouse, and putting the vacuum cleaner on to its lowest setting, so
as not to shred the brittle fabric damaged by years of exposure to
sunlight, she had carefully removed the thick blankets of dust. Balls
of fluff the size of walnuts were rounded up from under the
mahogany table, chair legs and the corners of the room, and thick
legged spiders found themselves given short shrift and an abrupt
change of address.
Next she had dusted the faded wood panelling that went from
floor to ceiling, and the framed antique maps of Derbyshire that
hung on it. Then she cleared out the contents of the sideboard and
the matching pair of glass-fronted cabinets that stood at either side of
the fireplace. She immediately wished she hadn't. There was so much
of it. Quite apart from the hundreds of crystal wine glasses, brandy
balloons and whisky tumblers, all of which needed careful washing,
there was a mind-blowing quantity of elegant but tarnished silverware:
teapots, coffee-pots, cream jugs, coasters, sugar tongs, snuff
boxes, candlesticks, candle snuffers and tea strainers. And every item
had a brother or sister. It occurred to Clara, as she spread out the
sheets of newspaper and set to with the silver polish, that everything
in the house, except its owner, was multiplied by a factor of at least
three. It had been the same in the kitchen yesterday: if she found one
Kenwood mixer, she unearthed a whole family of them. It made her
wonder who had collected a hoard. Surely not Mr Liberty. His wives
probably. Perhaps out of pure devilment he had considered leaving
the mess for his children to deal with when he departed, just to teach
them one last lesson.
Now, as Clara set the table for supper, with cutlery, mats, glasses,
her lovely red tulips and a candelabrum at one end, she thought of
the youngest member of the Liberty family she had met last night. He
had seemed pleasant enough, which paradoxically had made her
dislike him on principle. His slightly hesitant manner had irritated
her, had made her want to say, 'How dare you live on the doorstep
and do so little to help? Anyone can fetch the weekly shop. How
about scrubbing the floor or cleaning the toilet?'

Mr Liberty seemed greatly amused by the splendour of the setting for
their simple boil-in-the-bag supper. He had wanted to eat in the
kitchen, but Clara had insisted on showing off her efforts, barring
anyone entry until she had everything just right.
'Ta-daa!' she chorused, when at last she allowed him and Ned to
come in.
She watched his face as he stood for a moment, taking in the scene,
a large tray of steaming food in his hands. Even to her critical eyes
the room looked and smelt magnificent. Darkness was pressing in
from outside, so she had drawn the heavy brocade curtains and lit
the room with candles, their flickering flames bouncing soft light off
the furniture and panelled walls. There was a warm, burnished look
of opulence to the room and copious amounts of fresh air and lavender polish had seen off the musty, depressing smell of neglect.
Ned's eyes were wide and luminous. 'It's like Christmas,' he said.
'Only bigger.'
Mr Liberty set down the tray on the table and made a low bow.
'Another day, another miracle for you, Miss Costello. I applaud you
once again. A small point, though. Where did all the candles come
from? I had no idea I had so many.'
'I found them on a shelf in the laundry room. Some of them are so
old they're probably medieval church relics.'
'Well, just so long as we don't go up in flames. Will we be warm
enough in here, do you think?' He cast his eyes over to the empty
grate in the fireplace, where she had placed a pottery jug of daffodils
picked from the garden.
'I wanted to light a fire but thought I wouldn't risk it. As well as
antique candles you're probably the proud owner of a ton of antique
soot. I'll get hold of a chimney sweep. But for now, I'm starving.'
Despite the blandness of the meal, it was their most convivial so
far - the second bottle of Chablis they were roaring through might
have had something to do with that. Ned, who was sitting on two
cushions and a telephone directory to get him up to the right height,
and who was surprisingly perky for one whose bedtime should have
been more than an hour ago, was telling her Mr Liberty's gory tale of
guts and garters when Clara heard a sound and interrupted. 'What
was that?' She cocked her head towards the door.
'What was what?' asked Mr Liberty.
She allowed him to top up her glass. 'I must be spending too much
time with you, I'm going mad and hearing things.'
He crashed his glass against hers. 'Here's to you. May you always
speak your mind!'
'Just you try and stop me.'
'I suspect I'd need a Panzer tank to stop you doing something
you'd put your mind to.'
They were both mid-laugh when Clara noticed the door open
slowly at the far end of the room. She froze. Mr Liberty turned to see
what she was looking at. A smartly dressed man had come in. Clara
would have recognised him anywhere. It was the long-faced rude
man from the supermarket with the trolley of bargain-priced
champagne.
'Hello, Father,' he said, in a pompously creepy voice. 'Do hope I'm
not interrupting anything.'

Chapter Twenty-Nine

'As a matter of fact you are interrupting. What is this? Suddenly
everyone's treating my home as if it was Liberty Hall.'
Caspar forced a smile. 'Never underestimate those old jokes, Dad.'
He stepped further into the candlelit room, his leather-soled shoes
sounding loud in the sudden hush. 'Liberty Hall indeed.' His words
were directed at his father, but he was more interested in Gabriel's
dining companions, in particular the woman: the scheming Miss
Costello. Though she was scruffily dressed in khaki trousers (he'd got
that right!) and a loose-fitting T-shirt stained with something he
didn't care to think about too deeply, and had the kind of childish,
unattractive haircut he never approved of on a grown woman, she
didn't match up to the pierced, tattooed, New Age scrounger he'd
pictured.
But appearances could be deceiving.
It was odd, though: the more he looked at her and the child, the
more he felt he had come across them before. But where?
He could see that she was appraising him, and that his presence
was not to her liking. Which confirmed his hunch: she was working a
number on the old man but now knew that she had been confronted
with a spanner in the works. Well, get ready, little lady, you're going
to be out of here before you get your feet any further under the table.
'Caspar, are you going to stand there all night gawping at us?' his
father barked. 'Or are you going to share with us what's brought you
here? Or perhaps you were just passing through and thought you'd
check up on your dear old pater. Make sure he hadn't snuffed it in
his bed.'
'Passing through' was exactly the cover Caspar had decided to use
and he slipped seamlessly into his prepared speech, pulling out a
chair beside his father and imposing himself on the cosy scene of
candles, flowers and best silver. 'As it happens I am just passing
through,' he said. 'I've been to see baby bro Jonah. I had no idea how
concerned he is about you.'
Gabriel snorted. 'Hah! That'll be the day, when any of you worry
about me.'
Caspar laughed expansively. 'Come on, Dad, there's no need to
take that line. You know jolly well that we all care about you. But
where are your manners? Aren't you going to introduce me to your
dinner guests?' He leaned across the table, hand outstretched.
'Caspar Liberty, your humble servant and eldest custodian of my
father's welfare. And you are?'
He had intended his words as a warning shot, but when his hand
was ignored and Gabriel said, 'Is there any need to introduce you?'
he felt the full force of one of his father's warning shots.
'Sorry, Dad, you've lost me. You know I'm no good at cryptic
clues. That's much more your scene, what with all the crosswords
you do. Any chance of a glass of that wine?'
'Cut it out, Caspar. I know exactly why you're here. And it won't
do.' Gabriel slapped one of his knobbly hands on the table. The
cutlery rattled and the small boy with staring dark eyes jumped and
leaned in towards his mother.
'Steady on, Dad, you're frightening your guests. An unforgivable
breach of etiquette in anyone's book. In some quarters poisoning
one's guests is an acceptable mishap, but to scare them to death--'
'Caspar, while I'm familiar with the fact that you listen to nothing
but the echo of your own voice, my guests are not so well informed,
so will you do them a great kindness and shut up?'
'I think it's time we were going, Mr Liberty.'
The scheming minx was on her feet now and staring pointedly at
him. But as she manhandled the child out of his seat and hooked his
short legs around her waist, Caspar saw how small she was. Not the
glowering Amazon she had appeared while seated. Quite insignificant,
really.
'There's no need for you to leave, Miss Costello,' his father said.
'In fact, I would rather you stayed.' The voice was imperious, as
Caspar remembered it from his childhood - 'You'll stay right where
you are, young man. You'll leave this room on my say-so, and not
before.'
'No can do, Mr Liberty. Ned's tired and I need to get him to bed.
Same time tomorrow morning?'

( -i

i :»
'As you wish, Miss Costello. Goodnight.'
What was all this? 'As you wish, Miss Costello' and 'No can do,
Mr Liberty'} What kind of game did they think they were playing?
The door closed silently behind her, signalling that Caspar could
get down to business. He pushed back his chair and turned to face
his father. But Gabriel was ahead of him and gained the advantage
by creaking to his feet. 'I hope you're satisfied, Caspar,' he glowered
down at him, 'because for the first time in a long while I was enjoying
myself, but as usual, you had to spoil everything. Nothing changes
with you, does it?'
Caspar's jaw dropped. Good God, it was worse than he'd thought.
The old fool had got it bad. He didn't know whether to laugh or
jump out of his seat in horror. He played it cool, preferring to extract
as much embarrassing detail from his father as possible. 'I'm not sure
what you're getting at, Dad. What exactly did I interrupt here this
evening?' He cast his eyes meaningfully over the remnants of the
candlelit dinner.
Standing by the fireplace, one clenched fist jammed into his side,
the other on the mantel his father stared at him. Then his withered
features acquired a firmness that was both vital and tenaciously
implacable. Inexplicably, he began to laugh. A nasty sneering laugh
that started as a low rumble until it grew into a full-blown body
shaker before climaxing in a fit of wheezy coughing. Sweet Moses!
Any more attacks like that and the man would kill himself! Caspar
stood up. 'You all right, Dad?'
Gasping for breath, Gabriel swiped Caspar out of the way as if he
were a fly. He moved back to the table and took a swig from his wine
glass, then another. Just as he was confident that he had his breathing
under control, he almost started to laugh again. The situation was
hilarious.
Bloody hilarious!
Caspar, poor stupid, greedy Caspar, thought his father had finally
lost his marbles and fallen for the charms of a pretty girl! Ha, ha ha!
Well, let the arrogant buffoon think what he wanted.
'Are you going to tell me what you were laughing at, Dad?'
Using all his guile, Gabriel kept his face poker straight and joined
Caspar by the fireplace. He put a fatherly arm around his son's
shoulder. 'Caspar, I know this may come as a shock to you. To be
honest, it's been a seismic shock to me. The thing is, I'm fairly well
smitten with the lovely Miss Costello. But you must have grasped
that. You've seen what a beautiful woman she is. She's stunning, isn't
she? Intelligent. Poised. And utterly charming. Quite a catch for an
old thing like me.'
To his delight he felt his son stiffen and it was all he could do to
stop himself grinning. He sighed the sigh of a man hopelessly in love
and continued to turn the screw. 'And for some reason that is quite
beyond my comprehension, she seems besotted with me. So, what
I'm trying to say is, and I know she's much too young for an old
duffer like me, but how do you feel about a new step-mother? Your
approval matters to me, you know.'

Chapter Thirty



There was little to be gained from telling Caspar to calm down Jonah
had tried that already only to provoke a louder and more
incoherent outburst - so he poured his brother a glass of wine.
Caspar took the glass and tossed back half of its contents in one
gulp. To Jonah's relief, it brought him to a standstill, and he
repeated, more calmly, what he had said on his arrival at Church
Cottage. 'This proves beyond all doubt, that the old man is definitely
losing it.'
'You still haven't said--'
But Caspar was off again. 'I warned you something like this could
happen. But would you listen to me? Oh, no, you had to carry on as
you always do with your head buried in the sand. Maybe now you'll
take more notice of what I say.'
'I might listen if you started talking sense,' Jonah replied, keeping
his voice level. 'What's happened to cause such a rush of blood to
your normally temperate head?'
'Oh, please, save the witty sarcasm for your brain-dead pupils.
Haven't you heard a word I've said?'
'Every syllable, but I still haven't a clue as to what you're raving on
about.'
Caspar's face hardened. 'Look, Jonah, our father is on the verge of
marrying for the third time. Do you have any idea where that will
leave us? Out in the cold, that's where.'
'Who is he thinking of marrying?'
'The gold-digging Miss Mop.'
'But that can't be right.' Jonah was stunned.

Caspar regarded him pityingly. 'Of course it's not! But I'm pleased
to see that I'm finally getting through to you. We've got to put a stop
to this nonsense . . . Any more of this lighter fuel going?'
Jonah poured the remains of the bottle into Caspar's empty glass.
Reaching for the corkscrew, he opened a second, wondering if the
joke he had played on his brother had been trumped by a bigger one
from their father. He simply could not equate the assured woman he had met yesterday with one who would be interested in marrying a
man like Gabriel Liberty. Or was it possible that Caspar was right,
that the efficient Miss Costello was nothing but a scheming gold
digger? He recalled how jealous he had felt in the kitchen at
Mermaid House that she had an empathy with Gabriel that few
other people had ever had, least of all the members of his family.
But despite this, he couldn't go along with Caspar's theory. There
had been nothing in her manner to suggest that she was up to
anything so devious as fooling an elderly man into marrying her for
financial gain. But then why was she at Mermaid House?
He leaned against the Rayburn. 'Right, Caspar, tell me exactly
what Dad said to you. Try to remember his exact words. Don't
exaggerate.'
Caspar rolled his eyes. 'Stop treating me like a fool, Jonah. I may
have flunked university, which Dad has never let me forget, but
credit me with sufficient intelligence to read the signs. And it was you
who alerted me to what was going on in the first place. If you hadn't
told me on the phone last night--'
'Just tell me what he said.'
'My, how snappy you are these days. He asked me how I felt about
having a new step-mother. And I think that even you can grasp the
significance of that. He also said that he was smitten by the lovely
Miss Costello and that she was equally besotted with him. And he
put his arm round my shoulders.' He shuddered and took a long sip
of his wine. 'I can't remember the last time he touched me.'
'Did he say anything else?'
'Plenty, most of which makes me cringe to think of it. Once he got
started it was impossible to shut him up. He even asked me for my
advice as to where they should honeymoon, and if I thought it might
be worth his while to see the quack about some Viagra! He's
certifiable if you ask me.' He put down his glass, tugged at the white
cuffs of his shirt that poked out from his jacket sleeves, then
straightened his cufflinks. 'Do you suppose that's a line we could
pursue? Put a stop to the marriage by proving he's not in his right
senses?'
Having listened to Caspar, Jonah was doubly suspicious that his
brother had been duped. Never in a million years could he see their
father seeking advice about Viagra. That put the tin lid on it as far as
Jonah was concerned. The more he thought about it the more
convinced he was that, just as their father had enjoyed pulling a fast
one on Dr Singh with Miss Costello's help, so he had with Caspar.
But why couldn't Caspar see that? 'Did the object of Dad's affections
have anything to say on the matter?'
'No. This all happened after she'd left us alone. They were in the
middle of a romantic candlelit dinner when I arrived.'
'And her son?'
'Oh, he was there too.'
'So, a romantic dinner a trois, then?'
Caspar looked at him hard. 'She could hardly have left him sitting
on the doorstep with a bottle of pop and a bag of crisps.'
Side-stepping, Jonah said, 'I think our best policy is to stay quiet
and see how things progress.'
'Oh, that's bloody typical of you, isn't it? Some tart is planning a
move on our inheritance and you want to pretend nothing's going
on. Don't you care that if Miss Costello becomes the third Mrs
Liberty, we can kiss goodbye to Mermaid House?'
'You speak as though you have a right to it,' Jonah said.
Caspar's expression grew tight, and his nostrils flared just like their
father's. 'That's because I do. A share of Mermaid House is my
birthright. I hardly need point out to you that it's what our mother would have wanted for each of us.'
There was absolutely nothing Jonah could say to this last,
dangerously weighted comment, so he kept quiet and waited for his
brother to leave.

The next morning Jonah's curiosity had got the better of him, and
after calling in at Kwik-Fit to have a new exhaust pipe fitted, he
drove out on to Hollow Edge Moor.
Thick banks of clouds were being dragged across the sky and a
blustery wind buffeted the car; rain was imminent. Only a few hardy
walkers dressed in full-length cagoules with knapsacks were braving
the elements up on the ridge, their distant figures leaning into the
wind. Black-legged lambs sheltered with their mothers in the lee of a
drystone wall, and the recent warm spring weather was now a
distant memory. But the dismal nature of the day didn't bother
Jonah: he found it invigorating.
As the brooding outline of Mermaid House came into view he felt
a stab of doubt. What did he hope to achieve by seeing his father
again? 'Two visits in one week, Jonah?' Gabriel would sneer.
'Suddenly I'm the most popular man in the Peak District.'
He supposed that, deep down, he hoped he was right that his
father had played a prank on Caspar and might want to let him in on
it.
'Sibling rivalry makes fools of us all,' he muttered, as he drove
through the archway and parked alongside Miss Costello's camper
van, noting the appearance of a large yellow skip.
He switched off the engine and felt nothing but contempt for
himself. Why hadn't he just told Caspar last night that he thought
their father was having a laugh at his expense?
Because they were all so used to fighting one another.
Out of his car, he looked across the courtyard to see the energetic
figure of Miss Costello hurling a cardboard box into the skip. Only
the other day he had wished he had the courage to clear the decks for
his father and now an outsider was doing precisely that. The thought
irritated him. He strolled over, uncomfortably aware that he was
trying too hard to put on a casual air.

Seeing him, but not stopping what she was doing, she said, 'You've
got your exhaust fixed then?'
'And Dad's got you hard at work even on a Sunday.'
She tipped another box into the skip and a gust of wind caught
some sheets of newspaper. She pushed them down hard. Wiping her
hands on the back of her close-fitting jeans, she said, 'Understand
this, Master Liberty, it's me who sets the agenda. I decide the hours I
work.'
'I don't doubt that for a minute. Here, let me help you.' He
expected her to refuse his offer, but she didn't and between them they
added a smelly rolled-up rug to the pile of rubbish. 'Caspar will be
furious if he thinks you're chucking away the family heirlooms.' His
tone was light, but she didn't say anything, merely reached for a
black plastic sack and threw it on top of the rug. 'I believe you had
the pleasure of meeting him last night,' he added.
'I'd had that pleasure already.'
'Really?'
'In the supermarket, in Deaconsbridge. I decided then and there
that he was the rudest, most self-centred, arrogant man I'd ever set
eyes on.'
Jonah tried not to smile. 'And did last night alter your opinion?'
She didn't answer him. Instead she said, 'If you're looking for your
father, he's in the library.'
He was clearly being dismissed and, baffled, he wondered what he
had done to deserve such frostiness. 'Miss Costello, you don't like me
very much, do you?'
She paused, lifted her chin and looked him dead in the eye, her
small face stern. 'Does that bother you?'
He took from her a dusty dried flower arrangement, which Val
had put together a long time ago, and placed it carefully in the skip.
He was used to brutal honesty from his family, but not from
someone he hardly knew. He decided to fight back, force her to drop
the annoying deadpan manner he was sure she had adopted for his
benefit. 'If you're going to be my step-mother,' he said mildly, 'don't
you think we ought to make more of an effort to get along?' He
watched her closely for her response.
'Well, what, can I say?' she said, her manner giving nothing away.
'I suppose you're right. How do you suggest we go about it, young
Master Liberty?'
'First you can stop calling me Master Liberty. My name's Jonah.
And second, you can be honest with me.'
'Oh, I don't know whether that's a good idea. Families are rarely
honest with each other, are they? There's always something we like
to keep from each other. By the way, who spilled the beans about
your father and me getting hitched?'
'Dad told Caspar last night.'
The conversation wasn't going at all how Jonah had thought it
would. Who was bluffing who? But he was determined to get a
straight answer to a straight question. 'Miss Costello, please, will you
level with me?'
She held up a hand. 'Don't be so formal. Call me Mother. Or
would you prefer Mum?'
'Please,' he tried again, 'a straight answer for a straight question.
Are you indulging my father by playing along with another of his
self-satisfying games?'
'As I always tell Ned, you must believe what you want to believe.'
'In that case, I don't believe a word of what my father has told
Caspar. Or that you're a gold-digger on the make as my brother
thinks you are.'
She stuck out her chest and placed her hands on her hips
provocatively. 'Is that because you don't fancy me in the role of stepmother?'
He knew she was teasing him, but her playful tone and the sight of
her breasts showing through her thin T-shirt were an unexpected
turn-on. 'I'm afraid that imagining you as my step-mother would
take too much suspension of disbelief.' He lowered his gaze. He had
no choice but to accept that he wouldn't get any further with her. Exasperated, he said, 'Where did you say my father was?'
'He's in the library with Ned.'

As Clara watched Jonah go inside, she almost felt sorry for him.
What in the world was the incorrigible man up to now? He might
have had the decency to warn her that not only was she his stand-in
daughter but also his fiancee. How would they explain that to Dr
Singh?

Chapter Thirty-One


On his way through the house to the library, Jonah noted the
changes and improvements Miss Costello had single-handedly
brought about. Whatever his feelings towards her - and he wasn't
entirely sure what they were - he couldn't fail to be impressed by the
effect she had had on Mermaid House. There was a lightness about it
that he hadn't felt in years. No, more than that: it was as though,
with each room she had touched, the house was being coaxed out of
mourning, something which had been going on for as long as he
could remember. He poked his head round the dining-room door,
which was ajar. He saw and smelt yet more telltale signs of Miss
Costello's refreshing handiwork - polished wood, flowers in the
grate and on the table, sparkling glass and silverware on the shelves
( »'	of the gleaming glass-fronted cabinets. The transformation was
incredible.
Hearing a squeal of high-pitched laughter, he carried on towards
the library, calling to his father so that he couldn't be accused of
turning up unannounced. He pushed open the door and braced
himself for another in a long line of difficult encounters. But he had
miscalculated his father's mood.
'Jonah? Well, I can't say I'm surprised to see you, not when I'm
suddenly flavour of the week, but your timing is perfect. Pull up a
chair and help me. This cheeky whippersnapper has me on the run.'
The room hadn't yet received the Miss C treatment, and after
shifting a dusty pile of National Geographies from a chair to the
floor, Jonah joined them in the bay window where a game of
draughts was in progress. The 'cheeky whippersnapper' smiled
exuberantly at him. 'I've just taken another of Mr Liberty's pieces,'
he said proudly. He waved the grubby ivory disc in front of Jonah.
'And look at all these other pieces I've got.'
'Enough of the boasting, young man. Now; ssh! I need peace and
quiet while I think out my next move. What do you advise, Jonah?'
Jonah observed the board, the same board on which he had
learned to play both chess and draughts - games his father had
always played ruthlessly to win, no matter the age or ability of his
opponent. On several occasions Val had told him to give Jonah a
fighting chance. 'He's only a child. How will he ever improve if you
don't encourage him?' Looking at the board now and its scene of
one-sided carnage, Jonah could only conclude that either Ned was a
child genius, or Val's advice had finally been heeded: Gabriel was
down to just a few pieces. 'Strikes me that you're in real trouble,
Dad,' he said. 'Any move open to you looks risky to me.'
'And since when have I ever been afraid of taking a risk?' Licking
his mottled lips, Gabriel nudged one of his few remaining pieces
forward. 'There now, you little rascal, pick the bones out of that!'
Lost in the depths of the leather chair opposite, and resting his chin
on a knee drawn up close to his chest, the boy stared hard at the
board, his bright eyes flicking from left to right. The only sound in
the room was Gabriel's wheezing - was it louder than it had been? and
the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Jonah willed
Ned to see for himself that with one simple move he could win. A
small hand hovered over the left of the board. Jonah felt disappointed;
Ned had missed the obvious. He cleared his throat to attract
Ned's attention and looked meaningfully at the other side of the
board. A moment passed before Ned took the hint, but then his hand
moved towards one of his kings, and with a burst of gleeful
realisation he claimed the last of Gabriel's pieces. He was gracious in
his victory. He sat back in his chair and smiled. 'Mr Liberty, I think
you've lost.'
Gabriel stared at the board and slowly smiled. 'Clearly I've been
too good a teacher. Well done, young man.' He brought his hands
together and gave him a short round of applause. Jonah noticed that
each clap made his father wince.
Leaning forward in his chair and repositioning his triumphant
army, Ned said, 'Can we play again?'
Gabriel groaned. 'Not now. Maybe after lunch. My poor old brain
needs a rest. You run along and tell your mother what a smart lad
you are while I have a chat with my son; I doubt I'll need my brain
for that.'
Alone, and expecting his father's mood to change, Jonah started
setting out the board ready for another game. He said, 'Do you
remember teaching me to play?'
Gabriel pushed himself to his feet, setting off a crackle of dry
joints. 'Like it was yesterday. And talking of yesterday, I imagine
that's why you're here, isn't it? Come to get the news straight from
the horse's mouth about my approaching marriage, I presume.'
The last of the draughtsmen lined up, Jonah said, 'Why are you
doing this, Dad?'
'What? Marrying the delectable Miss Costello? Wouldn't you if
you had the opportunity?'
Jonah had let one conversation slip out of his grasp and had no
intention of this one going the same way. 'We're not talking about
me, Dad,' he said firmly. 'We're discussing why you're pretending to
Caspar that you're marrying the delectable Miss Costello, as you
describe her.'
'Who said anything about pretending?'
'I did. It's another of your games, isn't it?'
'I'll say this for you, Jonah, you're verging on the astute.'
'So why taunt Caspar?'
'Because it was fun! You should have seen the feckless little runt. I
thought he was going to pass out on me with shock. I haven't
enjoyed myself so much in years.'
'But is it right to do so at somebody else's expense?'
Gabriel waved aside the implied criticism. 'What do I care for
Caspar's finer feelings? When did he or Damson ever care about
mine, eh?'
'Am I not to be included in that condemnation?'
'Carry on with this interrogation and you might well find yourself
top of the list!' His father turned abruptly and looked out of the
window. 'Damn! It's started raining. I was hoping to take young Ned
for a walk later on. Do you want to stay for lunch? Or have you
something better to do?'
Jonah stood next to his father and stared through the dirty glass at
the heavy downpour that was flattening the daffodils on the sloping
lawn. He couldn't remember the last time his father had made an
invitation so spontaneously. He didn't know how or why, but it felt
as though a small bridge had just been crossed. Prepared to take
whatever was on offer, he said, 'Lunch would be great. Thanks. Do
you want me to see to it while you prepare yourself for another
whipping at the hands of your protege?'
Upstairs, in what had been Val Liberty's bedroom, Clara was sorting
through the dead woman's belongings. She had wondered who had
been responsible for the clutter in the house, and now felt sure she
had found the culprit: the second Mrs Liberty had been an inveterate
hoarder.
Judging from the drawers, cupboards, bedside cabinets and
wardrobes, she had never thrown anything away. She had kept all
sort of curious things: train tickets to Sheffield and Manchester,
dental appointment cards, hairdresser's receipts, shopping lists, bent
hairpins, ancient suspender belts, empty scent bottles, hairbrushes,
crumbling bath cubes, packs of safety-pins and half-used tubes of
hand-cream. There was a collection of hot-water bottles, so old and
perished they had become glued together into the kind of rubbery
collage the Tate Modern might exhibit. There were several boxes of
Carmen heated rollers as well as one of those inflatable hood devices
for drying your hair.
Mr Liberty had given her carte blanche to get rid of everything.
'None of it's of any use to me, so you might just as well ditch the lot,'
he had said. This was after she had arrived for work first thing that
morning and told him she wanted a change from scrubbing and
polishing.
'Aha! Trying to get out of the heavy-duty work so you can take it
easy with the light stuff, are you?'
'Keep the words of love and kindness for your family, Mr Liberty.
Did you enjoy your late-night cigar-and-brandy session with your
son?'

He had cracked the air with a bellow of laughter. 'Immensely. I'll
tell you about it later when I bring you your elevenses. Ned, m'boy,
you stay with me. Today's the day you learn to play draughts.'
Folding yet another thick woollen skirt and adding it to the bag of
clothes she had already sorted - there were two piles, one destined
for a charity shop and the other for the skip - Clara thought how
funny it was that the three of them had slipped into such an unlikely
but easy-going routine. Ned was perfectly at home with Mr Liberty,
whom he probably regarded as a temporary grandfather. Which was
fine by her, because, as far as she could see, they were all getting
something out of the week. Mr Liberty was getting spring-cleaned,
Ned was being entertained and taught to play draughts, and she was
getting paid enough to convince herself that she hadn't been mad in
taking on such an extraordinary assignment.

Last night, after reading Ned a bedtime story, she had written her
first postcard home to Louise and the gang.

I can't believe it's only a week since Ned and I set off in Winnie.
It feels like we've been away for ever. Having the most
unbelievable time. Not quite what I'd had in mind, but lots of
fun all the same. We're doing missionary work (I'll explain later),
staying with a crazy man in the Peak District - so far north for
you, Louise, you'd need a pocket phrase book! Ned is having the
time of his life. He's four going on fourteen now. More news in
the next card. Love to everyone, Clara.
P.S. Missing work? Get real!

She had deliberately omitted to mention that she had turned
herself into a cleaner for a week, because she knew that Louise would
despatch David to fetch her home.
With the rails of the first wardrobe empty now, she stood on a
chair to clear out the stuff from the top shelf. She found a battered
hatbox hidden beneath a pink candlewick bedspread. It was quite
heavy, so she took off the lid and found that it contained a bundle of
large notebooks.
She climbed down, sat on the bed, and pulled at the frayed satin
ribbon that held them together. Picking one at random, she opened
it, expecting to find nothing more interesting than a rambling
extension of the cluttered woman she had so far glimpsed - a variety
of recipes for prize-winning chutney, perhaps.
But she saw straight away that what she had in her hands was a
diary.
She knew she shouldn't but she couldn't stop herself reading the
erratic writing that covered the lined pages.

Sunday, 16 September
There are times when I hate this dreadful house! I know that
sounds overly dramatic, but there it is, that's how I feel today.
I warned Gabriel something like this would happen, that
Caspar wasn't above such an appalling act of treachery. But, as
usual, the stubborn old fool refused to do anything about it.
'They're grown men, they should be able to deal with this
themselves,' he said, when I told him this evening what had been
going on. 'No man is ever fully grown,' I said, but he just gave
me one of his baleful looks and went off to his wretched library.
The trouble started the moment Caspar and that dim girlfriend
of his (whose name escapes me, I doubt we'll ever see her again,
so it doesn't really matter) arrived to celebrate Jonah and Emily's
engagement. During dinner I could see what Caspar was up to
(I've seen him do it countless times before, so I could recognise
the signs) and knew that no good would come of the weekend,
and that it was my fault - it was me who had insisted on
everyone being present. As soon as that silly girl Emily started
giggling, I knew she had been taken in. Poor Jonah, he just sat
there quietly seething, his head down, his mood darkening by the
second. 'Do something!' I wanted to shout at him, but he didn't.
He just let his brother walk all over him as he always has. He's
frightened of him, I know. Frightened of Damson too. And
Damson could see what Caspar was up to, and I think that
maybe even she was a little shocked. But she made no attempt to
stop him - she's the only one who can rein him in - and in
doing nothing, she condoned his behaviour. Though to be fair,
she's so caught up in herself she probably doesn't care. Half the
time I can't understand what she's talking about. She hasn't got
enough to do, of course. That's the real problem. If she had some
real direction in her life, she wouldn't be like this. So airy-fairy.
By lunchtime today it was all over. Jonah left without saying a
word. I watched him from the kitchen window as he drove out
of the courtyard - I don't think I've ever seen anyone so angry
and so unable to express themselves.
Minutes later, Caspar's girlfriend came hobbling into the house
in my borrowed boots and, glory be, there's a creature who can
express herself! Such language! (Calls herself a model too - not a
model of decorum, that much is clear!) From what I could gather
from her highly colourful language, she and Jonah had seen
Caspar kissing Emily, in Jonah's favourite haunt by the rocks,
where he likes to go and think. And while she waited for Caspar
and Emily to reappear, she phoned for a taxi and packed her
bag. When Caspar did deign to show his face, she slapped it hard
for him and left. (Can't say I blame her!) Emily, the stupid girl,
had the grace to look ashamed of what she had done, but Caspar
was his normal arrogant self. 'Well,' he said, in that annoyingly
cocky voice of his (I know it's wrong but my hand always itches
to slap him when he puts that voice on!), 'there goes a girl with
some spirit. I wish her next sparring partner all the luck in the
world.' He then had the gall to say to me, 'Val, old love, it looks
like lunch is off. Another time perhaps?'
And during all this commotion, where was Gabriel? Where he
always is. Hiding in the library, of course. Why won't he deal
with his family? Why does he always leave it to me? I'm tired of
it, truly I am. I often wonder what would become of them all if I
was no longer here.

A flurry of footsteps out on the landing had Clara shoving the
books back into the hatbox, slapping the lid on it, and standing
guiltily to attention. The door flew open and in came Ned. 'Mummy,
guess what? I beat Mr Liberty at draughts.'
'Aren't you the clever one?' She went to him, knelt on the floor and
hugged him.
Wriggling out of her grasp, and staring intently into her face, he
said, 'It's a real grown-up game, Mummy, and I still won. I did,
really I did. No help from anyone. Well, maybe a tiny bit from Mr
Liberty's son.'
She kissed the tip of his nose, basking in the shining rays of his
euphoria. 'Do you want to help me up here now? Or would that be
too boring?'
He looked around the room, eyeing it for the fun factor. His gaze
slid over the piles of clothes and he shook his head. 'I'll do my
scrapbook downstairs with Mr Liberty.' He was already moving
towards the door.
'Okay, then, but don't make a nuisance of yourself, will you?'
'I won't.'
'Oh, and while you're with Mr Liberty, remind him to bring me up
some coffee. It's well past eleven.'
As soon as she was alone again, Clara slipped the lid off the
hatbox and reached for another diary. Just a couple of pages, she
told herself.

Friday 2 December
Well, he's finally done it. I never thought he would, but he's
sold up. And I know he feels terrible about it. He won't say
anything, of course, but the whole thing has taken a far greater
toll on him than he will ever admit to.
And why did he have to sell to a rival firm of engineers? A
firm he's despised for as long as I can remember. A firm that will
strip his business for its assets and throw the rest to the dogs. It's
as if he's done it deliberately. As though out of spite he's wants
the whole thing to implode in on itself. He says he doesn't care
what happens to it. 'I've washed my hands of it,' he said this
afternoon, when he came home after his meeting with the lawyers
and accountants and poured himself a large glass of his most
expensive malt whisky. But I simply can't believe he meant it.
'What about all those men and women who have worked so
loyally for you?' I asked him. 'Don't you care what will happen
to them?' He grunted something I couldn't make out and told me
I didn't understand. Maybe I don't. But what I do understand is
that what Gabriel devoted his life to, and his father before him,
has to mean something. I also understand how much it hurt him
that none of his children wanted to step into his shoes - he so
badly wanted at least one of them to do that. But I can see it
from their point of view too: they have their own dreams to
follow.
Why does he always have to take things so personally?

Again, the sound of footsteps - less hurried ones this time - had
Clara furtively hiding the diary. She stuffed it back into the hatbox
and pretended to be folding a matted Fair Isle sweater.
'Dad sent me up with your elevenses and an apple for being
late.' It was Jonah with a mug and a plate of ginger nuts He handed
her the mug and put the plate on the dressing-table, clearing a space
for it among the mess. 'How's it going?'
'Slowly.'
He looked about the room. 'I guess it's easier if you're detached
from it. I know I'd struggle to be objective. I did try to do it for Dad,
but it was probably too soon for him.' He settled his gaze on the
sweater she had just folded. I remember Val knitting that. It was a
Christmas present for Dad but it shrank and ended up fitting her
better than him. She only ever wore it in the garden, and if it
helps things between us, apparently the engagement's off.'
For a moment she thought he was referring to what she had just
been reading in the diary - the engagement between him and Emily but
then she realised he couldn't possibly be talking about that.
'Sorry?'
He shrugged. 'It's okay, you don't have to carry on with the game
any more. Dad's told me the truth. It was a wind-up for my brother's
benefit last night.'
'Oh, so I don't even get the chance to be jilted at the altar. How
disappointing. And to think I was so looking forward to being your
wicked step-mother.'
Given the room they were in and its contents, Clara wished she
hadn't said that. Her cheeks burned. How could she have been so
insensitive?
He spoke before she could apologise. 'Not all step-mothers are
wicked, you know.'
'I'm sorry.' Wanting to make good the damage, and intrigued by
the entries in the diary, she said, 'What was your step-mother like?'
He hesitated fractionally, then said, 'To put up with us Libertys,
Val was two parts saint and one part sergeant-major. On reflection I
think we gave her a terrible time. I don't think she was always very happy.'
Though she couldn't comment on its accuracy, she was impressed
by the incisiveness of his reply. 'How old were you when she married
your father?' she asked.
He moved away from the bed, went over to the window. 'A little
younger than Ned, and before you ask, no, I can't remember a time
before that.'
'Not even your real mother?'
'Not likely, given that it was my birth that killed her.'
Once more Clara wished she could retract her words. 'Oh dear.
I'm sorry. I keep putting my foot in it.'
'"Oh dear", indeed. It's quite the party-stopper, that line, isn't it?'
He was moving again, this time towards the door. 'Don't forget your
coffee. Lunch is in an hour, so you'd better not scoff too many ginger
nuts or you'll upset Chef.'
'And we all know the consequences of annoying your father.'
'Sorry to disappoint you, but it's not my father's culinary delights
you're being treated to. Lunch is on me.'
For the next hour, Clara worked doubly fast to make up for the
time she had spent reading. But all the while she was sorting through
Val Liberty's things she kept thinking what kind of a woman she
must have been to take on such a family. What an enormous
challenge she had accepted the day she had agreed to marry Mr
Liberty - or Gabriel, as she now knew him as - a widower with three
young children who between them must have tested her love and
patience beyond endurance.
Clara had done many things in her life of which she had later
thought better, but this one was perhaps the most unworthy. She
knew she had no right to do it, but she was hooked. Having begun to
see the Liberty family in a new light, she wanted to know more,
understand them better.
She took the diaries from the hatbox and slipped them into a bag
with the intention of reading them later. She would return them to
Mermaid House tomorrow morning with no one else the wiser.
Where would be the harm in that? She was only borrowing them.


Chapter Thirty-Two


In bed that night, long after Ned had fallen asleep, Clara was reading
the diaries. As she turned the pages in the soft beam of light, she was
conscious that while she might refer to the diaries as 'borrowed', she
was actually stealing the private thoughts of a woman who, if she
were alive. would have every right to be furious at Clara's intrusion
into her honest record of her own failings as well as the shortcomings
of others. Clara knew from what she had read that Val had been a
fair worhan. She had tried hard to see a difficult situation from every
angle.Yet there were times when Clara got annoyed with Val's
'understanding'. She longed to shout, 'Stop making excuses for them
all!' The tricks that had been played on her by Caspar and his sister
wer breathtakingly diabolical, and as their father had turned a blind
eye to what was going on, he was no better than his scheming brats.
The first diary began a month after Val, in her own words, had
'taken on the job of nanny and housekeeper at Mermaid House'.
This bleak description of herself, so soon into her marriage, seemed
to have been prompted by a case of good intentions on her part that
had gone disastrously wrong.

I cannot believe what happened today! I'm still shaking with
anger and indignation. The whole situation is so gruesomely
destructive I have to get my thoughts and shock down on paper
- hence this journal, something I haven't done in years, not since
I was a child with TB and had to spend so much time in the
sanatorium and thought I would die of loneliness. N.B. Clearly
there is a connection here!! Will think about this in more detail
when I have calmed down!
The trouble started last week, and I really could kick myself
for not seeing how I was being manipulated - just like the
heroine of Rebecca at the hands of Mrs Danvers - but in all
truth, how was I to know? I suggested to Caspar and Damson
that the three of us ought to get our heads together and do
something about Jonah's birthday. 'How do you know it's his
birthday?' Damson had asked, her closed face watching me slyly
from behind her long curtain of hair. 'Why, is it a secret,
darling?' I replied (and yes, I do try to call the children
something endearing, even if I don't mean it half the time). She
didn't say anything and I didn't think it strange that until that
moment no one had mentioned the fact that Jonah's fourth
birthday was just round the corner. I only found out about it by
chance when I had been putting away some papers - just another
example of the stuff that Gabriel is for ever leaving about the
house. Putting the letters and documents away in his desk I saw
a card that must have come in the post that I hadn't seen. It was
from the doctor's surgery in Deaconsbridge recommending that
Jonah be brought in for his pre-school booster. It was then that I
saw the date of his birth. The only thought that crossed my mind
at that point was that it was lucky I had seen the card as
otherwise, and knowing Gabriel arid his lack of foresight when it
came to anything to do with his children, the child's birthday
would probably have been and gone without any of us realising.
Still sitting at the table with Caspar and Damson - Jonah was
upstairs in bed - I asked them why neither of them had thought
to tell me when their brother's birthday was. Damson shrugged
and said, 'If you'd wanted to know, you only had to ask.' There
was something in her voice that made me want to snap back at
her. Cold and patronising, she was treating me no better than
char-lady. Restraining myself, I said, 'Why don't we arrange i party for him? You'd like that, wouldn't you? Help me blow up
the balloons and make the jellies.' I thought I was doing t;he right
thing, involving them in something by treating them as equals,
rather than tiresome children. (Goodness, how weary I am from
trying to win them over! When all the time they begrudge me the
very air I breathe!)	
Eventually it was decided, between Caspar and Pamson, that
we would organise a surprise party the following Saturday for
Jonah, and that it would coincide with the day/their father was
returning from his three-week trip to Helsinki. I should have
smelt a rat when Caspar and Damson insisted I didn't mention
what we were doing to Gabriel, but I was so caught up in my
own pride and vanity that I was finally forging a link with the
twins that I didn't see the warning signs. Oh, if only I had! The
pair of them made the invitations - pieces of paper with a cake
drawn on (rather crudely in my opinion, given their age), and I
wrote out the envelopes with the addresses of Jonah's little
friends from his nursery school. These were duly posted - or so I
thought + by Caspar and Damson, who even today after all the
commotion, swore blind they had walked to the end of the drive
and handed them over to the postman, but I just know that if I
were: to tackle Mr Potts, he would confirm that no such thing
occurred.
Meantime, I had forged ahead with the shopping and baking,
and last night while the children slept, I worked like a mad thing
in the Banqueting Hall, blowing up balloons, setting out the
trestle tables, decorating them with colourful paper tablecloths,
paper plates and cups. I put a tape-recorder on a table in front of
the fireplace so that we could have games of musical chairs and
pass the parcel, and before going to bed I iced the cake I'd made
that morning, giving it the finishing touch of 'Happy Birthday
Jonah' and placing four blue candles, one at each corner.
Then this morning, and on Caspar and Damson's instructions,
I wished Jonah a happy birthday but kept quiet about the present
we had for him - the twins had claimed that it wouldn't be fair
to their father for Jonah to open it without him being there to
share the moment. Again, I should have thought something was
wrong when Jonah didn't pursue the matter. He just looked at
the card I had given him, turned it over and ran his fingers over
the embossed picture of a little boy flying along at top speed on
a bicycle. So intent was his scrutiny, it was as though he had
never seen anything like it before.
Why, oh why, didn't I put two and two together? Why didn't I
question the fact that in the run-up to his birthday he never once
referred to it? In my defence I shall have to put it down to my
ignorance of children and their mores. Jonah's quietness is also a
factor. I've never come across anyone with more natural reticence.
Rarely does he speak unless spoken to directly, and even then his
words are so reluctantly given one can hardly make them out.
'Speak up!' Gabriel yells at him. 'Stop muttering!' But that only
makes it worse, as I often tell him. Jonah needs someone in his
life with a gentler manner than his father has. Someone with the
patience to tease out the words, to give him the confidence he so
badly lacks. I can't imagine what kind of nannies these children
have had in the past. The twins are practically out of control,
little better than savages. In contrast, Jonah has the anxious look
of somebody who's lost a shilling and found sixpence.
Just after breakfast, Gabriel phoned to say that his flight was
going to be delayed, but he hoped to be home by three, which
unbeknown to him, meant he would miss the first hour of the
party. But I wasn't deterred. At least he would be there for when
it came to blowing out the candles on the cake and singing
Happy Birthday to Jonah. By now I was almost as excited as a
small child myself, imagining the delight on Gabriel's face when
he walked into the middle of his youngest son's party. But by
half past three, my excitement left me. Not one child had shown
up. Poor Jonah, there he was, standing in the Banqueting Hall
wearing a party hat with a long feather poking out from the top
that Damson had made him wear, tearful bewilderment all over
his face.
'Looks like no one's going to turn up,' Caspar said, helping
himself to a cocktail sausage and flicking the stick on to the
floor.
Jonah went over to the tables, stared hard at the plates of
crisps, sandwiches and jugs of juice. There was such a look on
his face. I couldn't fathom it for the life of me. And then we
heard the sound of a car. It was Gabriel. The twins rushed to
meet him, but Jonah came and stood next to me. If I had known
better, I would have realised he was frightened. The next thing to
happen was that Gabriel came marching in, knocking a bunch of
balloons out of the way that was hanging above the door. 'What
the hell's going on here?' he roared. 'Whose idea was this?' Jonah
stepped behind me - dear God, he was actually hiding from his
own father! I could feel his small body shaking against my legs.
It breaks my heart to say what happened next, but Gabriel
continued to shout, oblivious to the harm he was doing to Jonah,
and probably has been doing these last four years. In the end I
took hold of Jonah who looked as if he was going to be sick
with fright and carried him across the courtyard and inside the
main part of the house. Gabriel followed, the twins at either side
of him, and told me I had had no right to do what I had. 'But
why?' I demanded - I was close to tears myself now. And then it
all came tumbling out. Jonah's birthday was never celebrated

because that was the day his mother - Gabriel's first wife - had
died. 'So - so why didn't anybody tell me?' I stammered, my
stomach sinking right down to my toes, my head feeling light
with shock. 'It's not something I care to mention,' Gabriel
snapped back at me. 'And what about Jonah?' I pressed - the
poor lad was still burying himself in my skirt. 'Doesn't he deserve
better than this?' I got no answer, and after Gabriel had stormed
off, the twins trailing in his wake, I was left to explain to Jonah
that there had been a terrible mix-up. Oh, my saints! What an
understatement! Just as Jonah must have thought he was at last
having his very own birthday party, it was snatched away from
him. And he never said a word. Just stood there holding back the
tears, his chin up, his eyes blinking rapidly. I bent down and
hugged him. 'Don't worry, darling, you'll have your party if it's
the last thing I do.'
Silently cursing Caspar and Damson's deviousness - my
goodness, how that sly pair took me for a fool and manipulated
me for their own pleasure! - I knew that from then on I would
have my work cut out bringing this family together.

There was a gap of several weeks before Val took up her pen
again. It seemed she had won herself, and Jonah, a small but
important victory. From the little she had read of the diaries, Clara
decided that based on the randomness of the entries, and their
heated, exasperated content, Val only wrote when she needed to get
something off her chest. It made Clara wonder if the poor woman
had had any friends to whom she could turn. And if she hadn't, how
awful it must have been for her to be so isolated at Mermaid House
where there was so much to contend with.

Never did I think I would have to assume the role of mediating
diplomat to the extent I have. An agreement has been reached.
Jonah is to be allowed to celebrate his birthday, but on the
condition that it's done a week after the official date. According
to Gabriel, this will give the memory of his first wife the degree
of respect it deserves.
I know very little about the woman I have replaced, other than
what her portrait in the library tells me - that she was beautiful
and serene, with an edge of fun-loving determination beneath her
gentle surface. To my shame, I am now desperate to listen to the
snatches of gossip that come my way during my shopping trips
into Deaconsbridge, as well as the snippets of information the
cleaning lady lets slip. Until now I had forced myself not to dig
too deeply into Gabriel's previous marriage, accepting his silence
quite readily and acknowledging that the past was best left to
deal with itself. But regrettably my shield of common sense has
dropped and I'm eager for the smallest of details.
Also to my shame, I'm beginning to wonder if I didn't agree to
this marriage a little too hastily. Would it have been so very bad
to remain alone and unmarried? Hindsight tells me I should have
got to know Gabriel better before I accepted his proposal, but I
suppose we both saw the convenient opportunities each could
offer the other. But how will I ever manage Caspar and Damson?
Of course I understand that they're both hurting from losing their
mother at so young and tender an age but, really, at some point
in their lives they are going to have to knuckle down and move
on. But there I go again, being too hard on them. I must
remember that when all is said and done, they are only children.

Clara's eyelids were drooping, so she turned out the light
reluctantly, but instead of falling asleep, her thoughts turned to
Jonah and lunch that day, when they had been sitting at the table in
the kitchen. She had watched him talking to his father as he served
him a portion of tuna and pasta salad, and had realised that what she
had previously condemned as his irritating casual manner was an act.
The relaxed body language was there to cover his uneasiness: the
reserve between father and son could not have been greater. And
reflecting on his inability to do more than the weekly shop for his
father, Clara wondered if this was the only way he felt able to help a
man he was scared of. Admittedly, twenty-four hours ago she would
have trounced him as a wimp for not standing up to his father, but
now she was seeing things differently. She saw not a grown man but
a small boy hiding behind the skirts of a woman he scarcely knew
while his father ranted at his audacity in wanting to celebrate the day
he was born.
And what of Gabriel Liberty? What heartbreak had he buried
beneath that gruff exterior? What bitterness did he still harbour over
his children's refusal to carry on the family business?

The next morning Clara woke early, made herself a cup of tea careful
not let the kettle whistle and disturb Ned - then slipped back

into bed to carry on where she had left off last night. The diary had
moved on to 1973.

Tuesday 29 August.
Goodness! Gabriel left this morning on another of his big trips
- it's Oslo this time, inspecting a pipeline he's supplied something
or other for - and I feel like I'm living in a madhouse! Last week
Caspar and Damson told the vicar I'd converted the household to
Catholicism, which of course I haven't, I merely suggested that
something a little more uplifting than the low-church service at St
Edmund's would suit me better, to which Gabriel had snorted
and called me a papist candle-worshipper ... oh dear, I seem to
be losing the thread here. What I was trying to say was that on
top of that Caspar and Damson have now developed a morbid
fascination with death and have been carrying out mock funerals
with anything dead they've found on the hills and moors. Added
to which, they now dress up like something out of a Gothic
romance. I've no idea where or how they've got hold of the
outfits, but they spend their days drifting about the house in
black velvet cloaks. Damson spends her evenings winding her
long hair up with bits of rag - a pillow case is missing from her
bed I notice - so that in the morning she has what she thinks is
an authentic hairstyle. Most suitable for 1973, I'm sure! She
wears an old cotton nightdress under her cloak and seems to be
modelling herself on Cathy in Wuthering Heights. Caspar,
complete with riding boots and a floppy white shirt - drooping
cuffs, limp collar - is a latterday Lord Byron. Oh, yes, he even
has an absurd hat! Yesterday they spent all day out on the
moors. When I asked them what they had been up to, they had
looked at me as though I had no right to ask such a question.
With a vagueness that made me want to take a rolled-up
newspaper to them, Caspar had waved a book of poetry under
my nose and said, 'If you must know, we were reading poetry.'
While I applaud anyone for extending their knowledge, I can't
help but think I'd prefer them to be more like other teenagers.
Normal teenagers. What I wouldn't do to be worried about
trivial matters like Damson defacing her bedroom walls with
posters of pop stars and sighing from dawn till dusk with the
ache of an unrequited crush on some boy or other, and Caspar
pestering for a motorbike. I mean, that's what teenagers are
about, aren't they? I wonder if it isn't just a little unhealthy the
way Caspar and Damson cling to each other. I hardly dare bring
myself to write this, but every time I look at them with their
arms linked, their eyes fixed on each other, I come over with the
most awful feeling. Surely I'm wrong? Oh, please let me be
wrong. Please let their bizarre behaviour - this exclusive need to
be apart from others, to scorn the rest of the world for its
ignorance - be an adolescent phase. Nothing more worrying.
Nothing untoward.

Saturday 18 November.
Just as I thought life was beginning to settle down, the building
bricks of normality, which I have been so carefully arranging,
have come tumbling down on me yet again. For the fourth time
in as many weeks, Jonah has run away from school. But at least
now Gabriel will have to do something; he will have to get his
stubborn head out of the sand and do something!
Knowing that Jonah has been so unhappy makes me feel
negligent and useless. For some time now I had thought perhaps
we had turned the corner with him. He was beginning to come
out of his shell, talking more. Well, talking more to me - the
moment his brother and sister showed their faces (or his father)
he clammed up. Reports from school also confirmed that he was
making good progress, claiming that he was 'participating' more
actively. He had even joined in with a few clubs and was
spending less time on his own. It had all sounded so encouraging,
as if, at long last he was through the worst of it. But then the
phone call came from school to say that he had tried to run
away, but we were not to worry. He had been found by a keen
eyed teacher who had come across him hitching a lift as she
drove to school. 'All under control, Mrs Liberty,' the housemaster
said. 'Most of the little devils try it at some time or
other.' His tone was oily and patronising, though he probably
thought he was reassuring me.
The third time it happened I suggested to Gabriel that we
ought to review the situation, which was a phrase Jonah's housemaster
had used on the phone when he called to say that Jonah
had been found sleeping in a bus shelter: 'Perhaps, Mrs Liberty,
it's time for us all to review the situation.' In response to this,
Gabriel declared that Jonah was attention-seeking, that he just
had to face facts - certain things in life were damned unpleasant
but one simply had to square one's shoulders and accept one's


lot. No further comment.
No further comment! Honestly, I could have hit him with a
frying-pan!!
But instead of confronting Gabriel as I know I should have
done, I phoned the house-master and demanded to know what
they were doing to Jonah to cause him so much unhappiness.
'What kind of a school are you running, that you allow children
in your care to sleep rough in bus shelters?'
'I understand your concern, Mrs Liberty, but let me assure you,
we do the best we can. But if a pupil isn't prepared to cooperate, then frankly, it's an uphill struggle and there's not a lot
we can do.'
Co-operate!
Uphill struggle!
Where was the love and support these children needed? And,
yes, I noticed that not once in the conversation did the
thoroughly irksome little man refer to Jonah as a child. He was
nothing but a lump to be added to the sausage-meat that would
be squeezed through the machine and pushed out the other side
as a supposedly mature and responsible member of society.
'He's not happy,' I told Gabriel, when the fourth phone call
came. This blatant truth was reinforced by the headmaster (we
were obviously above the level of mere house-master now), when
he summoned us to school to discuss the matter. Gabriel tried to
wriggle out of the appointment, but I was having none of it.
'You will do this one small thing, Gabriel Liberty, or you will
live to regret it.' It was the sternest I had ever been with him.
So there we were, in the bone-chilling inner sanctum of the
headmaster's study, to discuss Jonah's fate. Gabriel was still of
the opinion that Jonah needed to take the rough with the
smooth, but I stuck my neck out (I knew I'd never forgive myself
if I didn't) and said, 'I have seen and heard nothing here this
afternoon to convince me that this is the right environment for a
sensitive boy like Jonah.' Once Gabriel had got his furious throat
rattling under control, the headmaster said, 'I'm inclined to agree
with you, Mrs Liberty. And let me tell you, rarely do I agree
with parents on the issue of what they think is best for their
offspring. Not enough objectivity in my opinion. But, in Jonah's
case, I wholeheartedly agree that he would benefit from a
different school.'
Yes, I thought, as we drove home with Jonah looking ashen
faced in the back of the car, you're washing your hands of a
problem child who challenges the whole ethos of your horrible
school.
Gabriel can't stomach the notion that he is the father of a
problem child. 'There's no shame involved,' I told him, as he
gripped the steering-wheel with steam practically coming out of
his ears. His face was grim and he made no response, but I saw
his eyes flicker to the rear-view mirror to look at his son in
disgust.
Poor Jonah, eight years old and the weight and guilt of the
world squarely on his young inadequate shoulders.

Chapter Thirty-Three






The sound of creaking from Ned's bed above the cab had Clara
snapping the diary shut and sliding it under her mattress. She waited
for him to make his way down the short ladder before slipping into
bed with her to claim his all-important first hug of the day.
Just in time she remembered what day it was. When he appeared at
her side, she said, 'Ooh, Ned, what's that on your nose?'
His hand flew to his face. 'What?' he said, alarmed.
'April Fool!' She laughed. Pulling him into bed with her, she
planted a huge kiss on his cheek then blew the fruitiest of raspberries
into his warm neck. As he squealed, giggled and wriggled, the
strength of her love for him rose up within her and she held him
tightly, vowing never to make him unhappy as Jonah Liberty had
been. And God forbid that you should ever end up with a sadistic
sibling like Caspar or Damson, she thought.
A better person might be prepared to make allowances for people
like the Libertys because they had never truly come to terms with the
death of Anastasia, who had been such a central figure in their lives,
but Clara thought that nothing in the world would ever make her
feel sympathetic towards Caspar and his freaky-sounding twin sister.
Still cuddling Ned, she despaired of Machiavellian men like
Caspar. Vain men who revelled in their own perceived perfection.
Not so much running on testosterone as functioning on super
strength narcissism. She had loathed him in the supermarket, and the
second viewing on Saturday night had confirmed her initial reaction.
She hoped that he held the same opinion of her and that while she
was still around he wouldn't be in any hurry to grace Mermaid
House with his presence again.

Archie was relieved to be getting through the morning's workload
faster than he'd thought they might.' When they had turned up at the
cottage in Castleton the woman who had done most of the gabbing
in the shop on Saturday took one look at Samson and his battleship
sized body and said, 'You will be careful, won't you? We've only just
had the decorators in.'
'We'll be like silk rubbing against velvet, love,' Archie had
reassured her. The look she gave him said she didn't appreciate being
called 'love'. No chance of a brew, then, he had thought, as he and
Samson carried a three-seater sofa over the threshold, taking care not
to scrape the twee Victorian-style wallpaper and mahogany-stained
dado rail.
Now they had finished and went to settle up with Mrs HoityToity.
Like the good tradesmen they were, they humoured her by
waiting in the hall while she wrote out the cheque in the kitchen, then
beat a hasty retreat back to the shop, picking up sandwiches from the
bakery in town for a late lunch.
Comrade Norm had been holding the fort, along with Bessie who
had been doing sterling work on some boxes of crockery. Dressed in
an old nylon overall, which she used to wear when she was doing the
housework, she seemed happy in the little kitchen with a stack of
washed plates, cups and saucers on the draining-board. With slow,
deliberate movements, she was drying the china carefully before
arranging it on a set of cheap veneer shelves in the front of the shop.
Archie pretended not to notice the broken sugar bowl in the bin, half
hidden beneath an old newspaper.
Lunch dealt with, he took the van and drove home to check the
post. These days, it never came before he left for work, but when he
saw what was on the mat in the hall, he wished he hadn't bothered. It
was another pompously worded letter from Stella's solicitor wanting
to know which firm of solicitors he had instructed to take care of the
divorce. It was ironic that today of all days - April Fool's Day - he
should receive such a communication. It was the anniversary of the
day on which he had proposed to Stella and it had been a longstanding
joke between them that she had been a fool to accept.
'Running jump' and 'go stick it' were the words that were ready to
leap from Archie's tongue after he had read through the letter. But he
swallowed them, knowing that he should have taken on a solicitor by
now. He hadn't consciously shied away from the task, it just hadn't
figured too highly on his list of jobs to do. One way or another, he
never had a minute to himself now. Still staring at the piece of stiff
grey paper in his hand, he considered whether it was worth
approaching Stella directly: that way they might save a lot of hassle
and expense by cutting out the middlemen. But perhaps he was being
naive: in this greedy day and age, the winner took all. Except there
could never be an outright winner in divorce. All there could ever be
were two disappointed, wounded victims, who had to live with the
sad knowledge that they had let each other down.
He sighed and went outside to the van. No time for such maudlin
meanderings, he chided himself, not when a pretty young woman
was waiting for him at Mermaid House.
It had rained for most of the weekend but today a weak sun was
trying to find a crack in the thick blanket of grey cloud. It was still
unseasonably cold and Archie was glad of the heater in the van.
Mermaid House was the most extraordinary place he had seen in a
long while. 'Well, I'll be blowed,' he said, when he first caught sight
of it on the brow of a rise in the landscape. 'What a god forsaken
place to live.' He carried on along the bone-shaking drive in awed
amazement, the empty van rattling noisily as it splashed through
muddy puddles. He pulled in beside Clara Costello's camper-van,
and wondered how many times his modest end of terrace could fit
into this vast old place. He got out and crossed the shiny wet cobbles
of the courtyard but came to a stop when he drew level with the skip.
He couldn't resist having a quick shufti - after all, one man's rubbish
was another's livelihood. His surreptitious foray was brought to an
abrupt end by a door being flung open and a none-too-friendly voice
saying, 'Who the hell are you and what d'you think you're doing
snooping through my belongings?'
Clara had warned Archie what to expect. 'Herr Liberty runs a
boot-camp up here on the quiet,' she had told him on the phone, 'but
take no notice of his commandant persona. He's a real sweetie when
you get to know him.'
Archie stepped forward. 'Archie Merryman's the name. Miss
Costello phoned me on Saturday about some odds and ends you
wanted to get rid of.'
He was given a disdainful eyeball-frisking, followed by, 'Uh, so
you're that rag-and-bone man she got in touch with, are you? I
suppose you'd better come in. But be sure to wipe your feet.'
Archie did as instructed, then followed him to a large kitchen. He
was allowed no further, though, and after he had been ordered to
stay where he was, the cussed old man went over to an open
doorway. 'Miss Costello,' he bellowed, 'your disreputable rag-and
bone man's here.'
A door opened and footsteps sounded.
'Mr Liberty, there is no need to shout. And how many times do I
have to tell you, Mr Merryman runs a second-hand shop and he's the
least disreputable man I know.' Her voice and footsteps grew louder
until finally she came into the kitchen. She was dressed in dirty jeans,
a grubby T-shirt, and a cobweb decorated her dark hair; she looked younger than Archie had remembered her. The bright eyes and smile
were the same, though. 'Hello, Archie,' she said, 'the Commandant
	treating you as rudely as I said he would?'
'Not so badly. How's that lad of yours? Did he find his mermaid?'
'Oh, yes. It was here just as he said it would be. How's your
mother, everything okay with--'
'Great Scott! How much longer have I got to put with this
incessant tea-party chatter? I thought there was some business to be
transacted.'
Clara winked at Archie and tutted. 'You leave the business to me,
Mr Liberty. But talking of tea parties, bung the kettle on, would you?
I'm sure Mr Merryman would appreciate a cup of your finest PG
Tips.'
Mr Liberty's nostrils flared and Archie speculated as to who was
the real commandant here. He fell in step beside Clara as she led him
the length of the house, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking on
the polished wooden floor. 'I'm afraid none of it is of any great
worth,' she said, 'but I've tried to organise everything into two piles:
stuff you might be able to sell and stuff that's a little more dubious.'
She pushed open a heavy door and showed him into an enormous
drawing room that had to be about thirty feet by twenty. Stella
would have loved all this, Archie thought suddenly: the grandness of
the room, the high ceiling, the massive stone fireplace and the
beautiful mullion windows. For years she had been on at him to
move. 'We need more space,' she would say, leafing through the local
paper and admiring houses way out of their reach. He couldn't
understand why she tormented herself looking at them. 'But why do
we need more space?' he had argued back. 'There's only the two of
us, and this is plenty.' In return, she had given him one of her
standard you-don't-understand looks. Well, she'd been right on the
button there. He didn't understand her need to stretch their finances
just so that she could indulge in a bigger version of playing house.
But this place might just about have satisfied her. It would have given
her all the room she could have ever wanted. There was sufficient
space here to swing a Tyrannosaurus Rex, never mind a cat.
The furniture wasn't up to much though, he reckoned. Most of it
was shabby and not much better than the pieces he sold in his shop.
The room was home to a hotchpotch of paraphernalia: an elephant's
foot that had been turned into a stand for a tatty old Swiss-cheese
plant, a bamboo table with a cracked glass top, a leather hand-tooled
pouffe with a gaping hole and stuffing oozing out of it, a Chinese silk
wall-hanging, a set of African drums, a lacquered chest, and a
cabinet chock full of bits of jade, ivory and carved wooden animals.
Souvenirs brought home by a man who had travelled, thought
Archie, a little enviously.
He began to look at the room more critically, seeing the cracks in
the high ceilings, and the gaping holes in the plasterwork above the
moulded skirting-boards. Why, it was nothing but a demanding
bugbear - and would cost a fortune to heat and keep clean. Other
than Stella, who in their right mind would want to take this on?
He felt his mood turning bitter and he thought again of the
solicitor's letter he had to deal with when he got home that evening.
For the first time since she had left him he felt angry. Until now he
had resigned himself to what had happened: he had failed his wife, so
what else could he expect? But now he felt the unfairness of Stella's
actions, the sting of the implied criticism and blame, the cruel,
underhand way in which she had carried on her affair. Then there , had been the Continuous sniping at him for supposedly holding her
back. 'I could have done so much better for myself if I hadn't married
you,' she had told him once. She had apologised later for that, but
once said, words can never be retracted. He had always thought of
himself as a considerate man, who took people at face value, who
didn't judge and condemn, because at the end of the day no one is
 perfect. And that was why he had never confronted Stella about her
affair. He had wanted to give her space to resolve whatever she was
going through. But now he saw how weak he had been, and that
Stella had taken advantage of him and turned him into a fool.
An April Fool for sure.
;	Realising that Clara was waiting for him to speak, he shook
himself out of his despondency. 'Sorry, what were you saying?'
'I was just saying that if any of these things are too awful to contemplate, you must . . . Are you okay, Archie? You look a bit
bothered.'
He forced himself to smile. 'I'm tired, that's all. Now, then, let's
see about this little lot, shall we? Looks to me like you've got the
whole bag of tricks here.' And with a supreme act of will, he focused
his attention on the boxes on the floor. Without needing to sift too
deeply through them he could see that the assorted junk was mostly
saleable - pots, pans, ladles, a china toast rack in the shape of a loaf
of bread, a rusting hand whisk, various discoloured and outdated
kitchen gadgets, a bedside lamp and an old money-box. It was the
usual household stuff he saw every day. What he couldn't get rid of
he'd pass on to a fellow dealer up in New Mills whose customers
weren't so choosy as his. He reached into his trouser pocket for his
roll of money. 'No problem,' he said, 'I'll take the lot, save you the
trouble of messing about with any of it. Is that it?'
She pulled a face. 'I'm afraid not. I've got a load more upstairs.
[	Oh, and I should have said, the electrical items all work. I've tested
them myself.'
He put his money away for now. 'I'll say this for you, you're doing
a thorough job here.'
'A little too thorough at times.' Mr Liberty was lumbering in with
two mugs in his hands. 'Having her around is akin to taking
laxatives,' he said to Archie, handing him a mug of tea. 'She sweeps
you clean, whether you like it or not.'
'Thank you for sharing that delightful analogy with us, Mr
Liberty.' Clara smiled. She took her mug. 'Was there anything else?'
Judging from the twist to his mouth, the old boy had taken his
dismissal with pleasure. Strange man, thought Archie. He sipped his
tea. 'What on earth possessed you to take on this colossal task?' he
asked Clara.
She laughed. 'A question I've been asking myself several times a
day since I started.'
'And the answer?' he pressed.
'I'd like to say that it's down to pure altruism, but my friends
would claim it's due to my perverse desire to take charge and
organise everything around me.'
'Now that's just what I could do with.'
'Oh?'
Something in her tone made him want to unburden himself. The
thought shocked him: until that moment he had never seen himself as
a man who was burdened. He felt crushed. He looked at her
enquiring expression and wondered if she would mind being used as
a sounding board. Because that was what he needed. Someone
objective in whom he could confide. He hadn't turned to his friends
for advice. Male pride, he supposed. That, and he didn't want the
whole of Deaconsbridge knowing his business. A small town was the
devil for gossip. He also hated the idea of people feeling sorry for
him, viewing him differently. He'd always been good old Archie,
cheerful, dependable. He knew it was irrational, but he felt as if he
would let everyone down by being anything else.
Go on, he urged himself, confide in her. She's an outsider. Who
would she tell? Say something. Anything. Because if you stand there
any longer looking like a prize idiot, she'll think the lights have gone
out and you're a meter short of a shilling.
Staring at him over the top of her mug of tea, she said, 'It's none of
my business, but is it something to do with your mother?'
Her gentle probing did away with the remnants of his resolve, and
he acknowledged the dragging pain that had been with him since
Stella had left. 'Yes and no,' he volunteered. 'Bessie is certainly one of
my concerns, but . . . the thing is, my wife left me recently and I
haven't a clue how to deal with it. I thought I was handling it, but
now I'm not so sure.'
'How recently?'
'Just--' He swallowed and hung on grimly to his self-control. 'Just
over a week ago.'
'Oh; Archie, I'm so sorry.' She reached out and touched his arm
lightly. 'Come and sit down.' She led him across the room, avoiding
the odzing pouffe and elephant's foot, to two high-backed armchairs
in the bay of a window. 'It must be awful for you. Did you have any
idea that this was going to happen?'
'I'd be lying if I said it came as a surprise. Things have been
difficult for a while, and what with Bessie's stroke and her moving in
with us, well . . . let's just say I haven't helped matters.'
'But it must have been a terrible blow.'
He ran a finger over the fraying fabric on the arm of his chair. 'I
think it's only now that it's finally hitting home. I'm ashamed to say I
feel angry at what she's done.'
'And what's wrong with that? Why shouldn't you?'
'Because . . .' He gave the chair a light thump: a cloud of dust rose
into the air. 'Because I'm not like that. I never get angry.'
'Never? What an exceptional man you must be if that's true.'
'Not exceptional. Not by a long chalk.' In his mind's eye he saw
his father losing his temper and lashing out at Bessie. Until Archie
had been big enough to step in and end the nightmare for her.
'What does your solicitor advise?'
'I haven't got that far.' He told her about the letter that had
arrived that morning. 'You're probably thinking I've been stupidly
slow and cowardly, aren't you?'
'Not at all. But you have to accept that the problem isn't going to
go away on its own. Have you spoken to your wife since she left?'
'No.'
'Do you know where she is?'
'She's in Macclesfield with the man who--' He broke off. An
agonising moment passed before he managed to pull himself
together. 'Sorry, it's just hearing the words out loud makes it seem all
the more real. I suppose that's what I've been doing this last week or
so, keeping it to myself so that I don't have to face up to what I'm
going to have to do.'
'And do you know what you want to do? What choices you need
to make?'
He smiled ruefully. 'Oh, aye, I'm double-parked on what's to be
done. I'll agree to the divorce, sell the house and move into
something smaller and cheaper. I'll keep Second Best going and
somehow look after Mum.'
'That takes care of today. What about tomorrow?'
In spite of his flagging spirits, he laughed, and felt better for it.
'That's just the kind of talk I need.' He drained his mug. 'Now, then,
let's get back to work or your man Liberty will be after me.' They
both rose to their feet. 'Thanks,' he said, 'thanks a million.'
'What for? I haven't helped you resolve anything. More's the pity.'
'No, sweetheart, but you've listened, and maybe that was all I
needed.'


Chapter Thirty-Four

Before he had even opened his eyes Gabriel knew the day would not
be a good one. It was Friday morning, and it was Ned and Miss
Costello's final day at Mermaid House. He didn't know how it had
happened, but somehow during the last week he had got so used to
having them around he was going to miss them when they were
gone.
A skew-eyed glance at the alarm clock on the bedside table told
him it was a quarter past seven. He pushed back the bedclothes and,
with a creak of springs, thumped his feet down on to the floor. He
wriggled his buckled old toes, then launched himself stiffly upright.
He went over to the window and gave a cautious tug at the curtains.
They glided smoothly and soundlessly along the track and he
imagined Miss Costello scolding him for not putting more faith in
her ability to operate a drill and knowing which Rawlplugs to use.
She had even filled in the gaping holes left by the chunks of plaster
that had fallen out. He stood at the window, breathing in the fresh
outdoor smell of the curtains, which had been washed yesterday and
left to dry in the blustery wind and sunshine. She had ironed them
while they were still slightly damp and a comforting steamy warmth
had filled the kitchen. While she had been doing that he had helped
Ned with the latest page of his scrapbook - a drawing of a box on
wheels (supposedly a camper-van) and three sloping lines of wonky
writing. 'How do you spell diesel?' the boy had asked,
'D E I S E L,' Gabriel had answered.
'D IE,' Miss Costello had corrected him, from behind a cloud of
steam.

'Should have been a school-teacher your mother.' He winked at
Ned.
'Jonah's a teacher, isn't he? Can you write "diesel" for me, please?'
A scrap of paper was pushed across the table. 'He must be very clever
to be a teacher. You have to know everything.'
'That's a matter for dispute.' He passed the piece of paper back.
'Any old fool can stand up in front of a class and tell them what to
do. Even I could do it.'
There was a snigger from the direction of the ironing-board.
'Spelling lessons would be interesting.'
'I'll have you know that was a mere slip of the tongue.'
'How do you spell "engine"?'
'Here, let me write it down for you before your mother gets out her
stick of chalk. Or, worse, her cane to beat me.'
'Six of the best and a detention would do you the world of good,
Mr Liberty.'
'You'd have to catch me first.'
'A ten-minute head start suit you?'
'She's a cruel, heartless woman, your mother.'
The boy looked up from his wobbly writing. 'My mummy isn't
cruel. She's nice. And she makes you laugh.'
'Pah! Who told you that? It's a shameless lie and one that I shall
defend till the cows are blue in the face.'
'Ahem, don't you mean till the cows come home? Fine English
teacher you'd be with your metaphors running away with themselves.'
'Yes,
but which is more likely to happen? The cows wandering
home, or their faces turning blue? I think I have you there, Miss
Costello, the point is mine.'
Still standing at his bedroom window, Gabriel sighed heavily. Life
was going to be dull without them around.
He washed, shaved and dressed in his pristine bathroom, put his
dirty clothes tidily in the laundry basket, as instructed, and went
downstairs. The kitchen was beautifully warm - another of Miss
Costello's miracles. She had had the Aga serviced by a man who
knew what he was talking about: turned out all that had been wrong
with it was a faulty thermostat. The treacherous gas heater that had
burnt his arm had been banished to the gun room. And talking of
treachery, that interfering Dr Singh had been conspicuous by his
absence. So much for turning up here on Monday as had been
threatened. Not that Gabriel was complaining: as far as he was
concerned, the less he saw of the annoying quack the better.
He put the kettle on and went to sit in one of the Windsor chairs
placed in front of the Aga. This had been another of Miss Costello's
reforms. By moving the table, she had created a space beside the Aga
where he could comfortably warm his feet of a morning. The chairs
had been brought down from one of the rooms upstairs and she had
awarded him and Ned the job of polishing them while she tackled the
unenviable task of cleaning the main bathroom.
On day one of her assignment to sort out Mermaid House, Miss
Costello had taken him at his word and put together a shopping list
of things she considered would make his life easier. Then, the day
before yesterday, she had dragged him off to the shops with the
intention of making him buy these so-called labour saving products.
'You have remembered to bring your wallet, haven't you?' she said,
as they drove to the other side of Deaconsbridge in her camper-van,
to the retail development he had never before visited. The vast range
of electrical appliances on sale in the store was bewildering. 'How
long will this take?' he asked warily, looking at the shelves of
brightly coloured kettles, irons and toasters, which all seemed to
resemble toys.
He needn't have worried. She knew exactly what she was looking
for and, much to his admiration, badgered the spotty young assistant
into giving them a ten per cent discount, plus free delivery for that
same evening.
He had watched in further admiration late that night after she had
put Ned to bed and had got down on her hands and knees and
plumbed in the dish-washer. 'Are you deliberately trying to make me
feel completely useless?' he had said, passing her a spanner and
wishing he was forty years younger.
'Not at all. You do too good a job of it yourself. Now, let's see if
this baby's going to perform. I'll put it on a quick rinse cycle.' She
wriggled out from under the work surface, stood up, and rocked the
slim-line dish-washer into place. She shut the door, turned the dial
with a clickety-click and pressed the start button. Water rushed
through the pipes and the machine whooshed and whirred. He
lobked at her doubtfully. 'Should it make that noise?'
'Absolutely. And trust me, it'll transform your life. You'll wonder
how you ever managed without it. Shall we sort out the microwave ,next?'

'What do you do for an encore? Walk on water?'
'Give it time, Mr Liberty. Give it time.'
Eating his breakfast of toast and marmalade and resting the plate
on his stomach as he sat by the Aga, Gabriel listened to the news on
the radio - or, rather, listened to the news on his new all-in-one, allsinging-and-dancing
radio-CD-cassette player. It was another of
Miss Costello's fine-tunings. 'Treat yourself, Mr Liberty,' she had
said. 'Or do I have to twist your arm up round your shoulder
blades?' The reception and sound quality were certainly better than
he was used to from his old radio, but the news was still as tedious.
And as from tomorrow, the highlight of his day would be answering
back some jumped-up nobody who fancied himself a political smart
arse.

Clara and Ned were having their own breakfast, and as her son
dipped his spoon in and out of his bowl of Coco-Pops while he
looked at his scrapbook spread across the narrow table, Clara had
the feeling that he wasn't looking forward to moving on. He hadn't
said anything, but the way he was lingering over each page she knew
that leaving Mermaid House was going to be a wrench for him.
But the same was true for her. What was the old song about
having become accustomed to somebody or other's face? It was from
a musical. Yes, My Fair Lady, one of her mother's favourite shows.
And while she hadn't fallen in love with the cranky owner of
Mermaid House, she had enjoyed seeing him mellow. She'd also
enjoyed keeping up the game of formality between them. Despite the
shift in their relationship that had taken place, she always made a
point of calling him Mr Liberty to his face - and he still referred to
her as Miss Costello - but in her mind he had become Gabriel; not
exactly archangel material, but a man with a softer side to him than
he was used to exposing.
It had been a week of hard slog, though: her aching back and sore
hands were proof of that. But she would leave knowing that she had
spent a week doing something positive and worthwhile. She wasn't
so sure of how long the benefits of her work would last. If left to his
own devices Gabriel would probably let things slide back to how
they had been. But she couldn't do anything about that. Perhaps she
could speak to Jonah before she left and impress upon him that his
father needed a cleaner, or maybe a housekeeper.
But he knew that already. What would be the point?
In the back of her mind she heard Louise and the Gang telling her
to leave well alone: 'Stop trying to control what isn't your concern.'
Sound advice.
Mercifully Caspar had stayed away from Mermaid House, and she
hadn't seen Jonah since Sunday. Apparently he had been away on a
school history trip to northern France and Belgium. Having read
some of Val's diaries she could only marvel that any of the Liberty
children had survived their childhood. She had alternated between
being furious with Gabriel for ignoring the needs of his family and
feeling desperately sorry for him. Clearly the death of his first wife
had left him a broken man with no one to turn to. At various times in
the week she had been tempted to ask him more about his family and
the past, but the moment had never seemed right. Either Ned was
around, or he and Gabriel were off on one of their adventures.
During the last few days the weather had picked up again and
while she had been busy clearing out cupboards, polishing neglected
furniture, arranging with Archie to pick up yet more junk, supervising
the chimney sweep and the collection of the skip, Gabriel had
taken Ned down to the river to play. Yesterday they had returned
from one of their expeditions smelling of fresh air, their faces red
from the wind, announcing that they were starving. 'Lucky I picked
up some scones and crumpets from the baker this morning,' she had
said, when they were kicking off their mud-caked boots and about to
leave them in an untidy heap. One look from her and they were
lining them up beneath their neatly hanging jackets.
But whatever Gabriel and his family had suffered in the past, it
was really none of Clara's business and she had no right to pry. Just
as he had had no right to interrogate Ned about his father. She
winced. Where did that leave her with Val's diaries? Guiltily, she
made a mental note to return them before she and Ned left.
Looking at Ned as he scraped up the last of his cereal, Clara knew
that her priority that day was to keep him cheerful. She didn't want
him to be upset about leaving and the only trick she had up her sleeve
to soften the blow for him was that once she had finished her work
here today, they would be free to visit the Mermaid Cavern.

At Gabriel's insistence they were to have lunch in town at the
Mermaid cafe. 'It's one o'clock, and I declare you officially out of
contract now,' he said, when she appeared in the kitchen, expecting a
sandwich - or a 'shambly', as Ned called them. Presenting her with
an envelope, he added, 'It's your wages. You'll find I've been more
than generous.'
Without opening it, she slipped it into her pocket. 'Fair enough,
but I insist on driving. I'm not going anywhere in that death-trap of a
Land Rover. At least two of the tyres are bald and I bet it hasn't been
anywhere near a garage for years.'
He put up a show of resistance that got him nowhere, and after she
had changed out of her filthy work clothes, they set off.
'Can I have chips, please, Mummy?' Ned called from his rear seat
as they turned into the market square. 'And ketchup?'
'It's market day,' Gabriel said. 'You might have trouble parking.'
'Beans would be nice.'
'Of course, if you'd let me drive my death-trap, we'd be able to slip
into any old space.'
'Mm . . . and lots of vinegar, please. I like vinegar. I like it when
my lips go white because I've had too much.'
'Damn! You'll have to go round again.'
'Can we have a pudding as well?'
'There! There's a space. Quick!'
'For goodness' sake, Mr Liberty, calm down! You'll give yourself a
heart-attack at this rate.'
'No chance. I'm saving that pleasure for when I've over-feasted on
a coronary lunch-time special.'
They were met by Shirley and a raised eyebrow when she saw who
they had with them. 'We missed you last Friday, Mr Liberty,' she
said, handing them each a copy of the menu. 'Thought perhaps you'd
taken your business elsewhere?'
'You mean you hoped I had.'
She smiled at Clara. 'Shall I get you some drinks while you
choose?'
Gabriel took off his cap and thwacked the table with it. 'You make
it sound as if you're offering us something decent, like a glass of
single malt whisky.'
'Just give my sour friend a pint of your finest malt vinegar and
ignore him,' said Clara.
'Don't worry, I always do. So what'll it be? How about a nice
strawberry milkshake? We've just had a new machine installed and
I'm itching to give it a whirl.' This last remark was directed at Ned,
who nodded enthusiastically.
It was Ned who brought up the subject of their leaving. Expertly
dipping the end of a chip into the pool of ketchup on his plate, he
said, 'Will you miss us when we've gone, Mr Liberty? Will you be
sad when you're all alone again?'
Clara willed the old devil to say something nice. But not too nice.
'That depends, doesn't it?' he said evasively, his gaze flickering
over Clara.
'Why?' asked Ned.
'If I thought I was never going to hear from you again, that might make me sad.'
They both looked at Clara. Expectation was etched over their
faces. 'You could send Mr Liberty the occasional postcard, Ned,' she
said, thinking fast, while hiding her surprise that Gabriel had said
something so refreshingly agreeable and tactful. 'That way he'll
know what we're up to.'
Another chip went into the tomato sauce while Ned thought about
this. 'But how will we know what Mr Liberty is doing?'
'You won't, lad. No one ever knows what I'm up to. And that's
the way I intend to keep it.'
Ned's frown showed that this wasn't the answer he wanted.
'Couldn't we stay longer, Mummy? You could clean a bit more of
Mr Liberty's house for him.'
Clara smiled. 'Mr Liberty's house is like the Forth Bridge. I could
go on cleaning it for ever and ever.'
Ned's face brightened at the possibility. He turned to Gabriel, a
chip dangling from his fork. 'Would you like Mummy to clean your
house for ever and ever?'
'I'd like nothing better, but I suspect your mother wouldn't. Now,
are you going to eat the rest of those chips or watch them grow?'
Over pudding - the obligatory Bakewell tart and custard - Gabriel
said, 'Do you really have to rush off, Miss Costello? We came to an
arrangement a week ago, couldn't we do something similar again?'
'And what about the holiday Ned and I are supposed to be
enjoying? I told you, I'm making this trip to spend more time with
my son, not spend my every waking hour cleaning for you. Or
anyone else for that matter.'
'But wouldn't you agree that your son has benefited from his time
at Mermaid House?'
She looked at him sternly, kept her voice low. 'Don't play dirty,
Mr Liberty, it doesn't become you.'
'In my experience, there's no other way to play.'
Her patience was waning. 'Look, Ned and I have been here for
over a week and we still haven't had so much as a glimpse of what
we came to see. We want to see the sights. We want to be tourists.
We Want to laze around eating overpriced locally made fudge, and
turn up our noses at tacky souvenirs and buy them all the same. We
want to be day-trippers trudging round in the rain. We want to--'
'Then stay on at Mermaid House for a few more days as my
guests, and you can do all the day-tripping you want to do in this
area.'
She hesitated, and in that instant knew that she had lost the upper
hand in the argument. Gabriel leaned in towards her. 'Miss Costello,
hear me out. I would very much like you to stay so that I can repay a
little of your kindness.'
'But you've done that already. You've paid me.'
'It's not always about money.'

She smiled. 'Is this the same man who once said everything had a
price, that everything was for sale?'
He shifted in his seat. 'Well, maybe I've . . .' His words petered

out.
'Maybe you've what?'
He drew his eyebrows together, screwed up his paper napkin,
tossed it into his empty pudding bowl. 'Changed,' he mumbled.
It was difficult for her not to laugh at his discomfort. The poor
man had come a long way in just one week. 'Well,' she said, 'just so
that we're clear on a few points. If, and I say if, we were to stay, there
would be no more scrubbing and polishing?'
'Agreed.'
'No more--'

'I said as my guests. Don't you ever listen?'
'Only if I like the sound of what's being suggested.'
'And do you?'
'In parts. But before I commit myself, I have to mull it over with
the boss.' She turned to her son. 'Ned, what do you think we should

do?'
His eager face was answer enough.


Chapter Thirty-Five

That's all very well, thought Clara, getting up and reaching for her
writing things from the overhead locker, but sometimes spontaneity
had a habit of getting above itself. If it wasn't too much of a
paradox, spontaneity needed careful managing.
Putting these thoughts aside, she settled down to write a letter to
her parents in Australia, with a separate page enclosed for her
brother, Michael, and then she turned to the postcard she had
bought in Deaconsbridge that afternoon. It showed a colourful
selection of mermaid shop signs.






At bedtime that night, Clara knew it was important to put the brakes
on Ned's excitement by stressing that they would only be extending
their stay by a few days. 'We'll be moving on first thing on Monday
morning, Ned,' she told him. 'There's so much more to see and do.
Who knows what's round the corner for us?' He nudged the book
she was supposed to be reading to him. He hasn't been listening, she
thought, when she eventually turned out his light and gave him one
last kiss. He thinks two more days will turn into three, then four,
then goodness knows how many.
She sat at the narrow table with a glass of wine, a plate of crackers
and a gooey wedge of Camembert, enjoying the peace and quiet of
her own company, and wondered why she was so reluctant to hang
around Mermaid House for much longer. It would still be a holiday
for them, so what was the problem?
Because it hadn't been part of her original plan.
She cut into the soft cheese, picked the sticky lump off the knife,
slipped it into her mouth, and let its creamy smoothness melt on her
tongue. Helping herself to another piece, she thought of her original
plan, designed to make her and Ned feel like intrepid explorers. She
had wanted to show Ned what an exciting world he lived in, so that
he would grow up knowing that there were endless possibilities out
there for him. Getting caught up in the lives of a handful of folk however
interesting - had never been a part of it.
Once again, she heard Ron and Eileen extolling the virtues of their
easy-come, easy-go lifestyle. 'Oh, yes, we always start out with a
plan,' Ron had said, 'we like to tease ourselves with a map of intent,
but half the fun in life is changing your mind and abandoning the
rule book. Spontaneity is the name of the game.'


Dear Louise
On the verge of leaving Deaconsbridge, having completed our
missionary work - the natives are almost civilised now! We're
finally getting to see the local sights this weekend (the mermaids
are a clue!) and then we'll be moving on to who knows where.
Further north probably. I'll give you a ring some time next week
just to check all is well.
Lots of love,
Clara and Ned.

Now that she had put down their departure date in writing, it
made their leaving on Monday seem more real, which pleased Clara.
And, as Louise would be the first to say, seldom did Clara Costello
change her mind or go back on her word. U-turns, according to the
Clara Costello School of Management, were for back-pedalling

wimps.
She tidied away the remains of the cheese and crackers, put her
writing things away in their allocated place, and made up her bed. As
she pulled her duvet out of the cupboard beneath the seat, and
caught sight of her filthy jeans hanging on the hook of the shower
door, she remembered that Gabriel had offered her the use of his
washing-machine before they left. She also remembered the envelope
he had given her, and which she had stuffed into her back pocket.
Better remove it now before she forgot about it and threw it into the
washing-machine tomorrow morning. Ripping open the envelope she
extracted a slip of paper on which was written, 'Don't even think
about turning this down!' Paper-clipped to it was a cheque. When
she saw the amount - he had doubled the agreed sum - she shook her
head, partly with disbelief, but also with affection. 'Silly old fool,' she
murmured. A rush of fondness for him brought tears to her eyes. She
was deeply touched. 'Silly, silly, silly man. I was right all along, more
money than sense.'

The next morning Ned woke first. He got dressed without disturbing
Clara, and she only realised he was up and about when he slipped
under her duvet for a hug.
'Shall we ask Mr Liberty to come with us today?' he asked, when
he surfaced from her embrace.
'Do you think he'd want to? He's probably seen the Mermaid
Cavern hundreds of times.'
'But not with us.'
'True.'
He smiled and slid out of the bed. 'Shall I go and ask him?'
'How about some breakfast first?' But he was already standing by
the door, a hand working at the lock. 'Oh, go on, then.' She gave
in.'But don't be surprised if he shouts at you for disturbing him.'
Yawning, she dragged herself reluctantly out of bed, wiped the
condensation from the window above the table and watched Ned
scamper across the courtyard. The back door opened before he
reached it and she saw Gabriel staring down at his early-morning
caller. She strongly approved of Ned's suggestion and she hoped
Gabriel would accept the invitation with good grace: it would be her
way of thanking him for his more than generous cheque.

Armed with a map and several guide books, Gabriel in the front with
Clara, and Ned in the back with Mermy, they embarked on a day's
worth of sightseeing.
But first they had to make a stop in town.
'Just let me pop into the bank,' Clara said, switching off the engine
and grabbing her bag. 'I need some cash.' She also wanted to offload
Gabriel's cheque. Inside the bank, and because it was only open for
the morning on a Saturday, she joined a long queue that snaked its
way round the small building. Minutes later someone else joined the
queue behind her. It was Archie.
'Hello,' she said. 'Didn't think you bothered with banks. I thought
you were strictly a cash-only man.'
'Ah well, my mattress gets uncomfortable if I put too much
underneath it. It plays havoc with my back. Has the Commandant let
you out for an hour or two?'
'I've finished work now. Ned and I are officially on holiday again.
We're taking Mr Liberty to see the Mermaid Cavern.'

'Does that mean you'll be leaving us soon?'
'Monday morning.'
He looked disappointed. 'That's a shame. The place won't be the
same without you.'
'I expect you'll manage pretty well.'
Someone at the front of the queue moved away and they inched
forward.
'By the way,' he said, 'I wanted to thank you for passing all that
work in my direction. I really appreciate it. Oh, and you might like to
know, I took your advice. I've got myself organised with a solicitor.
The ball is definitely rolling, as they say.'
Another person at the head of the queue moved off, and they
shuffled forward again.
'I hope it works out for you, Archie. I'm sure it will. Eventually.'
He shrugged. 'You're probably right. Anyway, cheer me up by
promising you'll come and say goodbye before you and Ned
disappear. Leave town without doing that, and the sheriff and I will
have to send a posse after you.'
'It's a promise.'

The Mermaid Cavern was only a few miles from the centre of
Deaconsbridge. The road climbed out of the town, and in no time the
landscape became markedly different: it was softer, greener, more
curvaceous. This was limestone country, where the White Peak
reigned and the harsher, darker terrain of the High Peak receded into
the northern distance.
According to the guidebooks, the Mermaid Cavern was often
overlooked in favour of the bigger and more commercialised show
caves in nearby Castleton. None the less, they agreed that it was of
geological and historical interest and worth a visit.
But the million-dollar question was: did the mermaid rock
formation really look like a mermaid?
Parking Winnie between another campervan, which had a Dutch
numberplate, and a people-carrier containing two panting, slobbering
Labradors, Clara asked Gabriel if he knew the answer.
'It's so long since I saw it, I can't remember,' he said.
'How long ago? Time for her to have grown taller?'
'It was 1963, if you must know.'
'Oh, well before I was born, then.' She leaned through to Ned.
'Okay, Buster, you can unbuckle yourself now. We're all set.'
'I came here with Anastasia. We went for a picnic afterwards, but
it rained. It came down so hard, so suddenly, we had to shelter under
a tree. She joked we would get struck by lightning and that we would
both die and go to heaven. I told her I was already in heaven.'
Moved by the unexpected tenderness in his voice, and the vivid
picture his words had just painted, Clara turned slowly to look at
him. 'And you've never been back?'
He gave her an odd look. 'What? To heaven?'
'No.' She smiled. 'Here.'
'Wouldn't have been the same.'
Signposts directed them to a path that ran alongside a row of
pretty cottages where yellow daffodils, purple crocuses, and tiny blue
scillas brightened small neat gardens. Twists of smoke plumed from
chimneys and the crisp morning air was filled with the old-fashioned
smell of burning coal.
The entrance to the cave was reached by a series of steps carved
into the rock. In places they were slippery from the rain that had
fallen overnight. Clara held Ned's hand and was tempted to take
Gabriel's, too, but thought better of it: he would have his pride, after
all. And pride seemed to have influenced his appearance that day. If
she wasn't mistaken, he had spruced himself up, even wearing a tie
beneath his V-necked pullover, which didn't have any holes in it.
They paid for their entrance tickets at the wooden booth and were
shepherded through to a dimly lit tunnel where they joined a group
about to embark on the tour of what had once been an old lead
mine.
Fifteen minutes later Clara was glad she had bundled Ned up in his
warmest clothes. It was bone-numbingly cold with no escape from
the icy damp that had already seeped through the thick soles of her
shoes to gnaw at her toes. The tips of her ears and nose were tingling
too, and the occasional splash of water from the low roof on her
exposed skin made her shiver. As she listened to the guide and
watched the direction of his torch, which he used to indicate points
of interest - the flowstones, the stalactites and stalagmites - she
thought of the harsh conditions in which those early miners had
worked.
The guide led them further into the series of caves, warning them
to be careful and to hold on to the rail as they took the steep descent
down towards the pool.
'Are we going to see the mermaid now?' whispered Ned, squeezing
her hand.
'Any minute.'
When they reached the bottom, a boat was waiting for them. They
were helped into it and when all was secure, they moved smoothly
through the water. It didn't seem very impressive at first: the ceiling
of the cave was still quite low, and though a few lights were fixed
into the rock-face there wasn't much to see.
But then they turned a corner and there was an aah! from everyone
in the boat. Even Gabriel, that stalwart of indifference, looked
impressed. The vaulted roof of the cave soared above their heads,
and shimmering lights gave it a serene, cathedral-like quality. People
reached for their cameras, including Clara. After they had taken their
pictures, the guide took them on further.
They came to a large rock that jutted out into the pool, steered
round it and there before them, raised out of the water and subtly
illuminated with softly glowing lamps, was the mermaid. To Clara's
surprise and delight, no leap of imagination or suspension of belief
was needed to make out what she was. There was her tail, the forked
end skimming the surface of the pool, and her curvy body reclined
gracefully against another rock.
For the benefit of those who enjoyed a good yarn, the guide told
them how she came to be here. The story went that she had been a
real live mermaid who had got lost at sea and had somehow found
her way to the cavern - that she was so far inland was glossed over.
She had liked it so much that she had made it her home, and after
wishing that she could stay here for ever, she had been turned to
stone to make wishes come true for others. As tales went, it was farfetched
and fanciful, but it satisfied Ned, and as Clara drew him
closer to her, she hoped he would never lose the sense of wonder she
could see in his eyes. Everything was such a pleasure for him. New,
exciting, full of mystery. Heaven forbid that life should ever become
a chore for him.
Just as she was thinking this, the guide pointed the beam of light
from his torch at the small raised pool behind the mermaid. 'If you
want her to grant you a wish,' he said, 'you have to throw a coin into
her pool.'
Judging from the number of coins already tossed into the crystal
clear water, there had been plenty of people here before them who
had gone along with the lark. Clara reached for her bag. 'Go on,
Ned,' she whispered, 'make a wish.'
He took the ten-pence piece from her. 'But what about you,
Mummy? Don't you want a go? And, Mr Liberty, you have to make
a wish too.'
Gabriel pulled a face. 'I've never heard anything so absurd in all
my life. A lot of stuff and nonsense.' But then he smiled - reminding
Clara of the big bad wolf in Little Red Riding Hood - and produced
a pound coin from his pocket. 'Shall we make it a good one, Ned,
eh? Come on, Miss Costello, get your money out. After your visit to
the bank this morning I know you can afford it.'
They waited for the rest of the group to throw their pennies and
make their wishes, and then, at last, it was their turn. 'Don't say it
out loud,' Ned informed Clara, 'it won't come true if you do.' Four
years old and how well versed he was in these matters. 'And you
mustn't tell anyone what you wished for,' he said afterwards, as the
guide steered the boat away and they waved goodbye to the
mermaid. 'Telling people what you wished for brings you bad luck,
and we don't want that, do we, Mummy?'
'No, Ned. We certainly don't.'
Clara's wish had been the same as it always was whenever
irrational reliance on omens and charms was called for: she wanted
Ned to be happy. But on this occasion she had tagged on an extra
request: that the months ahead would be as enjoyable as the last two
weeks had been.
She glanced at Gabriel's face in the subdued light. There was no
knowing what he had wished for.

Chapter Thirty-Six

On Monday morning, as Clara unhooked Winnie from Mermaid
House's electrical supply, Ned was anything but happy. He wanted
to stay longer. The weekend had passed all too quickly, with most of
it spent sightseeing. They had visited Peveril Castle, the plague village
at Eyam, Buxton, and even another cave - the Blue John Cavern in
Castleton. But now they were preparing to leave.
'There's still more to see,' Ned said, showing her the evidence to
support his argument. He was pointing to a picture in one of their
guide books that showed a place in Matlock Bath where they had
cable-cars to get you up and down the wooded hillside. 'Couldn't we
go there today? Oh, please.'
She stopped what she was doing, sat down, and pulled him on to
her lap, knowing that if she wasn't careful, she'd have a tearful
rebellion on her hands. She flicked through the pages of the book to
the next section. 'And look,' she said, 'even more to see.'
He stared at the picture of a traditional steamer crossing Lake
Windermere, then at the one showing the Beatrix Potter museum.
Clara hoped that the sight of Peter Rabbit in his blue jacket nibbling
a carrot would tempt Ned to get back on the road.
Originally the plan had been to use the Peak District as a stepping
stone for Yorkshire, before carrying on towards Berwick-upon
Tweed and Scotland, where they would then work their way round
the coast, to the top, then drop down the west coast and keep on
going till they hit Devon and Cornwall for the summer. But in bed
last night Clara had decided to change the route. The Lake District,
which was full of all things cute and wonderful, would give her a
better chance of luring Ned away from Deaconsbridge.
She wasn't ready for what Ned said next.
'Couldn't we take Mr Liberty with us to see Peter Rabbit? He'd
like that, wouldn't he?'
She put an arm round him. 'I'm not sure he's a Beatrix Potter kind
of man, Ned. Besides, he has his friends and family here to think of.'
Ned shrugged away her arm and gazed at her intently. 'He doesn't
have any friends. He told me. He said most of them are dead.'
'I'm sure that was just another of his exaggerations. He's not that
old.'

'He is! He's going to be eighty on his next birthday.'
'I'm sorry, Ned, but the answer's still no. Winnie is only big
enough for the two of us. Imagine having a great big man like Mr
Liberty sharing it with us.' It was such an awesome prospect Clara
felt her face twitch with the threat of laughter. Keeping her
expression under control, she added, 'And I bet he snores as loud as a
giant.'
For the first time since getting out of bed that morning, Ned
smiled. 'He'd be just like the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk. When
he snored it was so loud all the buttons fell off Jack's coat.'
Clara giggled. That colourful little detail had been her father's. He
was always contributing his own lines to the stories he read to Ned.
'Pepping it up,' was what he called it. She hugged Ned close. 'Well,
we wouldn't want our buttons falling off whenever Mr Liberty had a
nap. It would be too embarrassing for words.'
With the situation more or less under control, and Ned rounding
up his cuddly toy collection, Clara carried on tidying the van. She
was almost through with checking for potential rattles in the lockers
and cupboards when there was a loud thump at the door. 'Time you
were going, isn't it?'
It was Gabriel.
'Always a mistake to outstay your welcome,' he growled, filling the
doorway and blocking out the light. 'Remember that, Ned. When it's
time to go, you go. No hanging around.'
Clara felt a wave of gratitude towards him for being his usual
blunt self, for not making things worse for Ned by giving him a show
of treacly affection. 'And a good morning to you, Mr Liberty.'

He stepped inside, looked at his watch. 'It's afternoon, as near as
damn it.'
'Mr Liberty, guess where we're going?' Ned chimed in. 'We're
going to see Peter Rabbit and some big lakes and mountains. Do you
want to see?' He held up the guide book that he and Clara had been
reading earlier. 'Mummy says we'll go on a really old boat that has
steam coming out of it. And there's a museum where we can see
pencils being made. And when we've done--'
'Sounds much too exhausting to me,' Gabriel interrupted, scarcely
glancing at what Ned was showing him.
'I think we're about done now,' Clara said, shutting the last
cupboard with a clunk. She took the book from Ned and stowed it in
the rack with the rest of the maps and guides. 'If you'd like to say
goodbye to Mr Liberty you can climb into your seat and strap
yourself in.'
But all at once Ned didn't seem able to move from where he was
standing. He put his hands behind his back and screwed a shoe into
the floor. His eyes lowered to the level of Gabriel's knees, but not
before Clara saw them fill. Then a little voice mumbled 'Goodbye,'
and his lower lip wobbled and she knew they were in real trouble.
She moved towards him, to put a comforting hand on his shoulder
but, with a creak of bones, Gabriel got there before her. He bent
down to Ned, gently picked him up with his big-knuckled old hands
and carried him outside.
Staying where she was, Clara watched them go. This was their
moment. For something to do she repacked one of the cupboards and
tried to ignore the large lump in her throat and the tears that were
threatening to do their worst. Damn the man, why and how had he
got to them both?

Finally they were in their seats with the engine running, and it really
was time to go. Coming round to the driver's side of the van, Gabriel poked his head through the open window. 'You take good care of
yourself, won't you, Miss Costello?'
'Is that an order?'
'If needs be, yes.'
'And you'll take care as well, won't you? Don't lose any of those
instructions I spent ages writing out for you. The dish-washer will
need salt and Rinse-aid adding now and again, and you'll also have
to--'
'Yes, yes, yes, Miss Costello. I have your infernal instructions
Sellotaped to the inside of the cupboard, just as you insisted. I'll have
them tattooed on my chest if it will make you feel any better.'
She revved the engine and knocked the gear-lever into first. 'Well,
then, nothing more to be said. Apart from thanking you for having
us to stay. Ned and I have had a great time. We won't forget you in a
hurry, that's for sure.'
'Pah! You'll forget me so fast you won't even remember to send me
a postcard.'
'We will remember,' cried Ned, fiercely. 'We'll send you one every
week.'
'Goodbye, Mr Liberty. Despite everything, it's been a pleasure.'
His grizzled head was still close to the window and, seizing her
chance, she leaned towards him and kissed his bristly cheek.
'What was that for?'
'What do you think, you silly old fool?'
'I never thought I'd say it, Miss Costello, but if I were a younger
man--'
She laughed. 'If you were a younger man, I wouldn't have dared to
kiss you.'
'Oh, so old age makes me less of a sex object, does it?'
'It makes you more accessible, you whingeing old pain in the
proverbial!'
He laughed too, then reached through the window, lifted her right
hand off the steering-wheel, raised it to his lips, and very gently
kissed it. 'I'm going to miss you, you delectable sharp-tongued girl.
You've been a breath of fresh air for me. Goodbye now. Drive safely.
And if you're ever passing . . .' but his voice trailed away.
Touched, she said, 'We wouldn't dream of not calling in on you if
we were in the area. You can take that as a promise. Or maybe a
threat!'
Steering Winnie out of the courtyard and tooting the horn, they
gave one last wave to the solitary figure that stood in the shadow of
the archway. He didn't linger.
Neither Clara nor Ned spoke until they had reached the midway
point down the long drive. Ned looked out of his window and said,
'Shall I wave one more time in case Mr Liberty's watching us from
the tower?'
She patted his knee. 'Good idea.'
He kept on waving until the house was almost out of sight. When
they were nearly at the end of the drive, they saw a car approaching.
It was Jonah.
Clara was glad to see him. She reckoned Gabriel could do with
some company right now, even if it was only someone he could
bully. She pulled over so that Jonah could come alongside the van.
They wound down their windows at the same time.
Clara said, 'How was it on the Western Front with your school
trip?'
'All quiet when we left it. Wet and cold too.'
'Too bad. So, not at school today shaping fertile young minds?'
'No, we've broken up for the Easter holidays. I've come to see if
Dad wants some shopping fetching. Where are you off to?'
'The Lake District. You'll be pleased to know I've given up trying
to marry your father and swindle him out of his vast fortune.'
'You're leaving?'
'Yes, Ned and I are moving on to pastures new, where scheming
gold-diggers are given the proper respect they deserve.'
He smiled, not hugely, but enough for her to realise how attractive
he was. Yet what struck her most about him in that split second, as
she took in the curve of his mouth and the way his hazel eyes caught
the light as he looked up at her, was that everything about him was
reminiscent of the young woman in the painting in his father's
library. The likeness to his mother was unmistakable and she
wondered if he was aware of it, and whether or not Gabriel found it
a comfort or a painful reminder of what he had lost.
'Caspar will be relieved to hear that,' he said good-humouredly.
'Scaring off a potential step-mother would have been a time
consuming business for him.'
'I bet it would. But do me a favour, will you? Persevere with your
father.'
The smile was gone and his face turned awkward and defensive.
Annoyed that she seemed to have an uncanny knack for rubbing him
up the wrong way, she said, 'I might have misjudged you when I first
met you, but . . . well, a week with your father and I think I
understand things better now.'
But the smile didn't reappear as she had hoped it might. 'I doubt
that,' he said, with feeling. 'Anyway, thanks for everything you've
done for Dad. I'll do my best to carry on where you've left off. That's
if he'll let me.'
'I find the shotgun approach usually works. You ram it up his nose
and lay out your demands. Nothing to it. Goodbye.'



Chapter Thirty-Seven

9 April

Dear Archie,
Apologies for sneaking out of town without saying goodbye. Ned
was so upset about leaving Mermaid House I thought it better to
keep the farewells to a minimum. As you can see, we're in the
Lake District now - weather damp, scenery stunning, people
almost as friendly as those in Deaconsbridge.
Thanks for all your help at Mermaid House.
Regards, Clara and Ned

P.S. What happened to the posse?

10 April

Dear Louise and associated rabble,
The hardship continues! Currently languishing beside beautiful
Lake Windermere with Mrs Tiggywinkle and chums and getting
fat on cream teas. Tomorrow we're going in search of lonely
clouds and hosts of golden daffodils. Sorry I still haven't got
round to phoning - will try to mend my ways. Do hope you're
all behaving yourselves and missing us terribly.
Love from Clara and Ned

P.S. Happy Easter!
11 April

Dear Mr Liberty,
Just to prove we keep our promises, Easter greetings from Dove
Cottage, the home of William Wordsworth. Maybe you should
pen a few lines of poetry and open Mermaid House to the
public, I'm sure you'd love thousands of tourists tramping
through your home. Think how rude you could be to them!
Ned says thank you very much for the money you gave him that
was v. naughty of you (slapped wrists!), but v. kind. He's
used some of it to buy himself a pocket-sized Peter Rabbit.
Take care,
Ned and Miss Costello

P.S. Have you advertised for a cleaner yet?

Bateson, Hardy, Willets and Co.,
Chartered Accountants,
Dean Street,
Manchester.
Mio 9PQ
16 April 2001
Dear Caspar,
Re: Tax Return - C. Liberty.

Please find enclosed copy of latest letter received from the Inland
Revenue.
In view of the claims made, I suggest we meet and discuss the
matter so that we can devise some sort of strategy that will
satisfy our friends at the IR.
Kind regards,
Harvey Wilson
2 Canal View,
Manchester

21 April

Dear Damson,

What the hell's going on? Why won't you speak to me?
Five times I've tried to get you on the phone and on each
occasion some Guardian-reading, bean-eating beardy type has
told me it's not convenient. Since when is it not convenient to
speak to your brother? Or is this all part of the brain-washing
process that's going on up there?
Damson, surely you can see what's happening. Divide and
conquer, it's how these cults operate. They isolate you from those
who care about you, telling you it's for your own good.
If I don't hear from you soon, I will personally come up there
and beat the * * * * out of that patronising wimp of a man who
won't let me speak to you.
Caspar

P.S. How much money have they stung you for?

Rosewood Manor Healing Centre,
Blydale Village,
Northumberland.

Saturday, 26 April.
Darling Caspar,

If you really care about me, don't be silly and drive all the way
up here just to take out your frustration on poor Roland - who
is neither vegetarian nor the wearer of a beard, and he certainly
doesn't read the Guardian] Instead, why don't you write and tell
me what's wrong. And please don't deny that there is anything
bothering you - as twins, you know I always feel it when
something is wrong with you.
Love and warmest wishes,
Damson


27 April,

Dear Louise and everyone,

Here we are north of the border! Glasgow is terrific! Moira,
you'd love it - more designer shops than you can shake a stick
at. Wall-to-wall Rennie Mackintosh stuff as well, tho' not sure
Ned shared my enthusiasm for it! Tomorrow we're setting sail for
the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond - Rob Roy country.
Och aye the noo!
Clara and Ned

P.S. It was great to speak to you on the phone last week, Louise
- it almost made me miss you!

28 April

Dear Mr Liberty,
Saw this wonderful card of a fierce-looking Scotsman playing the
bagpipes and thought of you! Ever thought of dyeing your hair
red?
Hope you're taking care of yourself and haven't slipped back
into your bad old ways.
Best wishes,
Ned and Miss Costello

Bateson, Hardy, Willets and Co.,
Chartered Accountants,
Dean Street,
Manchester,
Mio 9PQ
1 May 2001
Dear Caspar,
Re: Tax Return - C. Liberty.

Once again I enclose a copy of the latest communication from the
Inland Revenue. As you can see from the detailed documentation,
they leave us with little choice or room for manoeuvre.
Kind regards,
Harvey Wilson

2 Canal View,
Manchester

5 May

Dear Damson,
I would much rather discuss this over the phone, or even face to
face. Please let me speak to you.
Caspar

P.S. I might have guessed his name was bloody Roland!

Rosewood Manor Healing Centre,
Blydale Village, Northumberland

Monday, 6 May

Dearest Caspar,
So much anger!
Please, just tell me what's wrong.
Thinking of you, all my love,
Damson

17 Cross Street,
Deaconsbridge

7 May
Dear Stella,
Before the solicitors get too carried away with their expensive
games, why don't we meet and discuss matters in private, just the
two of us? It's the least we owe each other.
Yours hopefully,
Archie

P.S. We don't have to meet in Deaconsbridge if you don't want
to. You choose.

2a Carlisle Terrace,
Macclesfield,
Cheshire

12 May

Dear Archie,
I could meet you a week next Tuesday after work in Buxton, but only for a short while. I'll see you 6.00 by the bandstand.
Stella

Date: 14/05/01 14.44GMT Daylight Time
From: ClaraCost@hotmail.com To: GuyXXX@Phoenix.co.uk

Hope I'm in luck and that you're sitting in the office twiddling
your thumbs as you always used to!
It had to happen sooner or later; I've found myself in a cyber
cafe in the middle of Edinburgh e-mailing you silly boys. How
goes it? Who and what is the latest gossip? Don't hold back on
the dirt!

Date: 14/05/01 14.49GMT Daylight Time
From: GuyXXX@aol.com.uk To: ClaraCost@hotmail.com
Hey, Clarabelle, is that really you? This is like old times. Makes
me realise how much I miss your sharply worded e-mails! I'm
working from home today, so we can gossip quite freely - no
chance of the surfing police earwigging! We have it on good
authority (David), that the big chiefs in Wilmington are
dispatching a couple of their smart-alecky types to suss out the
takeover - Les Francais Garcons are definitely putting their
Francs on the table so it's all systems go. Not that anyone is
supposed to know this, of course, but I don't need to tell you
that it's been common knowledge here for some time that the
plant doesn't fit in with the strategic direction of the CEO's
thinking. And guess who's coming to see us? None other than the
big honcho lawyer himself, Fenton Bexley and the stellar-rated
finance director, Todd Mason Angel. Aren't we the lucky ones?
Fondest etceteras,
Guy

P.S. Didn't you get to know TMA during your stint in
Wilmington? What's he like? Is he likely to drive the women on
the packing line mad with desire? You know what they were like
with the last blue-eyed wonder boy who crossed the water to see
us! Sexual harassment didn't come close!

UK"

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It was five weeks since Gabriel had received the first of the postcards
from Ned and Miss Costello and he had kept each one they had sent.
He had them carefully lined up along the kitchen window-sill and
every day, around twelve o'clock, when the postman finally got
round to making a delivery at Mermaid House, he hung on to the
hope that there would be a new addition for his collection.
It was a mild, sunny morning in May and he bent down to gather
the scattering of envelopes that were spread so far and wide that he
wondered if the postman made a game of firing the mail through the
letterbox to see how far it would go.
Once again, there was no card and he tasted what was now the
familiar bitterness of disappointment. Silly old fool, he berated
himself. Get a grip, man. But then, hiding beneath a buff-coloured
envelope addressed to 'The Occupier', he glimpsed a flash of blue
sky. The pendulum of his emotions swung from disappointment to
delight. Without looking at the card - not wanting to spoil his
enjoyment of it - he took it through to the kitchen where he dropped
the buff-coloured envelope into the bin. Next he scanned his monthly
bank statement for any anomalies, threw away a book-club offer and
the chance to take out a fifteen-thousand-pound loan, then got down
to the card, drawing out the process slowly, wanting to make it last.
The glossy picture showed a busy harbour: there were fishing
boats, large and small, steep rows of terraced houses with red pan
tiled roofs and the ruins of an abbey on a distant clifftop. He
recognised it instantly. It was Whitby. How well he knew it.
For three years running his father had taken him there when he
was a boy. Just the two of them. They had stayed in the same modest
boarding-house each time and always in the first week of August.
The routine never varied: fishing in the morning, lunch overlooking
the quay, and the afternoon spent going for long invigorating walks.
Seventy years on he could still hear his father's voice booming above
the crashing waves on the rocks below them as they marched along
the cliff: 'Come on, Gabriel. Keep up, no lagging behind.' The last
time they had made the trip he had fallen over and cut his knee on a
rusty tin, but he hadn't cried, hadn't wanted to make a fuss. His
father wouldn't have tolerated that. It wasn't until they were at home
two days later and he woke in the night with a thrashing fever that
had induced nightmares of goblins chasing him over a cliff that he
allowed his mother to look at his leg. Straight away she called the
doctor: the gash to his knee was infected and his temperature was
soaring dangerously.
Gabriel turned over the postcard and smiled. Miss Costello had
written it but Ned had added his own name and his topsy-turvy,
oversized writing was thrown across the bottom of the card like
tumbling building bricks.
Gabriel read it through once more then placed it on the windowsill.
But, unlike the rest of the postcards, he positioned it so that the
writing faced him. And while he made himself an early lunch,
hacking at the remains of a loaf and adding a slab of Wensleydale to
the thick hunks of granary bread, he continued to stare at Ned's
handiwork, picturing the lad in the camper-van, kneeling up to the
narrow table, his fingers gripping the pen, his hair falling into his
eyes and his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he
concentrated. The thought of Ned's determination and the attachment
he seemed to have made to an old man he scarcely knew,
caused Gabriel to stop chewing his sandwich.
His shambly.
A few moments passed before he could swallow what was in his
mouth.
If someone had told him two months ago that he could be so
moved, he would have laughed in their face.
But every time he thought of Ned, he experienced a tightening in
his chest. And if he pictured that moment in April when the boy had
tried to say goodbye to him, he felt overwhelmed by sadness so heavy
his breath caught. It happened to him now, made him feel as if his
heart had just been torpedoed.
On impulse, that day, he had carried Ned round to the front of the
house and together they had sat on the curved stone bench beneath
the library window. 'I don't want to go,' the poor blighter had
sniffled, rubbing his sleeve across his face, his legs swinging. 'I like it
here. Nowhere else will be as nice.' The plaintive note in his voice
had cut right through Gabriel.
'Now that's where you're wrong, Mr Smarty Pants,' he had said,
putting an arm around him and tucking him into his side - he was so
small. 'Do you think your mother would take you anywhere she
thought you wouldn't like? No. Of course not. She's much too good
a mother to do that to you.'
Ned had wrinkled his nose. 'I wish you could come with us. I
asked Mummy if you could but she thinks you'd snore and keep us
awake at night.'
Laughing, he had said, 'Your mother's a very wise woman but,
Ned, and you must promise to keep this under your hat, it's not
something I want everyone to know - I'm too old for travelling.'
'I know you're very old,' he had said, so solemnly it had made
Gabriel had wanted to smile, 'but you wouldn't have to drive.
Mummy would do all that.'
'And she has enough on her hands without having me along for
the ride and getting in her way. Now then, dry your eyes and promise
me one more thing, that you'll look after her. When you're older,
you'll discover that the people who least appear to need help are
those who need it most. Do I get a hug goodbye?'
Ned had squashed himself against Gabriel, burrowed his head into
his neck and held on to him tightly.
Even now, all these weeks on, Gabriel could smell the sweet
warmth of the boy and the bubbling sense of energy within his little
body. It was a happy memory, but at the same time it made him feel
low and weary. And so very alone.
The emptiness of the house - the deathly quiet of it - had never
seemed so oppressive as it did now, and that was with Jonah
constantly making a nuisance of himself. Solitude had never bothered
Gabriel in the past, but now he wanted none of it. He craved the
sound of a small child's excited voice calling to him, the hurried,
purposeful footsteps of a young woman, the crisp humorous taunt,
the robust mocking smile. But he knew he could crave those things
all he wanted and he would never know them again.
Through the window, beyond the courtyard, he watched a kestrel
hovering on the wind, its wings beating the air. Seconds passed, and
then it was gone, attracted by something a long way off.
Oh, how he missed that little firecracker and her son.
It was against school policy for a member of staff to visit a pupil at
home on his or her own, especially if the pupil was a girl, so Jonah
had wisely enlisted the help of Barbara Lander - an experienced,
seen-it-all-before geography teacher - to help him get to the bottom
of why Sharna Powell was missing from school yet again. He had a
pretty good idea of what was going on, and had decided it was time
for him to put in a personal appearance. He was taking this slightly
unorthodox approach, rather than bringing in the Education Welfare
Service, because, rightly or wrongly, he believed he could resolve the
problem. In his opinion it was all too easy to pass on the difficult
children to a higher authority and wash one's hands of them, but he
didn't think that was the way to improve the pastoral system at a
school like Dick High.
The Powell family lived on the same estate as Jase O'Dowd, along
with the majority of the kids at Dick High, but unlike most of the
others, who occasionally stayed away from school for the hell of it,
he was certain that Sharna's frequent absences were due to a more
worrying influence than mere peer-group pressure to bunk off
classes.
Parking outside number twenty-three Capstone Close - predictably,
the letter R had been inserted with a black pen into the road
sign - Jonah said, 'Thanks, Barbara, for doing this. I appreciate your
help.'
'No problem. Just don't be too hopeful that we'll get anywhere. If
it is the mother who's deliberately keeping Sharna home, our
presence is likely to be inflammatory.'
'I know, but it's worth a try, isn't it?'
Barbara slipped her bag over her shoulder. 'As I said earlier, I'm
going to leave you to do all the talking. This is your show and if you can't charm this particular birdie down from the tree, I don't know
who can.'
He shoved open his door and got out. 'And what's that supposed
to mean?'
She looked at him over the top of the car. 'Don't sound so
shocked. It's common knowledge in the staff room that your
crusading techniques leave the rest of us standing. Must be
something to do with that fine-boned face of yours and the disarming
boyish smile. It takes the little sods by surprise, makes them want to
help you out. The old dragons like me only get results by beating
them into submission. I'm just pleased you picked me for this
assignment because I'll get to observe you in action, and at close
range.'
'I had no idea I was such a focus of attention,' he said drily.
'Come off it, Jonah, surely you know that everyone in the staff
room calls you Walker behind your back.'
'Walker?'
'Yes, Walker as in crisps, as in potato chips, as in--'
'Mr Chips,' he finished for her. 'Great! Just what I need, a
sobriquet from the Dark Ages.'
She laughed. 'Do you want to know what's also being said about
you behind your back?'
'In or out of the staff room?'
She laughed again. 'What the hormonally charged girls say about
you is unrepeatable, but it's hotly rumoured in the staff room that
you're going to be put in charge of the sixth form in the autumn.'
'You're kidding?'
'Nope. At the rate you're going, you'll be Dick High's very own
Moses, parting the water with a flick of your angelic curls. Don't
frown like that, Jonah, it spoils the whole effect. You can't be a
shiny-eyed enthusiast with stress and worry lines like the rest of us.'

The Powells' semi-detached house was as run-down as the neighbouring
properties - the fascia boards needed replacing, the windows
were filthy, the net curtains were torn, and the overgrown front
garden was a dismal sight: home to a tangle of two dismantled
motorbikes, several burst bags of cement and a supermarket trolley
minus its wheels.
They picked their way through the debris and knocked at the door.
It was ajar and Jonah could hear the sound of a television from
somewhere within. He knocked again, louder this time. The volume
on the television was turned down and a woman's voice shouted,
'Get that, will you, Shar?'
'Hello, Sharna,' Jonah said, when the door opened fully to reveal
an overweight girl with a pasty complexion that flushed ten shades of
red and clashed with the skimpy purple halter-neck top she was
wearing. The lower part of her was covered, just, by a crotch
hugging skirt, and as if to lessen the effect of so much exposed thigh,
she tried to hide one leg behind the other.
'Sir! What're you doing here?'
'I might ask the same of you. Okay if we come in?'
Reluctantly she took them through to the back of the small house,
to the kitchen. Next to a steaming kettle there were two full mugs of
coffee, an opened jar of Nescafe and a carton of long-life milk. As
well as the aroma of instant coffee, there was a less appetising smell
that came from a gas cooker where a charred grill-pan contained a
blanket of solidified cooking fat. It looked as if it had been used
many times: blackened scabs of burnt food poked through its hard,
rancid surface.
With some of her fourteen-year-old spirit returning, Sharna said,
'Not expecting lunch, are you, Sir?'
'No, but I am expecting a good reason for why you're not in
school. Again.'
'It's me asthma. Same as before.' She gave her substantial
shoulders a heave and produced a corroborative cough.
'Then perhaps you ought to cut back.' His gaze fell on an
overflowing ashtray on the draining-board where two packets of
frozen sausages were defrosting.
'I've given up. It's only Mum and me brothers who smoke now.'
'Good for you. Is your mother in?' He saw her hesitate and knew
he had put her on the spot.
'Um . . . she's not well, Sir. She's having a lie-down.'
'She's probably thirsty too. Shall we take her coffee through? It
seems a shame to keep her waiting.' And before she could stop him,
he picked up one of the mugs, went back to the hall, then opened the
door of what he assumed was the front room. The air was blue with
the fug of cigarette smoke. An enormous television, with a china dray
horse on top of it, squatted in the furthest corner of the room - John
Leslie was putting a contestant through the rigorous hoops of Wheel
of Fortune.
'And about time too. How long does it take to boil the kettle and
make us a drink? Who was that at the door? Go on, mate! Spin the
bloody thing!' The voice was thick and husky and emanated from a
woman sitting on the edge of a PVC sofa that crackled with her
agitated movements. Sharna's mother was a larger version of her
daughter - the pasty complexion and the broad shoulders were the
same, as was the shaggy permed hair.
'Mrs Powell?'
She swivelled her head and looked at Jonah with breathtaking
hostility. 'Who the hell are you?'
'I'm Mr Liberty, your daughter's form teacher, and this is Mrs
Lander, a colleague from school.' He handed her the coffee and,
uninvited, sat down beside her. 'If it's not inconvenient,' he said,
we'd like to discuss why Sharna is absent from school so often.
We're very concerned for her. You see, every day she misses puts her
at a disadvantage with her GCSEs, and that strikes me as a great
shame, given her ability.'
Mrs Powell shifted forward and reached for her cigarettes. She
flipped open the packet, took out a Marlboro, hunted for a lighter
among the mess on the table in front of her. 'It's her asthma. How
many times do I have to tell you lot?' She found the lighter and lit the
cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she stared him in the eye, her expression
sullen and challenging. 'What's more, I put it in that note last week
when she was off.'
'It has nothing to do with this, then?' He picked up a two-inch
square polythene bag of tin-tacks from the coffee table, then poked
at a pile waiting to be bagged up. 'Piece-work can take for ever, can't
it? An extra pair of hands makes all the difference - really lightens
the load.'
She threw down the lighter, scattering tin-tacks on the carpet.
'What're you on about? It's me who does this. On my own.' She
placed the cigarette between her lips, drew on it hard, then blew a
cloud of smoke into his face. 'Coming round here with your bloody
fancy posh voice accusing me of friggin' knows what! And why, I'd
like to know, aren't you in school doing what you're paid to do?'
Her tired, lined face blazed with insolence.
While her manner didn't bother Jonah, it upset Sharna, who
hadn't said a word. Now she stepped forward. 'Mum! Don't shout at
him like that, you'll get me into even more trouble.'
'Shut up and leave this to me.'
'But, Mum--'
'If you can't be quiet, get out.'
'He's only trying to help. It's his job.'
Keeping his voice low and smooth, in contrast to Mrs Powell's
bullying screech, Jonah rose to his feet and said, 'I think we've said
all we need to, Mrs Powell. You're a busy woman and we have no
right to take up any more of your valuable time. Sharna, perhaps
you'd show us out.'
Standing at the front door, the volume of the television in the
sitting room turned up again, Sharna said, 'Sorry about that, Sir. She
loses it now and again.'
He looked at her kindly. 'It's okay. But, Sharna, you do have a
choice in this. If you see yourself in years to come earning your living
from packing tin-tacks, like your mother,' he paused meaningfully,
'then so be it. But if there's the slightest chance that you might want
more out of life, I'd be delighted to see you in school first thing
tomorrow morning. Think it over. It's your decision. Nobody else's.
The law says you must attend school in one form or another, but
nobody has the right to bully you into making the wrong decision.
Not me, not your mother, not even Mrs Lander here.'
The girl put a finger to her lower lip, pushed it against her teeth,
chewed at it anxiously. 'I'll . . . I'll see y' then, Sir.'
'Soon, I hope.'
The door closed slowly behind them, and when they were driving
away, Barbara Lander said, 'Creeping bloody ivy! So it is true what
they say about you. You were as slick as an oiled eel.'
'Do you think so?'
'Oh you know so! The moment that horrible woman started
attacking you, the daughter leaped to your defence, just as you knew
she would. Me, I'd have blown it by throwing the letter of the law at
the mother and getting both their backs up. But not you, you
cunningly got the girl on your side. And if there isn't a tick by her
name in the register tomorrow morning, I'll cover your lunch duty
for the rest of term.'
'And it's two whole weeks until half-term - how very generous of
you. However, the hard part will be ensuring we keep her at school.
She'll need a lot of support to stand up to that mother of hers. And
we don't want to cause so many waves that the heavy brigade get
brought in. That would be totally counter-productive.'
He slowed down to let a car pull out in front of him. It had come
from the road where Jase lived, and Jonah was almost tempted to
take a detour and see how he was getting on - year eleven was
officially on home study leave for their GCSEs. The first of the
history papers was set for next Tuesday and Jonah was giving an
eleventh-hour revision lesson on Monday after school. Jase had said
he would be there, but would he?
Shuffling through his collection of dusty cassettes, and not looking
too impressed with his choice of music - Barbara was a country-and
western devotee - she said, 'I'm intrigued, Jonah. Where did you
learn to deal so effectively with bullies?'
He smiled wryly. 'It comes from being a coward. I don't like
confrontation. I prefer to disarm rather than mobilise the tanks of
aggression.'
Of course it had nothing to do with growing up at Mermaid
House.
That evening he stayed on at school to do some marking, but instead
of going home straight away when he had finished, he drove to
Mermaid House. He was concerned about his father. Since the
miraculous Miss Costello had moved on, Gabriel had been morose.
Only a fool would think that her influence had been restricted to
overhauling an uncared-for house: Jonah knew that it had gone
much further than that. She had touched Gabriel Liberty in a way
that few people ever had. Amazingly, she had made him happy.
But what worried Jonah most, was that his father's trademark
fighting spirit had dwindled to nothing. He had mentioned this to
Caspar on the phone, but all his brother had said was, 'Well, it was
bound to happen at some time or other. He can't go to his grave
snapping and snarling - we'd never get the lid down on him.'
'For pity's sake, Caspar, how can you talk like that? He's our
father.'
'He's also a miserable old man who won't listen to a word of
common sense, and who, I might add, took malicious pleasure in
making me look a fool over that Costello woman.'
Jonah had put his brother out of his misery about their father
supposedly marrying for the third time. Predictably Caspar's anger
had been cataclysmic. 'I thought you might have been relieved,'
Jonah had reasoned.
'Relieved he despises me so much that he had to humiliate me in
front of a complete stranger? Are you mad? And why do you always
have to miss the bloody point?'
Changing tack, and hoping to move on to safer ground, Jonah had
said, 'So how's business?'
But the ground had opened up beneath him. 'And what the hell do
you care about my business?' Caspar had sniped. 'Since when have
you ever cared about anything I do?'
'Hey, I'm only asking.'
'Well, don't! Take your snivelling civility and stick it--'
Jonah had ended the conversation by putting the phone down
quietly. There was nothing to be gained from talking with his brother
when he was in that kind of mood. He didn't hear from Caspar in
the following weeks, which meant that he was no longer under any
pressure to do his bidding. There had been no further mention of
selling Mermaid House - their father had made it clear that there
would be no question of it - but privately Jonah still thought it was
the right thing to do.
It was still light when he arrived at Mermaid House, and he found
his father in the gun room, locking the glass-fronted cabinet. 'Bloody
crows,' he said, pocketing the key. 'They've been at the lambs again.
Vermin. Should be wiped off the face of the earth. What brings you
here? And what's that smell?'
'It's this.' He held up a paper carrier-bag. 'Indian take-away.
Thought you might fancy a change from your usual bean-feast.'
Gabriel eyed the bag suspiciously. 'You did, did you?'
'It'll need heating up in the oven for a short while. Shall I see to it?'
'Feel free.'
A week had passed since Jonah had last called in and he was
relieved to see, as he slid the foil packages inside the oven, that his
father was still keeping the place relatively clean and tidy. There were
no feminine touches of flowers or tablecloths, but the kitchen was
still hygienically sound. 'Any luck with finding a cleaner?' he asked,
bending down to a cupboard for two plates, then opening the cutlery
drawer. He knew that Gabriel had placed an advert in the local
paper.
'No. Word's probably gone round the whole of Derbyshire that
I'm a no-go area. Drink?'
'Thanks. But only a small one. I'll add some water.' Despite his
father's look of disapproval, he took the tumbler of whisky over to
the sink. He ran the cold tap for a while then added an inch to the
glass. He noticed the postcards lined up along the windowsill and
looked at the latest addition. He picked it up and turned it over to see
where it had come from. 'I see the Costellos are in Whitby,' he said,
his back still to Gabriel. 'Didn't you go there with your father when
you were a boy?'
'How much longer is this meal going to take?'
Acknowledging that prising any information out of his father
about the past was as productive as trying to squeeze blood out of a
stone, he replaced the card on the sill. 'Another five minutes should
do it.' He raised his glass. 'Cheers.'
While they ate, Jonah kept up the conversation as well as he could,
but it was hard going. His father was even more uncommunicative
and morose than usual. For something to say, he told him about
Sharna and her mother.
'Sounds like you're wasting your time there,' Gabriel said, picking
at his food uninterestedly. 'If people don't want help, you can't force
it on them.'
Jonah looked up from his chicken korma. 'So you think they
should be left to dig themselves a deeper hole from which there's no
hope of them ever climbing out?'
Gabriel lowered his gaze. 'I didn't say that.'
'So what did you mean?'
'You have to wait until people are ready to accept your help. Or
ask for it. Go blundering in as a self-appointed champion of the
underdog with scant regard for anyone's feelings and you'll find
yourself up against a brick wall.'
'But not everyone knows how to ask for help.'
'True. But maybe in the end they do.' His father pushed away his
plate.
Jonah hadn't expected the conversation to take this turn and he
steeled himself to ask, 'Dad, who are we really talking about here?
Disadvantaged teenagers or ... or you?'
As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. Gabriel
glowered at him, his thick eyebrows drawn together, his mouth set so
firmly that his lips had all but disappeared. Oh, God, he recognised
that look. He had seen it a million times and felt the consequences.
Why couldn't he have kept quiet?
But when his father spoke his voice was anything but firm anything
but recognisable. It shook almost as much as the knobbly
hand that reached clumsily for the glass of whisky. 'I ... I would
have thought that was patently obvious, Jonah.'
It was madness to go any further, but with the thought of Miss
Costello's parting words echoing in his head - about the shotgun
approach and laying out one's demands - he felt compelled to force
his father, just once, to be honest with him. 'Are you saying what I
think you're saying? That you want my help but don't know how to
ask for it?'
The heavily loaded question trapped them in a long, silent pause,
and they stared at each other across the table. It was as if they were
frozen with fear. Then, to Jonah's horror, his father's eyes were
swimming with tears.
'Dad?' Jonah rose from his chair uncertainly. He could cope with
irate, booze-sodden parents threatening him and thuggish students
disparaging him. That was a breeze. But this? His father crying? Dear
God, what had he done? He moved slowly round the table, every
step filling him with alarm and confusion. His father's tears were
flowing freely now, his body had slumped forward, his head was in
his hands, and his breathing was coming in sharp, noisy gulps.
Jonah bent down to him cautiously, and for the first time in his
life, he placed a tentative hand on his father's shoulder, expecting it
to be pushed away roughly, to be told, 'Don't touch me!'
But there was no rejection. Gabriel turned into him, rested his head
against his shoulder, and continued to weep. Words streamed out of
him, but Jonah could make no sense of them. It didn't matter,
though. Understanding would come later. For now, comforting his
father was all that was needed.


Chapter Thirty-Nine


Gabriel woke with a start. There was someone - something - in his
room! He sat bolt upright. A shadowy figure was coming towards
him.
'Dad, are you all right?'
'Jonah?'
'I've brought you a cup of tea. How are you feeling? Did you sleep
okay?'
The painful rush of adrenaline that had coursed through his veins
now abandoned him and a heaviness, not unlike a hangover, pushed
Gabriel back against the pillows. Through dry, gritty eyes he
watched Jonah draw the curtains, letting sunlight spill into the room.
He blinked at the brightness. 'Why are you here?' he croaked. His
throat felt as if it had been sandblasted and his voice sounded distant,
not like it normally did. Nothing made sense, and forcing his brain to
battle its way through the lethargy that was consuming him, he
wondered if he had been drugged. But who would have done that to
him?
Jonah came and sat on the bed. There was an expression on his
face that made him look different somehow. Something in the eyes,
the mouth too. It was something oddly familiar . . . something that
made Gabriel's heart miss a beat and made him, inexplicably, want
to cry. Overwhelmed, confusion closed in and he felt as weak as a
baby. He swallowed hard but his mouth was so parched he couldn't.
Panic-stricken, he was terrified suddenly that something awful had
happened to him while he had slept. He sat forward so that he was
eye to eye with Jonah. He gripped his son's hands, and drew a deep,
shuddering breath. 'Jonah, has something happened to me? Tell me
the truth. Have I had a stroke? I feel different. Strange. Not myself.
Am I making sense to you?'
'Dad, calm down, you're fine.'
But the frown on Jonah's face only made him think he was being
lied to. 'The truth,' he demanded. 'Tell me why I feel so strange and
why you're here.'
'Don't you remember last night?'
'What about last night?'
'You were . . . you were very upset.'
'Was I? What about?'
The frowned deepened. 'We were having supper together, we were
talking and . . . Dad, do you really not remember?'
But suddenly Gabriel did have a glimmer of recall. 'You brought
an Indian meal ... we were talking about somebody called
Charlene--'
'Sharna. She's one of my pupils.'
He waved aside the interruption. His befuddled brain had started
to piece together the bits of the jigsaw and he didn't want it to be put
off by unnecessary details. Not when he could feel a new, disturbing
emotion growing inside him. Finally, like a wreck being raised out of
the water, it surfaced and he recognised it as shame. He groaned,
remembering vaguely that something had caused him to lose control
in the kitchen. Appalled, he closed his eyes. How had that happened?
He concentrated hard, and saw himself bent over the table, heard
himself howling. Then he recalled his younger son holding him, and
later helping him upstairs to bed. And all the while he was blethering
like a lunatic. But even as he felt the debilitating shame of what he
had done, and could recall the reasons why, he sensed a closeness to
Jonah that he couldn't explain. He knew though that he could never
talk to him about it. He would never be able to find the right words.
And there was always the danger that if he tried he might lose control
again.
He jerked his eyes open, and said, in his firmest voice, 'I think it
would be better all round if neither of us referred to last night again.'
He saw hesitation in Jonah's face. What was left of his dignity lay in
his son's hands and Gabriel willed him to do as he had asked. Do this
small thing for me, Jonah, he urged.
'Is that really what you want, Dad?' Jonah asked.
'Yes, it is.'
'But . . .'
'But what?'
'You don't think we ought to talk about what happened?'
'No, I don't!'
'Okay,' he said soothingly. 'If that's what you want, that's fine by
me.
Relieved, Gabriel sank back into the softness of the pillows. He
was home and dry. The relief was as potent as the earlier rush of
adrenaline had been. Jonah passed him his tea and as their eyes met,
his son smiled and suddenly Gabriel wasn't so sure that he was home
and dry. He knew that smile so well, had loved it. A hot wave of
panic flooded him, his heart thudded painfully in his chest and his
hands shook so much that he had to put the mug on the bedside
table. He wanted to speak, but couldn't. Consumed with the absurd
need to weep on his son's shoulder again, he summoned all his
strength, heaved himself out of bed and blundered blindly from the
room.
His head spinning, frightened he was going to be sick, he locked
himself into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the bath. He
pressed his clenched fists to his eyes and wept as silently as he could.
God in heaven, why had it taken him almost thirty-five years to see
just how like his mother Jonah was?


Chapter Forty

The May sunshine had warmed the wooden bench Archie was sitting
on, which helped to relax him a little. He wasn't a jumpy man, but
today his nerves were shot to pieces. Which was crazy: he was only
meeting Stella, for heaven's sake - a woman he'd known for most of
his adult life.
But perhaps he hadn't ever really known her. If he had, surely he
wouldn't be sitting here in Buxton, in the Pavilion Gardens, waiting
to meet her so they could discuss their divorce in a civilised and
amicable manner.
It had seemed the right thing to do when he had written to Stella
earlier in the month, and it had still seemed right when she had
penned a hurried note last week to say she couldn't make it that day
after all, but would the following Tuesday be okay? He had sent a
note back saying it would be fine.
But now it felt anything but fine. What would they say to each
other? Would they argue and cause an unpleasant scene that would
play right into the solicitors' hands?
The sun and nervous energy were making him sweat - he
unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up. He was ten minutes
early, and he watched the people around him enjoying themselves.
Picnic blankets were laid out on the grass where cool-bags, discarded
socks and shoes had been scattered, and groups of tiny children, their
lips and clothes stained with ice-lolly juice, squealed and laughed
while their mothers chatted. Through the leafy trees, and down by
the lake, where ducks were being fed chunks of processed bread, the
miniature train rattled along its narrow-gauge track, whistling. In the
shade of an oak tree, a girl and a boy were oblivious to the world
around them as they kissed.
He sighed. Oh, what a world it was, at one minute so beautiful
and full of golden opportunities, and at the next hopelessly confusing
and fraught with difficulties.
'Archie?'
He started. 'Stella!' He got to his feet. Was it really her? Surprise
must have been stamped all over his face.
Self-consciously she patted her short, flicked-back hair. 'I'm still
getting used to it,' she said.
But the dramatic change in hairstyle and colour - from mousy grey
to harsh teak - wasn't the only thing that was different. She had lost
weight, more than a stone. And since when had she had such long
nails? They must be false - she had never been able to get hers to
grow. She had always complained they were too brittle. The
jewellery was new too, and there was too much of it, he thought.
Gifts from the new man in her life, perhaps. The silky overshirt
covered a camisole top that was low at the front, and between her
breasts an amber pendant he didn't recognise caught the sunlight.
She had changed the colour of her lipstick too. It was darker. Too
red. It gave her teeth a yellowed appearance. 'You're looking great,'
he said.
'You too.'
They sat down and Archie cringed at how easily she could lie. He
knew he looked far from well. Only that morning when he had been
shaving he had noticed the unhealthy pallor of his skin and the extra
lines and shadows around his eyes.
'How's the shop going?'
Pride made him want to say that business was booming, that since
she had gone the money had poured in, that he spent every evening
counting his new-found booty and devising ways to spend it - a
yacht here, a second home there. And that was when he wasn't
fighting off the women! Oh, yes, all the gorgeous young women he'd
had in his life since he had become a single man - banging on his
door they were. 'Oh, same as ever,' was all he said, thinking that this
was the answer his circumspect solicitor would expect of him 'Make
the shop sound too profitable, Mr Merryman, and she'll want
a cut of that too! 'Business is up and down,' he added, further
obliging the lawyer in his mind.
'And your mother?'
'A little better.' No thanks to you, he wanted to say, with an
uncharacteristic spurt of malice. Oh, this was no good! They
wouldn't get anywhere if he carried on like this. What was done was
done. Bitterness wouldn't help either of them. 'Do you fancy an icecream?'
he asked, catching sight of a tot leaning forward in his
pushchair, trying to grasp the cornet his mother was keeping at a safe
distance.
'I shouldn't, really,' she said, smoothing out a crease in her skirt,
then crossing her legs and revealing a shapely calf. 'I'm on a diet.' She
made it sound like it was the 'in' thing to be doing, that over in
cosmopolitan Macclesfield that's what everyone was up to.

'Oh. Sure I can't tempt you? Not even a small one?'
She shook her head. Not one hair moved, he noticed. 'But don't let
me stop you.'
Childishly, he took her words as a challenge and strode off to the
nearest ice-cream seller. With a strawberry Cornetto in his hand, he
took the return journey more leisurely. Come on, he told himself,
drop the pathetic dumped-husband routine and relax or this meeting
will be a waste of time.
'So what was it you wanted to discuss?' she asked, when he joined
her on the bench again. He saw her sliding two gold bracelets apart
on her wrist so that she could look at her watch. Couldn't she have
done that while he'd been gone? And how come she was so cool? He
was sweating and squirming like a pig.
He moistened his lips and launched into what he wanted to say.
'This isn't easy for me, Stella, but I just wanted you to know that. . .
that I'm sorry.'
She looked at him blankly. 'Sorry?'
'Yes. For not being the husband you needed. I let you down and
this . . . this awful awkwardness between us seems . . . Oh, Stella, this
coldness between us seems a heck of a price to pay, especially when
you think how happy we once were.'
She continued to stare at him, and in such a way that he wondered
if what he'd said hadn't made sense. He opened his mouth to try to
make himself clearer.
'I don't understand,' she said, her tone icy. 'Is this some sly trick of
yours to make me feel guilty?'
'Me?'
'I know what you're doing, Archie, you're clinging to the past.
You're trying to--'
'I'm not!' he blurted out. 'I was trying to say that I want you to
know I understand. Or, rather, I think I understand. Over the years
we both changed without either of us realising it, and--' A high
pitched squeal of laughter distracted him. He turned to see a small
child lying on his back waving his legs in the air as his mother tickled
his tummy. 'Perhaps if we'd had kiddies, things might have been
different,' he said flatly.
'This isn't about us not being able to have children,' she said
pointedly. 'It's not even about you forcing your mother on me.'
That really hurt. He tried to respond, but his voice failed him.
'I'm not coming back, Archie. I thought I'd made that perfectly
clear. I have a new life now. One that makes me happy. Happier than
I've been in a long while. I only came here to make sure you
understood that.'
He was stung by her hardness and felt himself shrivel inside.
Melting ice-cream trickled down his thumb. 'Stella, I asked you to
meet me so that we could try to make things easier between us. To
make our divorce less painful. I thought it would give us the chance
to go our different ways with a more positive attitude.'
'I don't believe you. You wanted to drag me here to flaunt your
forgiveness at me, to make me feel bad about what I did. You always
did want to be the good guy - self-righteous Archie Merryman. Well,
now you've got what you always wanted. I'm the villain for walking
out on you and you're the hard-done-by man everyone feels sorry
for.' Her voice was tight with recrimination, her words spilling out as
though she had been storing them up specially. Suddenly she leaped
to her feet. 'There's nothing to be gained from this. I knew it would
be a mistake. And look!' She pointed to his left hand accusingly.
'You're still wearing your wedding ring. You haven't accepted
anything at all.' Without another word, she wheeled round and
marched away.
He was dumbfounded. He watched her stride out in the direction
of the opera house, her unfamiliar hair bobbing through the strolling
holiday-makers. Her arms swinging, she veered off-course only once to avoid bumping into a man with a pushchair. Then at last she
disappeared.
Archie thought, if your new life makes you so happy, Stella, why
do you look and sound so miserable?

He drove home to Deaconsbridge more confused than when he had
set out. What had she meant by him always wanting to be the good
guy? Sure, he liked to be liked. Who didn't? It was human nature to
want to get on with other people. The belief that there was good in
everyone was at his core. Take that Mr Liberty, for instance. He
certainly wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but Clara Costello proved his
point perfectly: she had seen something worth digging for beneath
the layers of prickly rudeness or why else had she put herself out for
him?
To his surprise, by the time he reached home and was locking the
car, he no longer felt so sorry for himself. It was Stella his heart went
out to. Her bitterness seemed so much greater than his own.
He let himself in at the back door and saw that his mother had
managed to peel some potatoes for their supper - a hopeful sign. He
went through to the sitting room where he could hear Corrie's theme
playing on the television.
'Hi, Mum,' he said, forcing himself to sound carefree and jolly. He
had told her where he was going, that he was trying to smooth things
out between him and Stella, and he wanted her to think that the
meeting had gone well, that he had it all under control now. He
reached for the evening paper, which had slipped on to the floor
beside her armchair and passed it to her. It was then, when she made
no move to take it from him, that he realised she had had another
stroke.

The doctor said there was no need for him to stay. 'You might just as
well go home and get a decent night's sleep in your own bed,' she
advised.
But Archie said no. 'I wouldn't sleep anyway.'
The doctor, a woman in her early forties with a kindly,
understanding smile, nodded. 'I thought you'd say that. But do your
best to grab the odd nap. We don't want you conking out on us. You
look too useful a chap to lose.'
With the curtain drawn around the bed, screening them off from
the rest of the ward, Archie sat alone with his mother while she slept.
Except it wasn't a true sleep. She was now in a world where he
couldn't reach her.
Dr Singh had warned him that a second stroke was on the cards,
that it would probably strike within a year of the first, but when it
had happened, he had been taken unawares. 'No use looking for
warning signs and symptoms,' Dr Singh had said, 'it'll just make you
more anxious, which will make Bessie more anxious.'
He laid a hand on his mother's and hoped she could feel his touch.
He wanted to believe that she knew he was there and that she wasn't
facing this alone. With her head turned away from him, she looked
just as she always did when she slept. But the other side of her face
told a different story. The corner of her mouth was open and looked
as if it was waiting to have a pipe or a cigar popped into it. Her
eyelid looked as if someone had tied a thread to it, then pulled it
down towards her cheek. It was a heartbreaking sight.
Still with his hand on hers, he sank back into the chair, tilted his
head, closed his eyes and listened to the noises beyond the curtain.
Someone was coughing - a dry, tickly cough - another patient was
muttering in her sleep, and beyond the ward, voices rose and fell. A
phone was ringing and hurried footsteps squeaked on the polished
floor.
This last sound dredged up a pleasant memory for Archie, of his
first visit to Mermaid House and Clara Costello's confident step as
she led him the length of the impressive hallway towards the drawing
room.
As sleep claimed him, he wondered where she was now. What
wouldn't he give to pack up his troubles and take to the road?


Chapter Forty-One

That night Clara dreamed she was running. Her legs carried her
effortlessly through fields of long, dry, swaying grass. Her feet were
bare and a warm breeze blew through her hair - not short as it was
now but streaming out behind her - and in her arms she carried Ned.
There was no weight to him and together they were almost flying. In
the distance, there was a hill, and Ned asked her to take him to the
top. Their laughter rang out like birdsong as she ran sure-footed up
the steep incline. The higher she climbed, the lighter and freer she
felt. From the top, where the sun was brighter, the wind keener, they
looked down on to a small town. It was Deaconsbridge. There was
the church, the bustling market square, Archie's shop and the
Mermaid cafe. Away from the town, and perched on a hill which he had all to himself was a man. He was waving to them. Standing
beside her, Ned clapped his hands. 'Mummy, there's a man waving
to us. Is it Mr Liberty? Has he come to see us?' But as she shielded
her eyes from the glare of the sun, she caught Ned by the hand and
started running again, down the hill, her feet scarcely touching the
ground beneath them. 'That's not Mr Liberty,' she cried, the wind
tossing her words over her shoulder, 'that's your father.'
She woke violently from the dream, her heart racing. That was
twice now she had dreamed of Todd.
Didn't you get to know TMA during your stint in Wilmington?
How innocently Guy had typed those words, never once thinking
they would have such an effect on her. How hard it had been to email
him back and say casually, 'Oh, I met him once or twice. And
yes, you'd better keep him safe from the women on the packing line!'
It was stupid of her, really, but she should have guessed that Todd
would be assigned to visit the plant and oversee the buy-out. It was
part of his job. She wondered if he was anxious about bumping into
her.
Probably not.
She was measuring the depth of his response by her own, which
couldn't be the same. He didn't know that their brief love-affair had
created Ned.
Since she had returned from Wilmington, she had observed his
progress within the organisation from company reports and morale
boosting in-house magazines. She had also tuned in discreetly to any
snippets of transatlantic gossip that buzzed around the plant. But last
year she had been brought up short when she had unexpectedly come
across him in the pages of the Financial Times. It had been an article
about Phoenix's latest rise in profits after the US drug regulator had
given the green light to its new anti-depressant drug, but all she had
been interested in was the photograph that showed the company
finance director. It was clearly an up-to-date picture because he was
wearing glasses, which he hadn't needed when she had known him.
Two thoughts had occurred to her as she looked at the photograph:
(a) the frameless glasses suited Todd, and (b) she would need to
check Ned's vision as he grew older.
She straightened the duvet and turned on to her side, knowing that
sleep would elude her for a while yet. She wished there was someone
in whom she could confide. For more than four years she had kept
her own counsel, and convinced herself that she would never have to
deal with Todd again. She supposed it said a lot about her
controlling nature that she had believed she could wrap things up so
tidily.
But now, because she knew Todd would soon be arriving in
England, a voice was asking if she had done the right thing in
keeping the truth about Ned from him.
Her intentions had been good, though: she hadn't wanted to
jeopardise the relationship he needed to rebuild with his wife and
daughters. But would it have been fairer to give him the facts and let
him decide what to do? And would he be angry, if he were to find out
about Ned, that he had been denied the right to know his son?
That was what worried her most.
Even so, part of her was convinced that it would be better to go on
keeping Todd in the dark - what the eye didn't see, the heart couldn't
miss. But what if he discovered that Clara Costello had jacked in her
job to spend more time with her son? She could imagine the
conversation all too well. 'She has a son? When did she marry?' An
awkward pause. 'Oh, not married. How old is the child?'
When he had done the sums, would he track down those to whom
she had been closest at work, and through them seek her out?
And that was where the need to talk to somebody came in. Should
she confess to her friends so that Guy and David could be on their
guard for any unfortunate slip of the tongue, and prime them to lie
about Ned's age?
She knew that to expose them to such a secret wasn't fair.
No. Her only hope was to carry on as before and pray that Todd
wouldn't ask after her. He hadn't up till now, had he?

But the next morning Clara was tempted to phone Louise. She
thought she would go mad if she didn't confide in someone. The need
to be told that she had done the right thing, that no blame could be
apportioned to her, was so great she could think of nothing else.
Ironically, it was Ned who provided her with the means to stand
firm. With him around, there was no opportunity for her to make
such a telephone call. After breakfast, and following a lengthy, fun
filled washing-up session, they left the campsite in Pateley Bridge which
had been home for the last three days while they had toured
Ripon, Harrogate and Skipton - and set off for Haworth. This was
primarily Clara's choice - she had always wanted to see where the
Bronte sisters had lived - but there were plenty of things to interest
Ned too. A trip on a steam train run by the Keighley and Worth
Valley Railway, and a visit to Eureka!, the Museum for Children in
Halifax. They might even drive over to Leeds to see the Armoury.
Education as well as entertainment was the order of their trip.
She had been worried that Ned would tire of being a perpetual
tourist, but they had yet to encounter boredom. The trick, it seemed,
was to provide a wide-ranging variety of places to visit, as well as
allow themselves occasional days of doing nothing so they could
relax and catch their breath. They did this when they were fortunate
enough to find themselves on campsites with plenty of facilities - a
swimming-pool (preferably indoor), a play area, a woodland trail, a
crazy-golf course. One place they had stopped at in Northumberland,
not far from Bamburgh Castle and Holy Island, had had its
own ten-pin bowling alley and they had spent a hilarious afternoon
trying not to drop cannon balls, as Ned called them, on their toes.

They arrived at the Haworth campsite shortly after twelve. They
checked in and hooked up to the electricity supply. As they had
already stocked up on groceries, fresh milk, a loaf of wholemeal
bread, some Edam for Ned, Stilton for her, and a bag of treats chocolate
fingers, crisps and a bar of Fruit and Nut - they decided to
have lunch. It was warm enough to sit outside, and while they ate
Ned kept his eye on a family a few pitches away. Two small girls
were laughing at their father as he danced around like a gorilla with
a rubber mallet in his hands; their mother looked on, amused, as she
brushed grass off a large plastic groundsheet.
Clara watched Ned closely. What was going through his mind as
he took in this ubiquitous family unit? Did he ever feel he was
missing out in some way?
Inevitably Ned had enquired early on in his young life where his
father was: the children he mixed with at nursery school seemed to
have one, if not two, in their lives - there were plenty of step-fathers
on the scene. Clara had been dreading this question, but had believed
she would wing it when it surfaced. Ever since Ned had started to
talk, Clara's mother had been on at her to devise a reasonable
explanation, saying that it wouldn't be fair to Ned to be anything but
honest. She had also been concerned that Ned might ask her the
crucial question, and had needed to know what she should say.
It had crossed Clara's mind, and for no more than a nanosecond,
to say that his father was dead, but the consequences of such a lie
were too awful to contemplate. As were those of saying she didn't
know who his father was. In the end she had told him the truth, or as
near to it as she could. She had explained that sometimes adults had
to make difficult decisions, and the hardest one she had had to make
was to bring him up on her own because his father lived a long way
away and wasn't able to be a real father to him. She had waited for
him to probe deeper, but the questions didn't come. He seemed
satisfied with what he had, and once more, she put his happiness
down to the fact that he was blessed with wonderful grandparents
and other people who truly cared for him. She didn't fool herself that
she could get away so lightly for much longer, though. The older he
became, the more enquiring he would grow, and in turn she would
have to be more honest with him. As his mother, that was her
responsibility.
As her son, it was his right.
Haworth was beautiful. Surrounded by deserted unspoilt moors, it
was easy to conjure up the brooding sense of melancholy conveyed in
Emily Bronte's classic novel. Windswept moors, abandoned hope,
neglect and decay, it was all here. It was a place of pilgrimage for
anyone whose heart had ever been broken. The long walk up to Top
Withens, reputedly the ruins of the house that had inspired Emily's Wuthering Heights, almost defeated Ned, and Clara had to carry
him for a short while, but afterwards they rewarded themselves with
tea in a pretty cafe in the steep main street of Haworth. Fortified by
strong tea, with lots of milk in it for Ned, and floury scones, homemade
raspberry jam and cream as thick as butter, they joined a
guided tour of the parsonage where the Bronte family had lived.
Then they dawdled through the leafy graveyard, where they played
an impromptu game of hide-and-seek. Ned was easy to find: he
always had a foot or an elbow sticking out from the lichen-coated
headstone he was giggling behind. They had a leisurely snoop
through the gift shops - it was still early in the season and the vast
crowds of sightseers were yet to invade - and found some beautiful
handcrafted wooden toys. Ned picked out a funny little acrobat who
swung his brightly painted body when the sides of the toy were
squeezed, and they added to their collection of postcards, as they did
in every place they visited. Clara also bought herself a copy of Wuthering Heights. It was years since she had read the book, and
apart from being a perfect memento of the day, it would be a
nostalgic treat.
Ned went to bed early that night, worn out, and while he slept,
Clara read. When she had finished the first chapter, she laid it aside
and fished out the tapestry kit she had bought in Glasgow. She had
never tried tapestry before, condemning it as a time-wasting
occupation for those with not enough to do, but she found the
repetitive motion of pushing the needle in and out of the canvas
oddly relaxing. It was also addictive: the steady process of producing
neat rows of orderly stitches had its own appeal for her. She studied
what she had done so far, trying to make up her mind which piece of
the intricate pattern to do next, and settled for the bottom right-hand
corner, where a dusty-skinned Victoria plum had rolled away from
the bowl of fruit that made up the majority of the design. She selected
a length of wool, threaded it, and thought, as she made the first
stitch, how like the plum she was: she, too, had rolled away from
what had been the mainstay of her life - her career.
The decision had not been taken lightly, but it made her smile to
think how dramatically different her life had become. Here she was,
in a second-hand camper-van, surrounded by stunningly picturesque
scenery, spending her evening sewing while her son slept. She had


never felt so full of energy: the closeness she now had with Ned was
truly uplifting. But who was this rejuvenated Clara Costello, who
had been so happy to let go of her old life? And where did she see
herself in the months ahead when it was time for Ned to embark
upon his sixteen-year sentence of scholastic hard labour? Did she
really want to slip back into the rat-race she had left behind and
become again the frazzled woman she had allowed herself to turn
into? Was there something she would rather do?
She rethreaded her needle. What did she want to do?
She felt confident that she could resume her career more or less
where she had left it, maybe not with Phoenix, but there were plenty
of other pharmaceutical companies. The all-important question,
though, was: did she want to pick up where she had left off? Perhaps
it was time to change direction and do something new.
Not so long ago she would have been annoyed and frustrated that
she couldn't find an answer to this but now she was content to take
each day as it came; it was enough to be happy with what she had
right now. And because she had never been a spendthrift she had
sufficient funds to tide them over for some time yet. Come the New
Year she would have to get a job and start bringing in a decent salary
again, but that was months away. It wasn't even June, and they had
the whole of the summer stretching gloriously ahead of them. Three
wonderful months of come-what-may. How lucky she was.

It was when she was lying in bed, having just turned out the light,
that her thoughts slipped back to where they had been first thing that
morning.
Todd.
All at once her anxiety about him returned. It was a warm night
and, with several windows open, she tossed and turned for nearly an
hour listening to noises from their fellow campers - a dog barking, a
car door slamming, a kettle whistling. Before long, the surge of worry
turned into a thumping headache and, knowing she would never get
a decent night's sleep if she didn't take something, she slipped out of
bed and opened the locker above the cooker. It was too high for Ned
to reach and she kept in it the first-aid kit and the bottle of
paracetamol. It wasn't easy to find in the semi-darkness, not with all
the important documents she had stored in there: the vehicle
insurance details, her cheque book and building-society pass book
and a file of other essential records. She continued to rummage for
the paracetamol. She pushed aside a bulging A4 envelope and her
mobile phone, then found something large and bulky that she didn't
recognise. Then, with a flash of guilt, she realised what it was: the
tied-up bundle of Val Liberty's diaries.
She let out a smothered moan of self-reproach - how many times
had she made a mental note not to forget to put them back? - and
lifted the notebooks down from the locker. Despite herself, she
couldn't resist the pull of Val's story-telling. She found the paracetamol,
slipped back into bed, switched on the overhead light and
flicked through Val's last diary. Scanning the pages for something of
interest, her eyes were drawn to the final entry.
The writing was a lot less sure than it had been on previous pages.
She must have known she was dying when she wrote this.

To whoever is reading this (and it will probably be Jonah, he is
the only one who would be interested), all I ask is that you give
my diaries to Gabriel when I am dead and ask him to read them.
I know he won't sort through my things (just as he didn't with
Anastasia), but I do so badly want him to know that in my own
way I did love him. There was so much unsaid in our marriage so
much that needed saying - that this is perhaps the only way I
will be able to communicate my feelings to a man who has been
too hard on his family, but mostly too hard on himself. He
wasn't able to offer his children the love and affection they
needed, for the simple fact one can't give what one hasn't got. A
broken heart is exactly that - a broken vessel with the love
drained out of it.
I've tried to give a fair picture of life at Mermaid House, and
though Gabriel might not like what I've said, I want him to
know that he has to forgive everyone he thinks has let him
down. He needs to forgive himself and be reconciled with the
truth that all any of us can ever do is our very inadequate best.

There were tears in Clara's eyes as she closed the book. It wasn't so
much the poignancy of the words that touched her but all the blank
pages that followed.
She turned out the light and knew that she had no choice but to
return the diaries to their owner. And, just as surely, she knew that
the task had to be performed in person. There could be no cheating,
no sending them anonymously in the post.
She had no idea how she was going to explain to Gabriel why she
had 'borrowed' them.

Chapter Forty-Two

It was just as Caspar feared: the bank had pulled the rug out from
beneath him. They had turned down his request for another thirty
days' grace. And with no one else to turn to, it was financial meltdown
time.
He threw the letter on to the pile of bills on his desk with contempt
and directed his anger at those who could have helped.
His accountant for not moving fast enough to save him from
bankruptcy.
His vindictive father for being such a tight old buzzard and too
stubborn to sell Mermaid House.
The bloodsucking man at the Inland Revenue for hounding him so
relentlessly.
The European Commission for insisting that the special relationship
between car manufacturers and dealers had to be shaken up,
and that forecourt prices had to be cut.
He also blamed the hordes of cheapskate cowboys who were
ruining decent businesses like his by bringing luxury cars into the
country by the back door. He supposed it said a lot about the calibre
of his customers who were now taking their money to these fly-by
night-Johnnies with their low overheads, fast turn-around, cheaper
imports and undercut prices. Never mind the after-sales problems
they experienced. Never mind the fake documents with which these
cars often came. Never mind that men like Caspar Liberty were
forced to rob Paul to pay Peter and go to the wall in the process.
Through the glass panel of his office, which looked out on to the
showroom, he watched a young man of no more than twenty-five
approach a Jaguar XKR. It was late afternoon and sunlight was
shining in through the plate-glass window, showing off to perfection
the car's smooth sleek lines and glossy red finish. The man slipped
into the driver's seat, one hand cupping the head of the gear-lever,
the other stroking the steering-wheel. With his well-cut suit, open
necked shirt, gold watch, ostentatious bracelet, deep tan and collar
length hair, he bore all the hallmarks of a vulgar young blood: in
other words, a genuine punter. He was probably a professional
footballer, or big in the world of popular music. God knows, there
were enough of them in Manchester. What he couldn't be mistaken
for was a member of the anorak crowd; pathetic time-wasters who
came in to drool over something they could never afford.
Caspar waited for one of his salesmen to materialise. Minutes
passed, and no one appeared. He was about to go and deal with the
man himself, when the telephone on his desk rang. He hesitated,
caught between the two. Then, he thought, What the hell? The
business was sunk.
He sat at his desk with his head lowered, and let the phone ring
until the caller gave up.

In the staff room at Dick High, Jonah put down the phone. He had
never rung his brother at work before but, then, he had never been so
worried about their father.
It was four days now since he had witnessed the unimaginable:
Gabriel Liberty crying. Since then he had called at Mermaid House
every day, intending to carry on where Miss Costello had left off, but
his father had had other ideas. 'I'd rather you didn't meddle with my
things,' he had said, taking from Jonah the roll of plastic sacks for
the bin he had just emptied. 'And what, I'd like to know, has got into
you all of a sudden? Why have you taken it upon yourself to keep
pestering me?'
He had wanted to say, 'Because I'm worried about you,' but his
courage had failed him: showing concern was tantamount to
showing weakness, and that was something no Liberty was ever
allowed to do.
His father's stolid manner and desire to pretend that there had
been no breakdown at the kitchen table proved that he was
determined the matter should never be referred to again. But Jonah
knew he would never forget the night when he had helped his father
upstairs and put him to bed. Gabriel had fallen asleep almost
immediately his head had touched the pillow, and not wanting to
leave him alone, Jonah had found himself a blanket and passed an
uncomfortable night in an armchair beside the bed, imagining that
the morning would bring a degree of openness between the two of
them. His hope had been misplaced. The next day his fathers had
indicated that once more the shutters were down. But his words had
been at odds with his actions, for seconds later he had fled the room,
locked himself in the bathroom and stayed there for nearly an hour.
Jonah was convinced that his father was depressed, that in his
current state he would isolate himself further and his health would
suffer. On more than one occasion he had found him standing in the
library staring blankly at Anastasia's portrait. He had tried several
times to get him out of the house, suggesting they go for a walk while
the weather was warm and dry. But anything he put forward was
thrown back at him with the same taciturn reply: 'Why can't you just
leave me alone?'
Jonah had to face facts. As ever, his presence was adding to his
father's discomfort. Or, more accurately, his presence was the cause
of his pain. He had considered getting in touch with Dr Singh, but,
again, his courage had failed him.
Yet the concern that was uppermost in Jonah's mind, and the
reason why he had taken the unprecedented step of phoning Caspar
at work, was that he felt their father's mental state might deteriorate
to the extent that one day he would go out for a walk with one of his
guns and never come back.
Though why he thought Caspar would be of any use, Jonah didn't
know. He would probably offer to load the gun. But perhaps turning
to his brother reflected the depth of his concern. In desperation, he
even wondered if it would be worth his while to get in touch with
Damson.
He sighed deeply. Why was it always he who had to sort things
out? It had been the same when Val had died. Everyone had expected
him to deal with the funeral arrangements. 'But you're so good at
these humdrum things,' Damson had said airily, when he'd hinted
that maybe she and Caspar might like to give him a hand. 'And
anyway,' she'd added, 'you wouldn't want me organising a funeral.
I'd feel duty-bound to turn it into a theatrical event.' Jonah hadn't
doubted it. His sister's idea of a funeral would probably include a
pair of black horses pulling a Victorian glass hearse, with a cortege of
professional keeners trailing behind.
In the staff room, standing at the window looking down on to the
playground, he saw a familiar figure striding across the Tarmac: a lad
wearing a Marilyn Manson T-shirt and hugely baggy jeans hanging
off his hips. Talking into a mobile phone, Jase O'Dowd was pushing
against the tide of shambolic gangs of jostling home-leavers, one of
whom was Sharna Powell. It was early days yet, but since Jonah's
visit to twenty-three Capstone Close, Sharna's attendance at school
had been a hundred per cent.
Checking his watch, Jonah saw that it was four o'clock and time
for his eleventh-hour revision lesson for his GCSE history set.
Gathering up his briefcase, pleased that Jase had shown up, he set off
for his classroom, thinking how easy it was to motivate his pupils but
how impossible it was to do the same with his family.

That evening, to the sound of church bells - it was bell-ringing
practice night - Jonah cooked himself supper. After he had eaten,
and while it was still light, he went outside to work in the garden. He
was in just the right frame of mind to deal with the ancient
honeysuckle.
He hacked away at the woody growth, thinking how sad it was
that the only person who could lift their father's spirits was not a
member of the family but the redoubtable Miss Costello.
He stood back from what was left of the mutilated bush and
decided to have a bonfire. It was almost dark now, very quiet - the
bell-ringers had gone home - and there was little wind, so he bundled
up the honeysuckle, took it down to the bottom of the garden, and
dropped it on to the blackened remains of a previous fire. He fetched some sheets of newspaper and a box of matches from the shed. Twigs
were soon snapping and crackling and tiny flames flickering, and
before long, small billowing clouds puffed into the still night air. As
Jonah stared into the darkness, at the outlines of the distant hills,
spotted here and there with glowing lights, he found himself wishing
he could track down his father's fairy godmother. He would drag her
back to Deaconsbridge and make her wave her magic wand over
Mermaid House once more.
As he absorbed himself in this scenario, he was forced to admit
that his altruism was transparently thin. He didn't want Miss
Costello back just for his father's benefit: since her departure from
Mermaid House, he had thought of her frequently. He wanted to
figure out what had attracted him to her. Had it been her challenging
manner? Or the sharpness of her mind and the way she always
seemed to be one step ahead of him? He smiled wryly. Or perhaps it
had been nothing more than the pose she had struck that day in the
courtyard? Was he merely the same as the next man, aroused simply
by the thought of a woman's body and the potential pleasure and
gratification held within?
Disconsolately, he poked the charred end of a long stick into the
glowing embers of the fire. What did it matter anyway? She was
never coming back.


Chapter Forty-Three

Yorkshire was behind them now. They had left Haworth early that
morning in a blaze of sunshine, taken the A629 to Halifax, then on
to Huddersfield and Holmfirth - Last of the Summer Wine country before
crossing the boundary into Derbyshire. If they kept up their
current speed, Clara reckoned they were less than an hour from
Deaconsbridge. She had thought of ringing Mermaid House to
announce their arrival, but Ned had begged her not to: he was
desperate to surprise Mr Liberty.
Just as she had anticipated, Ned had been overjoyed when she had
told him that they would be making a return trip to Mermaid House
- though, of course, she hadn't told him the reason behind their visit.
His eyes wide with excitement, he had burst out that this was what
he had wished for when he'd tossed his coin into the mermaid's pool
in the cavern. 'You see, Mummy,' he'd said, hopping from one small
foot to the other, 'wishes do come true!' He had wanted to pack up
there and then, but she had insisted that they finish visiting what they
had come to see in Haworth and the surrounding area. But now, and
much to Ned's delight, they would shortly be seeing Gabriel Liberty.
His excitement gave him an extra bounce and she wished she had
half his vitality. As she concentrated on the winding road, she was
aware that a nagging headache was developing and that she felt
drained.
The cause was anxiety - and guilt: she was nervous about coming
clean with Gabriel over Val's diaries. She just hoped he could forgive
her for what she had done. She didn't know why but his forgiveness
was important to her.

Gabriel pushed his stockinged feet into his walking boots, and after a
brief stab at tying the laces with his useless fingers - they were
particularly painful that day - he slipped a shotgun over the crook of
his arm and shut the door after him. He crossed the courtyard and
skirted round the front of the house, across the sloping lawn where
the daffodils had long since gone over, and carried on towards the
copse. The rhododendrons were in full flower, splashes of vermilion
brilliant against the dark green of glossy leaves. He trudged on, his
boots sinking into the soft grass. Sheep scattered at his approach,
bleating mournfully, and above him, the sun shone on the back of his
neck, making him regret putting on the waxed jacket.
His thoughts, never far from his youngest son these days, turned to
Jonah and how badly he had treated him - and was continuing to
treat him. But it was too late to make amends for the damage he had
wreaked. What good would it do to tell Jonah that he was sorry? It
wouldn't change anything, not the words, the gestures, the neglect,
or the downright cruel way he had excluded and blamed the boy.
If only he had been a better man - a better father - he would have
realised that his younger son had never deserved such rough
punishment. It hadn't been Jonah who had killed Anastasia: fate had
done that. But for all these years, ever since Gabriel had come home
in the middle of the night and had been told that his wife was dead,
he had needed to lay the blame on someone. And he had done it that
night when the young nurse had handed Jonah to him. He had
turned his back on her and his baby son, and walked out of the
room, out of the house. In the darkness, he had stumbled down to
the copse and stayed there until dawn had bruised the sky, tearing it
apart with harsh streaks of sunlight. Eventually he went back to the
house, but didn't look at that newborn baby, not until after the
funeral, and only then for a few seconds. How could he, when he
saw him as the cause of his beloved wife's death? It was years before
he was able to lay eyes on the child without wishing he had died
instead of Anastasia.
For years, tolerance was the best he could manage. A thin veneer
of tolerance that was often stripped back to reveal his bitterness, and
to let his child know what it was to suffer. Oh, how callous he had
been.
And what had woken him to the truth?
It was the shock of recognising Anastasia's face so clearly in
Jonah's. Seeing the two of them so inextricably bound together had
brought him up short, had made him, for the first time ever, see
Jonah for what he really was: his mother's son. He was not, as
Gabriel had made him out to be, a malevolent stranger who had
walked into his life and wrecked it.
He was the son of the woman Gabriel had never stopped loving.
Now, whenever he looked at his son, he saw Anastasia staring
back at him. She was in Jonah's eyes, the turn of his head, the
shape of his mouth. The pain of his guilt went so deep inside him that
sometimes Gabriel had to sit down and wait for it to pass. But the
one thing he couldn't do was face Jonah and confide in him. He was
too ashamed. Ashamed to admit that for all this time he had
harboured such a monumental and misplaced grudge. That was why
he continued to rebuff Jonah. Having him around only added to his
grief. Because that was what it felt like. Since that appalling night
when he had broken down, it was as if he was being forced to grieve
for his darling Anastasia all over again.
Plunged further into misery, he pressed on down to the copse
where, in the dense shade of the trees that were in full leaf now, a
blanket of bluebells shimmered, their colour brightening the darkness.
Though not the darkness by which he felt so consumed. That
would never lift. That was his punishment. It was no more than he
deserved. But he'd had enough of the burden, the strain of knowing
that in this life he would never be released from the shame and the
guilt. It was too much for him. He wanted to be with Anastasia. He
needed her forgiveness for what he had done.
The weight of the gun pressed heavily on his arm. He shifted it to a
more comfortable position and entered the wood, feeling at once the
welcome cool shade offered by the trees. He paused, making up his
mind where he wanted to be. As to the rest, he had thought it all out,
had prepared himself so that he could at least get this right.

The triumphant entrance Ned had hoped to make was spoiled by
Gabriel not answering the door.
'Shall we go inside and find him?' Ned asked, assuming that the
door would be unlocked. He pressed his forehead to the door, peered
in through the letterbox.
Clara tried the handle and stepped inside, Ned at her heels. 'But
we'll only go as far as the kitchen,' she said. 'We ought not to intrude
any further.'
She was surprised to see that her hard work had not been in vain.
While the kitchen had gathered a few extraneous piles of paperwork
- mostly bills and bank statements - the place was still reasonably
clean and orderly. She wondered if Gabriel had found himself a
cleaner. Leaving Ned to call him, she noticed the postcards lined up
along the window-sill. Touched that he had kept them, she went over
to look at them, recalling exactly when and where each had been
written.
Still not getting any response to his eager cries, Ned joined her at
the sink. 'Do you think he's gone for a walk?' he asked, his elation
fizzling into disappointment.
'I think that's precisely what he's done. Shall we see if we can find
him?' She had seen the battered old Land Rover in the courtyard, so
it was a safe bet that he hadn't gone far. Unless, of course, Jonah had
given him a lift somewhere.
They shut the back door and set off towards the copse, which,
according to Ned, was where Gabriel liked to go. 'He makes sure the
badgers are all right,' he informed Clara.
It was a truly glorious day. The sun shone brightly in a perfect
canopy of blue, and the air smelt sweet from the grass beneath their
feet. In the distance, the hills were golden with flowering gorse
bushes. Nearing the copse, Clara was overcome by the most beautiful
sight: bluebells, hundreds of them. She had never seen so many in one
spot before. It was breathtaking: a magical infusion of colour. She
stood for a moment to take it in. It was so tranquil here. So perfect.
High up in one of the trees, a wood pigeon broke the calm,
clattering its wings as it flew out of the copse. It came towards them,
and ahead of her, Ned came to a stop. He tilted his head so far back
to watch the bird, she thought he might fall over. She caught up with
him, and together they passed from the sunny brightness into the
dappled, shadowy gloom. The fresh meadow-sweet fragrance of
crushed grass was replaced by the earthy smell of moss, rotting bark
and mouldy damp leaves.
'He usually goes this way,' Ned said knowledgeably, pointing
towards a leafy path that twisted through the thicket of trees.
They had only taken a few steps into the cool woodland when
Clara stood still. She craned her neck. Ned looked up at her. 'What?'
'I thought I heard something.' She smiled. 'It was probably one of
Mr Liberty's badgers.'
But within seconds, they had stopped again, and this time she
knew she wasn't imagining it. Someone else was in the copse.
Remembering that day down by the river when they had first arrived
in Deaconsbridge, she held Ned's hand firmly. The sound grew
louder and she wasn't sure what it was she could hear. It was a
groaning of such guttural rawness it was animal-like. Bravely she
carried on, until at last they came to a small clearing and she saw the
source of the noise.
It was Gabriel Liberty. He was on his knees, crumpled over the
trunk of a fallen beech tree, and beneath his waxed jacket, he was
shaking violently.
'Stay here, Ned,' she commanded. Confusion written all over his
anxious face, he did as she said, and she moved in closer to Gabriel
who seemed to have no idea that they were there. She reached down
to himself, placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. He didn't react and
the racking groans and rasping breath continued. 'Mr Liberty,' she
said, 'it's me, Clara - Miss Costello. Are you hurt?'
He stiffened and turned towards her, his face contorted with abject
misery. Disbelieving eyes, brimming with tears, focused on her. It
was then that she saw the shotgun cradled in his arms. Her instinct
was to step back, to get as much distance between herself and the
gun, but instead she prised it out of his shaking hands, and placed it
on the other side of the tree-trunk. Then she got down on her knees
on the soft cushion of leaves and took him in her arms. She held him
tightly, hushed him with soothing words, as if he were Ned, until
finally, he gave one last, shuddering sob, slumped against her and
gradually became still.
It took all of her strength to pull him on to his feet and sit him on
the damp, moss-covered tree trunk. When she had settled him and
found a grubby old handkerchief in one of his jacket pockets, she
beckoned Ned over.
'Mr Liberty isn't very well, Ned,' she said matter-of-factly. 'Come
and sit down and help me make him feel better.'
With one of them sitting on either side of him, the poor man's first
coherent words, were 'I - I can't bear you to see me like this.'
She took the handkerchief from him and dabbed at his eyes. 'And I
can't bear to think of you suffering like this all alone. What's been
going on?'
He dropped his chin to his chest. 'It's - it's Jonah . . .'
'Jonah? What's happened to him?' Alarmed, Clara thought of the
last time she had seen Jonah. How his expression had transformed
when he had dropped his guard. She thought too of all she now
knew about him from reading Val's diaries. 'Has . . . has there been
an accident?'
Gabriel looked at her, confused. 'No,' he murmured, 'it's me. It's
what I've done to him. Terrible things. I'm - I'm so dreadfully
ashamed. And there's no going back. I know that.' His voice cracked
and she felt a tremor run through him. She took his hands in hers
and squeezed them firmly.
'There might not be a pedal for going backwards,' she said, 'but
there's always one for going forwards. Do you think with my help
you could make it up to the house?'
He raised his red-rimmed eyes to hers. 'Miss Costello, I honestly
believe that with your help, I could do almost anything.'

She kissed his stubbly cheek, then helped him to his feet. 'Well,
before we take on the world, let's start with the short walk home,
shall we?'


Chapter Forty-Four

In Clara's opinion, the best place for Gabriel was bed, but he refused
point-blank to do as she said. Just as he had vehemently rejected her
suggestion that she ought to ring Jonah or Dr Singh. So she removed
his cumbersome jacket, sat him in the chair next to the Aga, sent Ned
upstairs to fetch a blanket - the poor man was in shock and shivering
despite the warmth of the day.
While Ned was out of the room, Clara knelt in front of him. She
rubbed his hands. 'We can't talk now,' she said, 'not really talk, but
later tonight, when Ned's asleep, I want you to tell me what's been
going on here. But for now, all I can do is dose you with hot, sweet
tea and some chocolate cake we brought for you from Haworth.'
He turned his bloodshot eyes on her. 'Dear girl, why are you so
good to me? I don't deserve such kindness.'
'Ulterior motive, I'm still hoping to seduce you and get that ring on
my finger.'
He laid a hand over hers. 'What made you come back so soon?
Did you forget something?'
'In a manner of speaking,' she hedged, 'but we'll talk about that
later too.'
Puffing from his exertion, Ned burst into the kitchen. 'Will this
do?'
Clara took the heavy, feather-leaking eiderdown from him with a
smile. 'Perfect, Ned. Here, help me to wrap up Mr Liberty. We want
him as snug as a bug in a rug.'
They sat with their mugs of tea and plates of cake. Clara let Ned
do all the talking: sitting on Gabriel's lap, with cake crumbs falling
from his fingers as he waved his arms in the air, he told him all about
their travels: of the castles they had seen, the mountains, the lakes,
and the people they had met. 'We even stayed on a farm,' he said
proudly, 'where I learned to milk a goat. And I fed the chickens. And
I rode a pony too. I had to wear a hat that kept slipping over my
eyes.' Drawing breath, he paused before saying, 'But nowhere was as
nice as this. We didn't meet anyone as nice as you, Mr Liberty.'
'I'm delighted to hear it.'
Clara topped up Gabriel's mug with more tea, relieved to hear a
glimmer of his old spirit returning.
When the time came for Ned to go to bed, Gabriel said he wanted
them to be proper guests and stay the night inside Mermaid House.
Apart from his bedroom, Val's old room was the only one Clara had
cleaned and sorted, and though she had irrational reservations about
using it, she made up the double bed to share with Ned.
When she bent to kiss Ned goodnight, he hooked his hands round
her neck and pulled her closer. 'I'm glad we came back,' he said.
'I'm glad too.'
Then, more seriously, he said, 'Is Mr Liberty better now?'
She kissed him and unhooked his hands. 'He'll be fine. He just
needs a little tender loving care. He's like a flower that someone has
forgotten to water. We need to water him and make him nice and
strong again.'
He considered this. 'How long will that take?'
'I don't know. We'll have to see.'
'Two days? Three days?'
She kissed him again, amused that he was subtly negotiating with
her. 'Like I say, we'll have to wait and see.' He seemed happy enough
with her reply and didn't push her any further. Instead, he yawned;
he suddenly looked sleepy. 'Come on,' she said, 'it's late and you
need to get some rest or you'll be the one in need of watering. Enjoy
your night's sleep in a proper bed. And no kicking me when I join
you later.'
He yawned again, turned on to his side, and reached under the
pillow for Mermy. 'I promise,' he said drowsily.
Turning out the light, Clara felt the day catching up with her.
More tired than she had felt in a long while, she took the stairs
slowly, knowing it would be several hours before she would lay her
aching head on a pillow. It was now time to get to the bottom of
Gabriel's problems. Having read Val's diaries, she had a fair idea
that raging guilt would be mostly to blame. Chances were it had
finally caught up with him. The question was, why?
She thought of that moment when, just before entering the copse,
she had paused to admire the bluebells. She remembered thinking
then that she was in the right place at the right time. She wasn't one
of those cranky types who believed in synchronistic events shaping
collective destinies - making sense of coincidence with the benefit of
hindsight was child's play - but there was no avoiding the
extraordinary timing of her arrival here today.
Call it luck, call it predetermination, call it what you will, but it
was a good thing that someone had been there for Gabriel Liberty
when he most needed a friend. Thank goodness for Val's diaries!
Thinking of the diaries, Clara decided that it would be better to hang
on to them until Gabriel was feeling a lot stronger. In his present
state they might upset him too much.
He was waiting for her in the kitchen. He had moved from his
chair by the Aga and was clumsily stacking their supper things in the
dishwasher. Despite his protests, she shooed him back to the chair.
'Leave that to me.'
'I'm not an invalid,' he argued, a little more of his old spirit shining
through the clouds of his melancholy. But he relented anyway.
She tidied up, then poured two glasses of whisky, wondering who
needed it more. She felt unaccountably lethargic and headachey, and
wondered if she had a cold coming. When they were settled at either
side of the Aga, she said, 'So what drove you to think about killing
yourself?'
Gabriel flinched. He had known that this straight-talking woman
would not couch her questions in polite euphemisms, had known,
too, that her candid approach was what he needed and that it would
bring him equal measures of pain and relief. But even so, hearing her
put into such plain words what he had tried to do, filled him with
self-loathing. How desperate he had been. And how typically self
centred. Once again, he had put himself first, prepared to leave his
family to clear up the mess he had made of his life . . . and his death.
He was nothing but a coward.
He took a gulp of his drink. 'Failure,' he said, at last. 'I've been a
lousy father and it's only just dawned on me the harm I've done.'
She looked at him over the rim of her glass. 'Who do you think
you've failed the most?'
'The lot of them. But especially Jonah. I've . . . I've also failed
Anastasia.'
'Not Val?'
He kept his eyes lowered. 'Her too. I never gave her the credit she
deserved. She was a good wife and, against all the odds, a good
mother.'
A silence settled on the room. Not rushing to fill the pause, Gabriel
took a long sip of his drink.
'Tell me about Anastasia,' Clara said softly. 'She was the true love
of your life, wasn't she?'
He took another swig of his whisky. 'That phrase doesn't even
come close.'
'How did you meet?'
'At a wedding. And let me tell you, she outshone the bride by a
long stretch. She was the most beautiful girl present - the most
beautiful I had ever seen.' He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. 'I
was no spring chicken, no innocent, but she dazzled me from the
moment she spoke. She was so compassionate, so genuinely warmhearted.
So full of joy. She had this wonderful ability to make me feel
special. Corny I know, but the truth. She had that same effect on me
even when we were married. We could be at a party, separated by a
roomful of tedious people whom I had no desire to talk to, and our
eyes would meet, and it would be as if we were alone.'
'You're lucky to have experienced that depth of love. Few people
do.'
'It didn't feel lucky to have so much one minute, then have it
snatched away the next.' His tone was bitter. 'Sorry, back to
wallowing in self-pity again.'
She waved aside his apology. 'Did you ever allow yourself to grieve
for Anastasia when she died? And I don't just mean going through
the motions of accepting well-meant platitudes and attending a
funeral. I mean, did you let yourself howl? Did you give in to the
pain and let it render you helpless? Did you put yourself beyond
caring what anyone thought of you?'
Fiddling with his glass, he said, 'You know the answer to that, or
you wouldn't be asking.'
'But today you did put yourself beyond caring, didn't you? Today
you did openly grieve for her, and for everything that has happened
since.'
He nodded. 'And I know what you're going to ask me next. You
want to know what precipitated all this ghastly baring of the soul
and the realisation that I've let Anastasia down, quite apart from
what I've done to Jonah--'

She raised a hand to interrupt him. 'Forgive me for splitting hairs,
but you've known that all along. It's why you've suddenly acknowledged
it that needs explaining.'
Swirling the last of his drink round, then downing it in one, he
said, 'I see, as ever, that you have your gloves off and are sparing me
nothing.'
'Business as usual. So what was the catalyst?'
'You, my dear.'
'Mee? But how? Why?'
Until that moment Gabriel hadn't known the answer to that
question, which he had asked himself earlier that day. But now he
knew with certainty just how important a role this young woman
and her son had played in opening his eyes. 'You and Ned made me
feel better about life,' he said simply. 'You made me realise what I'd
been . . . what I'd been missing out on.' He swallowed, suddenly
frightened that his emotions were in danger of sliding out of control
again. He was being so honest it hurt. As if understanding, she
reached for the bottle of Glenmorangie on the table and refilled his
glass. When she had sat down again, he said, 'In a nutshell, you
cared.'
Oh, there was so much more he could say, so many truths he now
understood. How she had never judged him, never looked at him
with eyes that feared or despised him. How she had never hated him
because he had neglected his family. How she had amused him with
her spirited put-downs. How she had charmed him by not treating
him as a decrepit old man. He could have said all this, if only he
trusted himself to get the words out without looking and sounding
foolishly sentimental.
As ever, she said just the right thing. 'I might know you'd try and
lay the blame on me.'
He managed a small smile. 'How do you think it makes me feel,
knowing that in our politically correct society, which as you know I
abhor, our roles have been reversed and I've been cast as Sleeping
Beauty while you've taken on the role as the Prince who's awakened
me with a kiss.'
She laughed. 'Perhaps Beauty and the Beast would be a more
comfortable analogy for you. And, in case you're wondering, you're
the Beast. So how did you get from seeing life as a more worthwhile
proposition to viewing Jonah differently?'
'After you and Ned had left I realised how lonely I was.'
'And you shared this with Jonah?'
'No. Oh, I wanted to, but have you any idea how hard it is to
admit that you're lonely?'
'You've just done it with me.'
'That's because you're . . . you're different. You're a girl of unique
charm and sensibility.'
She raised her glass to him. 'Still up to speed with the schmaltz, I
see. But back to Jonah. What changed between the two of you?'
'I ... I stopped blaming him for his mother's death.' Keeping his
voice as steady as he could, he explained about the night he had
broken down in front of Jonah, how a connection had been made
between them, but which he had found impossible to acknowledge
or discuss. 'And it was all because I suddenly saw the likeness
between Jonah and his mother.'
'And you'd never seen it before?'
'It sounds absurd, doesn't it? But no. Not consciously. What the
hell's been going on inside my brain all these years is anybody's
guess.' With a deep sigh of regret, he added, 'What does any of it
matter? Jonah will never forgive me for what I've done.' He stared at
her miserably.
She met his gaze with a shake of her head. 'Be warned, I'm about
to split hairs again. You know jolly well, just as I do, that Jonah is
one of the most compassionate people alive, and that he'll forgive
you at the drop of a hat. What you're scared of is how that will make
you feel. That all this time his love and forgiveness were there for the
asking, but you were such a heel you chose to ignore it.'
'You don't think it's too late for reparation, then?'
She looked at him sternly. 'No, I don't. And, what's more, the
sooner you do it, the better. Because then you'll realise that Jonah
was one of the many gifts Anastasia left you. Perhaps the best gift of
all.'
'But how will he react when I tell him that all these years I blamed
him for her death?'
'You don't think he's always known that? Come on, it's time to be
brave. Jonah's a big boy, he can take whatever revelations you throw
at him.'
He took a moment to absorb this idea. To let faint hope take root.
Finally he said, 'And what about Damson and Caspar? What do I
say to them?'
She rubbed her eyes and yawned. 'If you don't mind, I'd rather
leave those two until tomorrow. For now I need to go to bed. I'm
shattered.'
'Yes, of course. You must be tired after your long drive.'
They both rose to their feet. After they had locked up and turned
out the lights, Clara slipped her arm through his. They climbed the
stairs together. She said, 'Would you ever consider seeking professional
help? I mean, someone qualified to discuss what you've . . .
Well, it was a close call today, and if I hadn't--'
He squeezed her arm. 'You're professional enough for me, my
dear. And don't worry, I've learned my lesson.'
'Which is?'
'That while one is caught in the throes of a low and unhappy
mood, it's not the ideal time to distinguish a right course of action.'
When they reached the top of the stairs, Clara said, T might not be
as old as you, or have gone through as much, but my guess is there's
no magic cure or easy way to cope with grief or guilt. You have to
plough headlong through it, take whatever it chucks at you, good or
bad.'
'You sound as if you're talking from experience.'
'This might come as a shock to you, but you don't have a
monopoly on self-reproach. Most of us scourge ourselves from time
to time with a little bit of soul-searching.'
'Even you?'
'Oh, yes. Even me.'
He walked her to Val's old room, and as she pushed open the door
causing a shaft of soft light to spill from the landing across the carpet
to the bed where the cause of her own soul-searching slept, she
suddenly felt emotional and overwrought. She was tired, she told
herself firmly. Nothing that a good night's sleep wouldn't cure.

But she slept fitfully, tossing and turning in the large creaking bed,
one minute hot, the next, freezing cold, all the while crashing from
one bizarre dream sequence to another. Next to her, Ned slept on,
blissfully unaware of her discomfort. By the time daylight filtered
through the gap in the curtains, she had managed to chase away the
nightmares and fallen into a deep, more restful sleep.
She woke to find the other side of the bed empty and her head
thumping. She was drenched in sweat but icy cold. Her eyes were
sore, her throat felt dry, raw and lumpy, and her chest was as tight as
a drum. She had only experienced full-blown flu once, but she
suspected she was in for a second taste of it. Determined to prove
herself wrong, that it was only a cold, she launched herself out of
bed. A hot shower was all she needed. That, a cup of tea and a
couple of paracetamol. She was half-way across the room when the
door opened and Ned came in. He was dressed in the clothes he'd
worn yesterday, and a few paces behind him was Gabriel with a
breakfast tray. He took one look at her, and said, 'Good Lord,
what've you been up to? You look dreadful.'
'I feel dreadful,' she croaked.
She was immediately chivvied back into bed. Pillows were shaken
and plumped, and the duvet straightened while Ned opened the
curtains to brighten the room. Gabriel fetched some paracetamol
from the bathroom and she washed them down with the mug of hot
strong tea. She couldn't face the toast and marmalade he had so
kindly made for her, and within minutes her head and eyelids were
drooping and she was faintly aware of a door shutting quietly. Sleep
sucked her into a nightmarish maze of hunting for Ned, but never
finding him; of driving Winnie up and down a network of narrow
lanes and hills that always brought her to where she had started. She
dreamed she was back at work, that she and the boys were
conversing in German, even though they were working for French
speaking gnomes who sat cross-legged on their desks with little
fishing-rods and on the stroke of each hour burst into Rod Stewart's
old song, 'Do You Think I'm Sexy?'
When she surfaced again she needed to go to the loo. Shivering,
and squinting against the brightness, she focused on her watch.
Heavens! It was four o'clock!
Rallying her aching body, she made her way to the bathroom.
When she had traversed the landing - which felt as unsteady as the
deck of a ship on the high seas - and had locked the door after her,
she had the second shock of her day. Damn! Her period had started.
She groaned, recalling that she didn't have any of those wonder items
tucked away in Winnie that would enable her to swim, roller-skate
and skydive to her heart's desire - she had used them all up during
last month's extravaganza of sporting events. She groaned again.
There was nothing else for it: she would have to rouse herself and
drive into Deaconsbridge. She would need to buy super-strength
painkillers too. Something lethal enough to stun a charging rhinoceros.
Otherwise she'd be in for several days of rolling around on the
floor in agony with a hot-water bottle strapped to her stomach. With
chattering teeth, and her head feeling like pulsating cotton wool, she
unlocked the door, pulled it open, then jumped back, startled.
Looking for all the world like a welcoming committee, Ned and
Gabriel were waiting for her.
'We heard a noise and came to check on you,' Gabriel said,
making a show of looking anywhere but at the rumpled state of her deshabille. 'No need to ask how you're feeling. You look ready to
drop. Back to bed with you.'
She wrapped her arms around her shivering body. 'Er . . . actually
I need to go into Deaconsbridge.'
'Yes, my dear, and I need to marry Lucrezia Borgia. But before I
send out the wedding invitations, you must go back to bed.'
'No, really. You don't understand, I have to go shopping.' But
even as she was speaking, she was being taken by the arm and steered
towards the bedroom. Too weak to disentangle herself from the firm
hands that were guiding her, she was in bed before she knew it.
Sitting next to her, his legs stretched out alongside hers, Ned said,
'Mummy, are you very sick?'
She forced her dry lips into a smile. 'Just a little. But I'll be fine.
Honestly.'
He dipped his head towards her shoulder so that she could put an
arm around him. 'I told Mr Liberty about us having to water him to
make him big and strong again, and he said it was his turn to water
you now.'
Right on cue, Gabriel passed her the mug of tea he had brought
up. She took it gratefully, then remembered about her need to go
shopping. She knew, though, that in her current state, driving would
be a monumental challenge, as well as putting others on the road at
risk. Yet the thought of asking Gabriel to buy her such personal
items seemed far more daunting.

Down in the kitchen, while Ned organised the draughts board for
another game, Gabriel cringed at what he had been asked to do.
Though he had been married twice and had raised a daughter,
'intimate womanly matters' had been an accepted no-go area of
secrecy and mystery. Nothing had ever been divulged to him, and he
had certainly never felt the urge to probe. Now, though, he was
expected to walk bold as brass into the chemist in town and hunt
through the shelves for . . . for . . .
He ran his hand through his hair and shuddered. He couldn't
bring himself to say the words, not even inside his head. Worse still,
he had no idea what the wretched things looked like.
And yet he had to do it. Miss Costello - Clara who had shown him
such kindness - was upstairs in bed, relying on him. This was no time
to be squeamish and embarrassed. He tried to remember the last time
he had been into the chemist. It was when he'd burnt his arm and
had needed antibiotics. He saw himself in the shop, waiting for the
prescription to be made up. Closing his eyes, he tried to recall where
everything was kept. Tissues. Toilet rolls. Shampoo. Nappies.
Combs. Brushes. Makeup. Camera films. Plastic rainhoods. Nail
clippers. Pumice stones. Sponges. Sponge bags. Toothpaste. Throat
lozenges. Vitamin tablets. Witch hazel. Laxatives.
Oh, it was hopeless! He could practically do a roll-call on
everything in the damned shop and still not locate the crucial items
Clara required.
Hearing his name called, he opened his eyes and turned round.
'What's that you're saying, Ned?'
'The telephone's ringing, Mr Liberty, can't you hear it?'
He looked about him, confused - his brain was still in the
chemist's searching the shelves for the elusive items. 'Oh, so it is.' He
crossed the kitchen, went out into the hall to where the phone was
ringing. He picked up the receiver, glad of the diversion.
'Hello, Dad, it's me, Jonah. I'm just nipping to the supermarket
and I wondered if you needed anything. I noticed you were getting
low on cereal the last time I was there. Anything in particular you
fancy?'
Thank God for Jonah, thought Gabriel, five minutes later, when he
had explained that the Costellos were staying with him again and he
had offloaded - after a few false starts - the task that had been thrust
upon him.


Chapter Forty-Five

Jonah was still smiling to himself as he worked his way methodically
round the supermarket, which was busy with early evening shoppers.
Weaving a path through the stop-start traffic of trolleys, he didn't
know what amused him more: his father's excruciating embarrassment
as he mumbled into the phone, trying to avoid the unmentionable
T and ST words, or the fact that Miss Costello was back, albeit
under the weather with flu and 'female malaise'.
Arriving at Mermaid House, and parking alongside the Costello
camper-van he thought of how, only the other night, he had wished
for its owner to return to Deaconsbridge so that she could wave her
magic wand over his father. Well, amazingly, the first part of that
wish had come true. Now it was a matter of getting her back on her feet so that she could fulfil the rest. As to any pleasurable hopes he
might have secretly harboured for himself, time would tell on that
score.
He opened the boot of his car and lifted out two carrier-bags. One
contained everyday bits and bobs for his father, and the other
everything necessary to get the patient on the road to recovery.
His father met him at the door. He looked anxious. 'Did you get
everything?'
'Everything,' Jonah reassured him, and stepped into the kitchen.
'Hi, Ned. Nice to see you again. How're you doing? Hope you're not
going to come down with flu. You ought to be careful too, Dad.'
Ned got down from the chair by the Aga where he had been
reading a book and came over. 'Have you brought some medicine to
make Mummy better?'
'That's right, lots of medicine. We'll soon have her well enough to
chase you round the garden.' He passed one of the bags to Gabriel.
'Do you want to take it up?'
His father's face coloured. 'Er . . . no, I was just about to start
cooking some supper. You do it.'
'Okay, but why don't you hang fire on the cooking and let me do
that for you?'
He realised when he was climbing the stairs that he hadn't asked
his father which bedroom had been turned into a sick room. But the
sound of coughing directed him towards Val's old room. He knocked
on the partially open door. A croaky voice answered, 'It's okay, I'm
as decent as I'll ever be, you can come in. Oh, it's you.'
'You sound disappointed.'
She blew her nose. 'I haven't the strength to be disappointed. You
can come closer, if you want. I promise not to breathe over you.
What have you got there?'
He handed her the plastic bag, hovered awkwardly at her side,
then sat in the chair next to the bed. At once he felt history repeating
itself: how many times had he sat here in this chair chatting to Val
when she was ill? 'I was going shopping anyway and Dad enlisted my
help.'
Despite her discomfort, she smiled knowingly. He could see now
just how ill she was. Her complexion was flushed, and beneath her
eyes, puffy dark arcs bruised the skin. Her breathing was shallow
and echoed with a trace of a wheeze that made him want to clear his
throat. 'Your poor father,' she said hoarsely, 'I've never seen anyone
dissolve into such a heap of toe-curling embarrassment.'
Jonah smiled too. 'Not his scene, I'm afraid. Womanly matters
were always taboo in this household. He would much rather you
were suffering from something less indelicate, something dignified
with backbone. Bubonic plague, for instance.' Lowering his eyes to
the plastic bag, he said, 'I've tried to cover every eventuality, but if
I've forgotten something or got the wrong thing, just say, and I'll
make another trip. The supermarket stays open until eight tonight.'
She rummaged through the bag. He could see the relief in her face.
'Good heavens,' she said hoarsely, 'I'm looking at a small chemist's
shop. You're a real life-saver, Master Liberty. You've thought of
everything. Super-strength painkillers and a selection of feminine
hygiene to suit every occasion. I can even go swimming now.' She
coughed, then reached for a tissue and blew her nose. 'That's if the
mood takes me, of course. Mind if I make a timely exit?'
He rose quickly to his feet. 'Shall I bring up a drink so you can
take the pain-killers?'
'Tea would be great. Though don't make it as strong as your
father does. With the amount I'm getting through, I don't want to
risk sprouting chest hairs.'
She was back in bed when he knocked on the door again. He
noticed she had brushed her hair and sprayed on something pleasant.
She took the mug from him and said, 'Maybe this is the moment to
say that you can call me Clara, seeing as we've been so intimately
thrown together.'
'I'll call you Clara if you stop calling me Master Liberty.'
'Agreed. So - and given your stunted upbringing at the hands of a
father like yours - where did you pick up such a wonderful
understanding of female needs? How come you're not so bashful?'
'No big deal. My last girlfriend suffered badly every month. She
found yoga helped. Shall I pop out the pills for you?'
She nodded, then settled back into the pillows and sipped her tea.
Suddenly she looked doubly tired, as though just talking to him was
taking it out of her. 'You're too much, Jonah, you really are.' She
sighed. 'Emily was a fool to let a saint in human form slip through
her fingers.'
He put the tablets into her outstretched hand. 'How did you know
her name was Emily?'
Her eyes wavered away from his, looked out of the window at the
distant crest of Kinder Scout bathed in the soft early-evening
sunshine. 'Your father must have told me,' she said. 'How else would
I have known?'
It seemed unlikely that his father would have discussed something
as personal as his younger son's love-life, but Jonah let it go. She
started to cough again, her shoulders jerking violently. He took the
mug from her and put it on the bedside table next to the box of
tissues. From the carrier-bag that was now at the end of the bed he
pulled out a bottle of cough mixture. He read the instructions on the
box. 'You're not pregnant or asthmatic, are you?'
'Not asthmatic, and certainly not pregnant. Not unless this is a
contagious bout of immaculate conception I'm suffering from.'
He unscrewed the metal top of the bottle, measured the specified
dose into the plastic cap provided, and gave it to her. 'Every four
hours, it says.' He checked his watch. 'So the next dose will be at
eleven.'
She gave him a limp salute. 'Yes, Doctor.'

I

'I'm on cooking duty next. Any special requests?
She shook her head weakly. 'No, I'm not hungry.'
'Not even a boiled egg? Everyone likes a boiled egg when they're
not well.' Smiling, he added, 'Perhaps I could rustle up a soldier or
two.'
'Sorry, but uniforms have never done it for me.'
He emptied some of the contents of the bag on to the dressing
table behind him, lining up the packets of Lemsip, throat lozenges,
vitamin supplements, and the extra soft tissues. He caught her eye in
the mirror as she watched what he was doing. Thinking that she had
probably had enough of his company, he folded the bag, and said,
'Well, I'll leave you to it then. Shout if you change your mind about
something to eat. And don't worry about Ned. Dad and I will take
good care of him.'
He was across the room and standing by the door when she said,
'Thank you for the tea, Jonah, and . . .'
'And?'
'And for everything else. Give yourself a gold star and go straight
to the top of the class.'
'I guess it's the least I can do, given the amount you did here for
Dad.'
A burst of coughing rattled her chest and when she had recovered,
she said, in a voice laden with sleep, 'You need to talk to him, Jonah.
There's something he wants to say to you, something he needs to say.
Help him to seize the moment. He's not brave enough to do it on his
own.'
Puzzled, Jonah went downstairs. He could hear the animated
sound of his father's voice in the kitchen. He stood in the doorway,
taking in the scene. By the Aga, sitting on Gabriel's lap, Ned was
enthralled with the story that was being read to him with relish and
enthusiasm.
How perfect they looked together. It seemed a shame to disturb
them.

The vote was carried by a unanimous show of hands that Jonah
should cook cheese-and-ham omelettes and Ned's favourite vegetable,
sweetcorn. He was a happy and remarkably trusting little boy,
who appeared to take everything in his stride - a trait he had
probably inherited from his mother, thought Jonah. Though moderately
concerned that she should soon be well, he wasn't put out by
her absence. It was only when he started to yawn and Gabriel
announced that it was his bedtime and that he ought not to share a
bed with his mother that night that he became anxious. 'But where
will I sleep? In Winnie on my own? What if I have a bad dream?'
Jonah stepped in quickly. 'You could have my old room if you
like. It's next door to your mother's. Let's go and have a look at it,
shall we?'
It was a dreary sight in the dim light cast from the low-wattage
bulb hanging from the ceiling rose. There were several boxes on the
double bed, but when these had been removed and the bed made up
with a clean sheet and Ned's own pillow and stripy blue and white
duvet, he seemed happy enough with the arrangements. Especially
when he found a collection of Jonah's long-forgotten books in a
chest at the foot of the bed. There were ancient Rupert Bear books
that Val had given him at Christmas, as well as an old Blue Peter annual. Despite their age, they were in pristine condition, but Jonah
had always been careful with his things.
'Will you check my teeth for me?' Ned said to Jonah, when he had
changed into his pyjamas and stood poised with his toothbrush in the
bathroom, his chin level with the basin. 'Mummy always does that. I
have to do them first, then she brushes them again to make sure I've
done them properly.'
This duty carried out, Ned then asked if he could see if his mother
was awake to give him a good-night kiss.
'Okay, but be sure to be very quiet, just in case she's asleep.' Jonah
waited for him outside the door, not wanting to intrude. Seconds
later, Ned reappeared, disappointed.
'She is asleep. But I climbed up on to the bed anyway and gave her
a kiss.'
As he walked Ned to his bedroom, Jonah was surprised when the
youngster slipped a small hand into his and said, 'Will you tell me a
bedtime story, please? A made-up one? I like those. They're fun.' A
winning toothy smile appeared on his face.
He was hard to resist, so after Ned had settled himself beneath the
duvet, Jonah sat on the edge of the bed and started his tale. He soon
realised that he was cheating and was giving Ned a jumbled-up
version of The Selfish Giant. Deciding that there were too many
deaths in it for a four-year-old, he improvised and gave the tale a
different spin so that everyone lived happily ever after.
His eyes glazed with sleep, Ned said, 'Why didn't the giant like the
children who came to play in his garden?'
'Because he thought they were noisy and might spoil his garden.'
'But they didn't, did they? They made it nice for him. The flowers
grew and the sun shone.'
'And he was jolly lucky to realise that before it was too late,' said a
gruff voice at the door. Ned lifted his head from the pillow and
Jonah turned round. How long had his father been standing there?
He came into the room. 'Do I get a good-night kiss from my
favourite house guest, then?'
Jonah patted Ned's shoulder affectionately. 'I'll leave you to it.
Goodnight.'
'Will you be here tomorrow?'
'I'm at school during the day, but maybe I'll pop in and see you in
the evening. Sleep well.'

While he waited for his father to join him in the kitchen, Jonah
decided to take Clara at her word. Help him to seize the moment. Well, perhaps that moment had come.
But what if the consequences were as devastating as the last time
he had tried to talk to his father?

Driving home later that night, Jonah brought his car to a sudden
stop. For a long moment he sat and stared at his hands as they
gripped the steering wheel in front of him. Then, in a swift, decisive
movement, he switched off the engine and got out of the car.
Breathing hard, he went and leaned against the drystone wall
alongside which he had parked. He gazed across the darkened
landscape, back towards Mermaid House. He saw that his hands
were shaking. It was shock. .
What had just passed between him and his father had gone well
beyond anything he had thought might come of a heart-to-heart
chat. To hear his father asking him for his forgiveness had been
unbearably painful. It had been the culmination of a lifetime of
confused guilt and regret. A lifetime of wondering how things might
have been for his father, and for his brother and sister, if he had
never been born ... if their mother had lived.
'Forgive me, Jonah. Please.'
He had never thought to hear those words. Never imagined such a
moment when his father would lay a hand on his shoulder and say
that he was sorry. Almost too choked to speak, he had mumbled
something about it being okay, that there was nothing to forgive.
That it was all in the past.
'It'll never be in the past,' his father had said, 'not until I know you
forgive me.'
They were standing in the library, symbolically beneath the
portrait that Jonah had made countless wishes upon as a child: Make
my father happy . .. Make him notice me . . . Make Caspar and
Damson like me. Caspar had once caught him staring up at the
painting and had taunted him cruelly. 'You killed her, you know
that, don't you? If it hadn't been for you, she'd still be alive.'
'Please, Jonah,' his father had said, 'I know I've done everything
wrong, but I want to change all that now. It's not too late, is it?'
A shake of the head was as much as he could manage and with an
unsteady hand, he had taken the glass of whisky his father had just
poured for him. He'd downed it in one, willing its warmth to relax
his throat so that he could speak. It worked. 'It's okay, Dad. Really.
I've never held anything against you. I knew it was all down to
circumstances.'
It was then that his father had told him about going down into the
copse with one of his shotguns - just as Jonah had feared he might.
'No, Jonah,' he'd said, raising his hand to stop him from interrupting,
'and don't look at me like that. I don't deserve your sympathy.
Not one ounce of it. I've been a damned silly fool. I can't promise to
change over night, but I want you to know that I do care about you.
I care very much. Another drink? You look like you could do with
it.'
'I'd better not, I'm driving.'
'Of course.'
An awkward silence then followed when neither of them spoke.
Not until Jonah said, 'It's getting late. I ought to go.'
They parted at the back door, not with a great show of new-found
emotion, not with an uncharacteristic hearty embrace, but with a
warm handshake, as though they were two people who had just met
for the first time and had decided they quite liked each other.
Turning from the drystone wall, Jonah got back into his car and
drove home.

Chapter Forty-Six

That same night, in Cross Street, Archie was eating his supper in
front of the television. The news was on, but he wasn't listening to it.
He was too tired. It was as much as he could do to cut into the
chicken and mushroom pie he'd picked up on the way home.
It had been a long, long day with a house clearance in Whaley
Bridge that had taken more effort and time than he'd anticipated.
Valuable hours had been wasted because the relatives of the deceased
owner of the house couldn't decide who should have what. It should
all have been settled before he and Samson had arrived but it hadn't,
and they were soon caught up in a classic family dispute with the
dead woman's daughters-in-law arguing over who had been promised
a pretty little carriage clock from the front room. When things
had got ugly, he and Samson had retreated to the kitchen to start on
the cupboards, leaving the rapidly dividing family to resolve matters
alone. It wasn't as though there was much worth fighting over: the
house was small and the possessions meagre. Maybe that was the
problem: the fewer the bones to pick over, the more frantic and bitter
the feeding frenzy.
Perhaps it was some folk's way of handling grief, letting off steam
by bickering among themselves; it distracted them from what was
really going on. But this lot had been mean and grasping. They
hadn't been interested in sentimental keepsakes: they only wanted the
stuff they thought had a bit of value.
It had been left to him and Samson to clear out the rest, which the
family plainly regarded as rubbish. Archie always felt he owed it to
the person who had spent a lifetime gathering these mementoes to do
his best by them. It was the bedside tables that invariably got to him.
It was in those little drawers that, often, the most personal and
poignant objects had been kept, and which gave the deepest insight
into that person's habits and thoughts. Today's bedside table had
revealed the usual old tubes of ointment, packets of indigestion
tablets, buttons, rusting safety-pins, bent hairpins, and a string of
cheap, gaudy beads. There was a tiny-faced watch that didn't work,
a money-off voucher for washing powder (dated October 1988), a
pair of tweezers, a throat lozenge that had oozed a sticky trail across
an envelope of black and white holiday snaps, a crumbling bath cube
that had lost its scent, and a small trinket box containing a collection
of Christmas cracker jokes, unused party hats, two plastic whistles
and a key-ring. There was also a small Bible, its pages thickened with
use.
He had got away from the house just in time to nip home, clean
himself up, then drive to the hospital. He went every day, hoping for
some sign of improvement in his mother. He always came home
disappointed. Her condition had remained the same since she had
been admitted: unmoving, lost in a world where he couldn't reach
her. He talked to her all the time, though, needing to believe that
while she couldn't make any movement, not even a flicker of her
eyelids, she could still hear him. He couldn't bear the thought that
she might be lonely, that she might feel he had abandoned her. So he
kept her abreast of everything that was going on around her. He told
her about the attractive nurse who had just got engaged and was
planning to marry on a far-away Caribbean island, and with his
voice deliberately low, he gossiped about her fellow patients - the
uppity woman opposite who was always complaining about the
food, the woman who was addicted to crossword puzzles, and the
woman in a risque nightdress whose husband was smuggling in a
regular supply of illicit hooch for her. He didn't tell her about the
woman in the nearest bed who had died and whose place had been
taken by someone new. She had appeared on the ward yesterday, an
elderly woman with badly fitting dentures who wouldn't stop
interrupting Archie as he talked to Bessie. Maybe she was lonely and
didn't have anyone to visit her, but she had tested his patience. 'What
did you say your name was?' she had asked him, for the hundredth
time.
'Archie,' he replied, for the hundredth time.
'I knew an Archie once. He was a terrible man. Kissed me outside
the butcher's for all the world to see.' She laughed loudly, her loose
teeth sliding around in her mouth. 'What did you say your name
was?'

'Archie.'
'I knew an Archie once. He was a terrible man. He--'
Feeling trapped, and hating himself for his rudeness, he had drawn
the curtain around his mother's bed. Looking down at her still body,
it was as if her features had been stolen from her face. All the warmth
and light had gone from it. The true essence of Bessie Merryman was
no longer there.
He ached for her to open her eyes and say something. Anything
would do. 'Archie, be a love and fetch me a cup of tea will you?' Or:
'Archie, where am I? What am I doing here with all these poor old
dears?'
Oh, to have one last conversation with her, to say all the things
that needed saying. What he'd give to hear just one of her
nonsensical words from her creative lexicon.
Forking up the remains of his chicken and mushroom pie, he
realised that he'd never hear another word from Bessie, that he was
days away, maybe hours, from the end.

When the telephone rang again, Caspar could have knocked whoever
it was to the ground. He was sick of the phone ringing constantly.
Word had soon gone round that he was on his uppers and the
vultures had gathered. Friends, they called themselves, well-wishing
friends who were concerned about the rumours they had heard.
To hell with that! They just wanted to gloat.
He poured himself another glass of wine from the second bottle
he'd opened that evening, staggered to his feet, and grabbed the
cordless phone. 'Whoever you are, why don't you take a one-way
trip to hell.'
'Mr Liberty?'
'Sorry, did I make that too complicated for you to understand?'
'Mr Liberty, this is Roland Hall. You might recall that we have
spoken before.'
'Too right I remember. You're the patronising wimp who wouldn't
let me speak to my sister. What do you want? Are you hoping I
might be as stupid as Damson and want to join you?'
'No. I'm calling to say that I think you should come and visit her.'
Though Caspar was very drunk, enough of his brain was
functioning for him to hear something in the man's voice to make the
hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 'Why? What's going on?
And why isn't Damson saying this to me?'
A pause.
'Damson doesn't know I'm making this call.'
'Is that how you operate, then, sneaking behind your punter's
backs, tittle-tattling to friends and relatives?'
'Mr Liberty, our alternative way of life here at Rosewood Manor
may not--'

'Look, buddy, I'm all out of rapture and patience, so cut the
drivelling waffle about your Arcadian existence and get to the point.'
There was another pause. 'Your sister is ill and I think you should
come to see her.'

After drinking copious amounts of head-clearing espresso coffee,
Caspar lay in bed cursing the day Damson had ever been introduced
to Rosewood Manor Healing Centre. Oh, he knew what had
happened up there, all right. They'd fed her some wishy-washy diet
of ginseng and cabbage, had made her ill and were now frightened at
what they'd done to her.
He punched his fist into the pillow, regretting the amount of wine
he had drunk. If he hadn't knocked so much of it back he would
have been able to drive straight up there and fetch Damson home. As
it was, he had to wait until he was free of the risk of getting done for
drink-driving. He already had six points on his licence, and on top of
everything else, a year-long ban would be the final straw.

As soon as it was light, Caspar was ready for the journey north. He'd
managed a couple of hours' sleep, and with yet another fix of strong
black coffee inside him, he gripped the steering-wheel with steely
determination. He had it all worked out. He would arrive at
Rosewood Manor, give that Roland Hall a piece of his mind, put
Damson in the car and get the hell out of it.
Then he would drive south, stopping somewhere for the night.
Harrogate perhaps, somewhere half decent. He had enough cash on
him to stump up for a twin-bedded room for him and Damson, but
he would have to be careful: credit cards were a no-go area now. He
had a bit stashed away that not even his accountant knew about, but
that was real rainy-day stuff. And, of course, there was always
Damson. Once she knew of the bother he was in, she would tide him
over until he got himself sorted and was on his feet again.
Unless, of course, those manipulative, brainwashing weirdos had
bled her dry.
This thought had him pressing down on the accelerator and,
flashing his lights at the car in front of him, he sped on towards
Northumberland.

Clara opened her eyes, wanting to believe that she would feel better
today.
But she wasn't. She was worse. Her skin was so flushed and
sensitive it felt raw all over, as if someone had taken a cheese-grater
to her in the night. Her joints seemed to have tightened while she
slept and ached horribly. Her throat was so sore she would have
sworn on a stack of Bibles that she had gargled with broken glass.
Her chest ached from prolonged bouts of coughing and her head
throbbed. Added to this, her stomach was cramping painfully.
She eased herself into a sitting position and reached for the box of
tissues, then took a sip from the glass of water someone had
thoughtfully left for her and forced down a couple of pain-killers.
From downstairs, she could hear voices: one high, one low. She
glanced at her watch on the bedside table and saw that it was half
past nine. This was no good, she had to get herself moving - she had
to get back into the land of the living. She pushed away the duvet
and swung her legs out of bed, her mind set on having an
invigorating shower - on the other hand, given that the plumbing at
Mermaid House was not for the faint-hearted, a bath might be a
better option.
But when she reached the bathroom, it was as much as she could
do to brush her teeth and use the loo. Then she shuffled back to bed
and pulled the duvet over her. A knock at the door interrupted a
coughing fit. 'Come in, if you.dare,' she rasped.
'How's the patient?' asked Gabriel.
'Are you feeling better, Mummy?'
The look of hope on their faces was enough to make her cry.
'Sorry,' she said, 'but I think I'm worse.'
'I'll send for Dr Singh,' said Gabriel, so resolutely that she knew it
would be useless to try to overrule him. 'It's about time Sonny Jim
did something worthwhile round here.'

The doctor called later that afternoon. But it wasn't the much
maligned Dr Singh, it was a locum, a diminutive young man with the
beginnings of a moustache on his top lip and a pair of nervous blue
eyes. He checked her over, diagnosed flu, wrote out a prescription,
and advised her to drink plenty of fluids.
'As if we hadn't thought of that,' Gabriel growled, when he'd
shown the doctor out and Clara told him what he had said.
'Sorry to be such a nuisance,' she said. 'Sorry, too, that I'm not
making a speedy recovery.'
He sat on the end of the bed with Ned. 'Can't be helped. Just glad
that you're here with me and not stuck on a campsite in the middle of
nowhere. Do you feel like eating anything yet? All you've had since
yesterday is a bowl of tomato soup.'
She shook her head, then wished she hadn't. She closed her eyes,
waited for her brain to stop spinning inside her skull, and at once felt
herself drifting on a tide of sleep. In the distance she heard Gabriel
say, 'Make haste, young Ned, we need to get your mother's
prescription made up before the shops close for the day.'
Rallying herself, she said, or thought she said, 'Make sure you
strap yourself in, Ned.'
The room went quiet and sleep claimed her fully. She sank into a
dream that held her in an endless loop of knocking nails into the hull
of a boat to stop the sea flooding in. Again and again she frantically
banged the hammer against the nails.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She roused herself out of the dream, only to slip straight into
another. She was dreaming of Jonah. He was dressed in a pair of
jeans with a loose-fitting pale blue shirt, his sleeves were rolled up to
the elbows, and he was carrying a large vase of flowers. 'Put them in
the cupboard with the rest,' she told him, 'but don't try eating them.
They'll make you shrink.' He raised an eyebrow, tilted his head to
one side, and gazed at her quizzically. She giggled, thinking how
gorgeously fresh-faced and kissable he looked. 'Well, Master Liberty,
I'll wager you've broken a few hearts in your time, you being such a
romantic cutie.' That was the nice thing about dreams, you could
think and say what you liked with delicious impunity. He came
closer, still tilting his head, and still, it had to be said, looking
adorable.
A slow smile appeared on his face. 'You're not mixing your
medication, are you?' he asked.
She grinned back at him, but then began to feel that something
was wrong with the dream. It was too real. Too three-dimensional.
She focused on the vase of flowers and realised she could smell them
- could even identify the particular scent of carnations. Was that
possible? Did things really smell in dreams? She decided not, and

raising herself into a sitting position, she dragged her sluggish brain
into a more alert state and registered that he was assessing her a little
too intently for her liking, as if trying to decide if she was a candidate
for Care in the Community. 'Did I just say something silly?' she
asked.
'Very silly. But it's my fault, I shouldn't have disturbed you.'
She cringed. 'Sorry about that. I keep having these awful dreams
that don't make any sense. I thought I was still dreaming when you
came in.'
'Ah, well, that would explain the romantic cutie bit,' he said
playfully. 'These are for you, by the way. Where would you like
them? And no worries about me eating them, I'm not hungry.'
She groaned. 'Oh, go right ahead, why don't you? Make fun of a
girl when she's too weak to defend herself. If you put them on the
window-ledge, the breeze will waft the scent in my direction. And
before you think I've lost my manners completely, thank you, they're
beautiful.' She watched him put the vase on the ledge, noting that he
did everything with carefully considered movements, just as he had
yesterday when he had set out the items from the chemist on the
dressing-table: there was nothing slap-dash about him. With his back
to her as he looked out of the window, she said, 'School finished for
the day?'
He turned, the sunlight shining from behind him and making his
hair glow with a coppery warmth. 'Yes. And for the next week. It's
half-term now.'
'Goodness, you're always on holiday when we meet.'
'Not quite.' He came back towards the bed. 'Are you up for a
chat?'
'Sure.'
He settled in the chair next to her, stretched out his legs in front of
him, and smoothed the wrinkles in his jeans with long, straight
fingers. 'Where are Dad and Ned?' he asked.
'The last I heard they were going into Deaconsbridge to get my
prescription made up.' She checked her watch. 'That was more than
two hours ago.'
'You've seen a doctor?'
'Yes. Your father insisted on calling one out. A boy not much older
than Ned diagnosed I had flu.'
He smiled. 'He's very fond of you, isn't he?'
'Who? The pubescent doctor or my son?'
'My father.'
'This may surprise you, but I'm quite fond of the old devil myself.'
She coughed, then coughed again, and once she'd started, she
couldn't stop. She held a tissue to her mouth while her chest crackled
and her ribs ached, and as she struggled to catch her breath, he stood
up and rubbed her back. Within seconds the spluttering convulsion
passed and she flopped exhausted against the pillows. 'Sorry about
that,' she wheezed.
'Can I get you anything?'
'A new body would be nice, I'm tired of this one, but I'll make do
with some cough mixture and a cup of tea, if it's not too much
trouble.'
'Your wish is my command. You see to the cough mixture and I'll
organise the tea.'
He soon returned with a tray on which he'd placed two mugs of
tea, a segmented orange, and a plate of chocolate biscuits. 'Vitamin
C and something to give you energy. If the crumbs are too painful to
swallow, you can make do with licking off the chocolate.'
He made himself comfortable in the chair again, and after he had
persuaded her to take a biscuit, he said, 'I thought you might like to
know that I took your advice last night.'
She dunked the biscuit in her tea. 'I'm having trouble remembering
my name, never mind what I said last night. What did you do?'
'I got Dad to talk to me.'
She looked at him blankly. 'Did I tell you to do that?'
'Yes. You told me to seize the moment.'
She thought about this. There was a vaguely familiar ring to the
words, but she couldn't be sure they had been hers. 'I think I may
have been delirious when I said that. Was it good advice?'
He nodded. 'Excellent advice. I have a lot to thank you for.'
It seemed an age since she and Ned had found Gabriel on his knees
in the copse, and Clara wondered just how honest he had been with
Jonah. 'He's had a lot to come to terms with recently, hasn't he?' she
said, prompting Jonah into expanding on what he had just said.
He ran a hand through his thick wavy hair - an elegant movement
that momentarily caught and held her attention. 'That's putting it
mildly. I just wish he could have opened up years ago.' He raised his
eyes to hers. 'Dad told me about you finding him in the copse.' For a
long moment his words, and what they implied, hung between them.
'I feel I've let him down,' he continued, 'that he reached such an
awful point and--'
'Don't, Jonah. There's been enough self-recrimination going on in

this family already. You tried your best with someone who wasn't
ready to be helped. Just be glad that the two of you are reconciled.
And remember, it wasn't your fault that he kept his feelings under
house arrest all that time.'
He smiled that soft hesitant smile of his and passed her another
biscuit. 'Yes, ma'am.'
She waved the plate away.
'Feeling tired again?'
'Yes.'
'Anything I can get you before you slip away on another of your
hallucinogenic trips?'
She thought about this. 'Actually, yes, there is. I need some clean
things to wear. Take Ned with you to the van when he gets back
with your father, and he'll show you where everything's kept. The
keys are in my handbag.'
'Is that all?'
'Mm . . . something to read would be good. Though not the copy
of Wuthering Heights in the rack above the table. My brain will
crash completely if I attempt that. Pick me something else. Something
light and comforting.'
'Something romantic?'
She closed her eyes, all her energy now spent. 'No. A nice gory
murder would suit me better.'


Chapter Forty-Seven

Caspar's day wasn't going as smoothly as he had wanted it to. A
snarl-up on the motorway had added an extra hour and a half to his
journey, and now it was taking him for ever to find Rosewood
Manor. He'd gone round in circles, doubling back on himself again
and again along roads that cleaved through windswept moors and all
looked the same. It was a wild inhospitable place of craggy bleakness
with few houses, and in places it reminded him of Hollow Edge
Moor. He had left Manchester in the sun earlier that morning, but up
here, in this godforsaken land where the rain was pouring and the
wind gusting, it wasn't difficult to picture the tribes of marauding
savages from the north that the Romans had been so keen to keep
out by building Hadrian's Wall.
Whatever had possessed Damson to settle here?
Eventually he stopped to risk lunch at a pub, where the copper
topped tables were sticky with beer and scarred with cigarette burns;
the padded stools were so filthy he thought twice about sitting down.
His order was taken by a charmless old hag who was more interested
in watching the wide-screen television hanging from the wall at the
far end of the overheated room than serving anyone. There were few
other punters: a wizened man with his nose dipping into his pint, and
a group of youths lolling around a pool table.
He planned to stay just long enough to satisfy his growling
stomach and to ask the whereabouts of Rosewood Manor Healing
Centre.
Nobody had heard of it, but he was informed that Blydale Village
wasn't a village as such. 'Nothing more than a sprawling place that's
got above itself,' the hag said, with a disapproving sniff when he
handed over a ten-pound note for a plate of artificially pink
microwaved gammon steak and a glass of unspeakably rough
brandy.
Just because the Romans had departed aeons ago, it didn't mean
the natives had gone soft on tribalism, Caspar observed, as he slipped
back into the refined comfort of his Maserati. He knew the sensible
thing to do was phone Rosewood Manor and ask for directions, but
he'd be damned before he was reduced to doing that. Getting that
nerdy wimp Roland Hall on the phone and asking him for help was
out of the question.
He drove on determinedly, back towards Blydale. Ten minutes
later, luck shone on him when he saw the remains of a wooden sign
he hadn't noticed before, although he had driven up and down this
stretch of road several times. He stopped the car, got out and, with
the rain pelting down on him, poked around in the long, sodden
grass with his foot. Flipping the rotten piece of wood over, he saw
the words 'Rosewood Manor Healing Centre' carved in a pretentiously
curlicued script. Hallelujah! Now, at long last, he was getting
somewhere.
Back in the car, he took the next left, as the sign had originally
indicated. The road dipped and narrowed, twisted and climbed and
all but disappeared up its own access before it brought him to the
brow of a hill and a T-junction. There were no helpful signs, but in
the distance, submerged in the misty gloom of a verdant coniferous
plantation, he saw a large house.
He drove on hopefully. At the approach to the house, a metal gate
barred his way. Attached to it was a sign that read, 'Private Property'
and 'Keep Out' in red. A brick built postbox stood to the left of the
gate, but there was nothing, other than a strong feeling in his guts, to
suggest that this was where he would find Damson. He made a
lightning dash to the gate, swung it open, then dived back into the
car. Driving on, he left the gate swinging in the wind.
The house was as he had visualised it: Victorian and unrelentingly
grim. It had probably been used as a school, or even a remand home,
at some time: it had that institutionalised look about it. Ugly and
over-extended, it was a solid mass of brickwork with staring
windows. With a shudder of revulsion, Caspar thought of the elegant
flat in Bath Damson had given up in favour of this remote, heartless
monstrosity. What had she been thinking of when she came here this
time last year?
He parked the car as near to the front door as he could, bolted
across the gravel towards the shelter offered by the porch, and
yanked on the metal bell pull. Getting no response, he thumped on
the door loudly and waited. Was it his imagination, or could he
detect the whiff of institutional cabbage?
Predictably it was some time before someone eventually deigned to
open the door. A scrawny barefooted individual with a shiny bald
head stood before Caspar, placed his palms together, and bowed
from the middle. 'Welcome to Rosewood Manor Healing Centre. My
name is Jed, how may I help you?' His gormless face was insufferably
beatific and made Caspar want to ram a fist into it.
'Oh, save it for someone who cares. I've had the devil of a day so
don't waste any more of my time. I'm Damson's brother, so take me
to your leader and then do me the kindness of scarpering.'
Not a flicker passed across the man's face. He bowed again,
stepped aside to let Caspar in, then shut the door silently. Suddenly
Caspar felt uneasy, as though he had entered a strange, eerie world
and the only escape route had been closed off.
He was shown into a large room that had probably been built as
an impressive drawing room for some Victorian industrialist. A
hundred years on, it was cold and reminded Caspar of Mermaid
House, except it was shabbier and a lot less inviting. A circle of
assorted chairs dominated the oblong space; the floor was bare, and the walls had been painted an insipid shade of mint-green with the
intricately carved cornice and ceiling rose picked out in a darker
green. And where, presumably, pictures and mirrors had once
adorned the walls, there were now rows of pin-boards. While he
waited, he read some of the notices. The first was full of silly
mantras:

Make the renewal of your soul your priority.
A hardened heart is an impoverished heart.
Know thyself and be at peace.
Self-esteem comes from confronting your insecurities.

It was nothing but the crazy psychobabble that every New Age
hippie traded in these days, he thought. The next board revealed a
series of rotas. There seemed to be one for almost every mundane
domestic activity: cooking, cleaning, laundry, shopping, even scrubbing
out the toilets. He noted that Damson's name was absent from
any of the lists. A separate piece of paper showed another range of
activities, from cheese-making and bee-keeping to the construction of
wooden toys and hammocks.

'Mr Liberty?'
He turned. 'Yes.'
Caspar recognised good-quality clothes when he saw them, and
striding across the room, his hand outstretched, was a man of about
his own age and height who clearly took pride in his appearance. He
was wearing cream chinos and a Ralph Lauren striped shirt with a
navy-blue cashmere sweater draped around his shoulders; a gold
watch hung loosely from one of his wrists. With mounting
satisfaction, Caspar knew that he was face to face with the devious
brain behind this whole scam. 'And you are?'
'Roland Hall. It's good to meet you at last.'
Hiding his surprise, Caspar ignored the outstretched hand and
gritted his teeth. It was time to get down to business. 'Damson.
Where is she?'
'Yes, of course, I quite understand your eagerness to see her. But
perhaps a drink first? How was your journey? The weather must
have slowed you considerably.'
The fraudulent act of smooth charm and slickly offered hospitality
incensed Caspar. 'My sister's welfare is the only reason I'm here, so
let's dispense with the small-talk.'
The man's expression remained impassive. 'As you wish. But I feel
it only right that I should warn you that your sister--'
Caspar held up a hand, jabbed a finger at the man's face. 'I'm not
interested in what you have to say about Damson. Whatever comes
out of your mouth is guaranteed to be one hundred per cent garbage.
The half-baked drop-outs you're used to dealing with might be taken
in by your cool, calm and collected manner, but I'm not. I know a
man on the make when I see one.'
He was almost disappointed that Hall's response was restricted to
a noncommittal nod. 'I'll take you upstairs,' was all he said. There
was something annoyingly self-possessed about the man. He led the
way out to the entrance hall where, at the foot of the stairs, a small
group had gathered. There looked to be equal numbers of men and
women, and they all turned and smiled when they saw Hall
advancing towards them. Caspar detected the look of naked lust in
some of the women's faces as they watched their leader climb the
stairs. So it wasn't just greed for money that had brought him here: it
was the pumping up of his gigantic ego too.
They came to a room at the furthest end of a long, thin corridor
and a door that had had many layers of paint added to it over the
years; it was chipped in places, particularly around the handle. Hall
knocked softly. 'Damson, it's me, Roland. I've brought someone to
see you.'
So the weasel hadn't even bothered to tell her he was coming!
As they entered the room, it was impossible to know who was
more shocked: Damson at the sight of Caspar, or Caspar because he
couldn't believe the devastating change in his sister.
Shock rendered him immobile. He stood staring at the woman
sitting in the bay window. For a moment, he almost convinced
himself that this was some cheap trick on Hall's part. Where's my
sister? he wanted to shout. What have you done with her? Who is
this bone-thin woman with hollow cheeks and gruesomely short
hair?
But the words that came out were, 'My God, Damson, what have
these charlatans done to you?' Then he was across the room,
kneeling on the floor in front of her, clasping her cold hands in his.

Caspar wasn't aware of Hall leaving them, but when he raised his
eyes to Damson's pale face, he saw that the door was shut and they
were alone.
'Oh, darling Caspar, why have you come? I didn't want you to see
me like this.' She brushed the hair back from his forehead, kissed him
tenderly.
Still holding her hands, which had no strength in them, he moved
to sit in the chair beside her. 'I don't understand what's going on,
Damson. I got a call saying you were ill, that I ought to come and see
you. Not for one second did I think it was anything serious. That
smug crook, Hall, should have said something. Why didn't you ring
me yourself?'
She sighed. 'It's complicated.'
'Please don't fob me off. Give me the truth. Do that much for me,
tell me what's wrong. I mean, for God's sake, you're . . . you're in a
wheelchair. Have you been in an accident?'
She shook her head. 'No accident, Caspar. Truth is, I'm dying.'
The shock of her words winded him and he gasped. She reached
out and placed a hand on his forearm. 'Too much honesty hurts,
doesn't it, darling?'
'But - but you can't be! Not you. Anyone but you!' His head spun
and a rushing sound filled his ears.
'Oh, Caspar, didn't you know? It happens to the best of us. And
who knows, this might be something I get right.'
He simply couldn't accept what he was hearing. She was being
much too cavalier and flippant. He stood up, towered over her frail
body, spread his arms in an accusing gesture. 'It's this place. They've
done something to you. If I get you away, you'll be well again.
You're probably not eating properly. You could be anorexic'
'Please sit down, and please calm down, Caspar. This is just why I
didn't want you to see me. Don't you think I would know if I was
anorexic? No, my darling, I have ovarian cancer and I'm in the final
stages. We're talking a tumour as big as a fist. Conservatively, I have
weeks to live rather than months. Though, personally, I think it
might be less.'
He collapsed on to the chair. 'No! This can't be happening.
Damson, you have to listen to me, you have to fight this. I don't care
what you've been brainwashed into believing.'
'No, it's you who has to listen. I've been ill for some time. In fact,
that's why I came here. I met Roland in Bath at a party, a month
after I was diagnosed with cancer. He told me about Rosewood
Manor, which he had just started up, and the more he told me about
it, the more I thought it would be the ideal place for me to live out
my remaining days. I needed somewhere to rest. Somewhere I could
resolve things. And before you say anything else about Roland, he
didn't know I was ill when we met. I kept it from him . . . from
everyone.' She paused to take a small shallow breath. 'You see,
Caspar, I knew I wouldn't have the courage to cope with all that
chemotherapy - the nausea, the tiredness. Nor did I want to be
constantly in and out of hospital, treated like an experiment. So I
decided to be a coward and let nature take its course. It's for the
best.'
Clutching at straws, and with his voice cracking, Caspar said, 'So
if you haven't tried conventional medicine, how - how do you know
it won't work for you now?'
She smiled at him wanly. 'Roland made me see a doctor earlier this
year when he realised that something was wrong, that I was in pain
and had been hiding it from him. After agreeing to see the local man,
I saw several specialists who all said the same, that the cancer was so
advanced nothing could be done. In a way, I was glad. It meant that I
was finally in control of something. You know how flighty and out
of control I've always been.' She gave a little laugh, with a brittle,
hollow ring.
To his horror, tears filled Caspar's eyes and he knew real despair.
'But, Damson, you're not in control, the cancer is. It's - it's killing
you and I can't bear it.'

Chapter Forty-Eight

Seldom did Gabriel consciously keep track of the days, but since
Clara had been struck down with flu, he was unusually aware of
them. It was now Saturday and this was her third day of being
confined to quarters. Each morning when he looked in on her he
willed her to feel better, but she seemed to be withering before his
eyes. Seeing her so incapacitated made him realise that she wasn't
invincible after all, and that having her here at Mermaid House,
where he could look after her, he was repaying a little of her
kindness.
He was glad, though, that he had Jonah to share the load, and in
more ways than one. Since Thursday night, when he and Jonah had
talked - really talked - he had come to know the truth of Clara's
words: Jonah was indeed a gift from Anastasia, and his forgiveness
had been instant.
To thank Clara for what she had instigated, Gabriel would go to
any lengths. He had told her as much this morning when he and Ned
had taken up her breakfast on a tray the lad had decorated with one
of his drawings and some flowers picked from the garden. At Jonah's
insistence both Gabriel and Ned were under orders to stay at the foot
of her bed, as if her germs were too stupid to travel that far, and from
there, Gabriel had thanked her for everything she had done and told
her that if there was anything she needed, she had only to ask.
The sound of laughter broke into his thoughts and he turned to
look out of the library window. Ned and Jonah were in the garden
playing football; the little boy was chasing Jonah, who was heading
for a pair of makeshift goalposts - two upturned flower-pots.
Suddenly they caught sight of him and waved. Gabriel waved
back, then pointed at his watch, indicating that it was time for lunch.
And time was something he had wasted too much of since his
retirement and Val's death - he had wantonly frittered it away. Well,
not now. What he had left, he would make good use of. What had
Clara said when she had agreed to sort out Mermaid House? Oh,
yes; 'I'll give you one week of my precious time, Mr Liberty.' She was
right, time was precious, and he had squandered so much on living in
the past. He had allowed himself to feed off his grief and turn it into
a destructive force that had nearly cost him everything.
But to make things completely right there was something else he
had to do. He was reconciled with Jonah, and now he had to do the
same with Caspar and Damson.

'When were you going to tell me, Damson?' The question had been
on Caspar's lips since yesterday afternoon when his sister had told
him she was dying, but until now, he hadn't had the nerve to ask it.
They were lying together on her bed, her head turned towards him,
and the afternoon sunshine streaming through the windows. It was
years since they had lain like this, although as children they had done
it all the time, cutting themselves off from the rest of the world.
'I hadn't thought that far,' she said. 'Cowardice, I'm afraid.'
'You were never a coward.'
'We both were, Caspar.'
He raised himself so that he was leaning on his elbow and looking
down into her face.
'Don't look at me, like that, darling, not when you know I'm
speaking the truth. Help me to sit up, and let me tell you what I've
learned while I've been here.'
Caspar slid off the bed and went round to his sister's side. He lifted
her frail body gently so that her shoulders were against the pillows.
He had to force himself not to wince when he touched her because
there was nothing to her. The cancer had hollowed out her body
until she was just the shell of the beautiful woman she had once been.
Last night, he had listened in horror to her acceptance that her life
would soon be over. She had told him that she had everything
arranged. When the time came, and she felt it was no longer fair to
inflict herself on Rosewood Manor, she planned to go into a hospice:
she wanted the minimum of fuss. 'Just this once, Caspar, I shall
behave myself. I intend to go gently into the night.' He had wanted to
go on talking, but she hadn't had the strength and had fallen asleep.
He had tucked a blanket around her, then sat in the growing
shadows as night fell, just staring at the face that had captivated so
many men in her wildly extravagant life. Always unpredictable,
always exhilarating, she had lived each day as it came, as though - as
though it would be her last.
When darkness had fallen, he had gone in search of Roland Hall.
It was supper time and the rest of the inmates had their noses in the
trough in the dining room, their voices bright as they chatted. He had
experienced a surge of rage as they stuffed their faces while his sister
endured untold pain.
'How is she?' Hall had asked, when Caspar finally tracked him
down.
The man's mild tone had infuriated him and he'd turned on him
savagely. 'Oh, she's fine! Bloody marvellous for a woman who's
dying! Why the hell didn't you tell me?'
'You must believe me when I say it wasn't what I wanted, but she
made me promise not to. I had to respect her wishes.'
'So why disrespect her wishes last night and phone me to say I
should come?'
'I thought it was time.'
He'd grabbed Hall by the shoulders. 'And who do you think you
are making all these decisions? God Almighty?'
Still Hall didn't react. His calmness made Caspar let go of him. He
stepped back. 'I'll sue you. I'll sue the shite out of you. You've
wilfully let my sister go beyond help. You've as good as murdered
her.'
'I can assure you, I've done no such thing. I only ever wanted the
best for Damson. Perhaps when you're calmer, we'll talk more. For
now, you must be hungry. I'll send something up on a tray for you
both.'
Caspar had gone back upstairs to Damson. She was still sleeping.
He switched on lamps and drew the curtains, wanting to block out
the rest of the world. There was a knock at the door and a red-haired
girl with a large tray stepped in. She placed it on the low table in
front of Damson's wheelchair then left without a word. Caspar lifted
the stainless-steel domes from the plates and saw that the food had
been labelled: for Damson there was a bowl of vegetable soup, and
for him, poached salmon with a baked potato and a green salad.
Pulling out the stops to impress him, no doubt. He woke Damson,
and after she had shaken off her drowsiness, and swallowed a
handful of tablets, they ate their supper. He tried not to notice how
little of the soup she spooned into her mouth. No wonder she was so
thin.
'You must stay the night,' she said, when she pushed her tray
away. 'I'll get Roland to organise a bed for you. There's a room next
door that's free.'
'Can't I sleep in here with you? I could manage in a chair.'
'No, I'd disturb you. I sleep lightly at night and often read to pass
the time.'
'I could read to you - like old times.' He nearly choked on his
words.

She shook her head. 'Not tonight. You need to rest.'
He was too dazed to argue with her. Under no other circumstances
could he have imagined spending a night at Rosewood Manor, but
the world had found a new axis on which to spin and everything was
sliding out of his grasp. Nothing felt real anymore.
Now, sitting on the bed with Damson nearly twenty-four hours
later, the situation didn't feel any more real to Caspar. But knowing
he had no choice, he was beginning to resign himself to it. He had to
accept that, before long, his sister would be dead. He listened now to
what she had to say.
'I know you think Rosewood Manor is a ghastly place full of the
lost and insecure,' she began, 'and you'd be right. People come here
suffering from all sorts of problems: executive burn-out, failed
marriages, abuse - oh, yes, I've heard heartbreaking life-stories that
would bring even you to your knees, Caspar. What Roland has
created here, is an oasis of--' She held up a hand. 'No, please, don't
interrupt, I don't have the energy. I wish you could see Roland for
what he is. He's the most honourable and decent man I've ever met.
He's helped me so much. There's nothing bogus about him, Caspar.
Truly, there isn't. But I've wandered from what I wanted to talk to
you about.' Her voice trailed away and she seemed caught up in her
own thoughts, a long way from him. Slowly she drifted back. She
said, 'We need to discuss your future, Caspar.'
'It's hardly important to me now, Damson.'
She seemed not to hear him. 'Did you know that when there's not
much future left, the past magnifies itself and becomes much clearer?'
She didn't wait for an answer, but continued. 'We need to talk about
Mermaid House, about Dad and Jonah. I want you to promise me
something. It won't be easy, but take it as a woman's dying wish.'
He swallowed hard. Didn't she realise how distressing it was for
him to hear her speak like this? But then, as if sensing his pain, she
touched his cheek. 'No hiding or running, Caspar. We're beyond that
now. Remember when we used to say, "It's the two of us against the
world"?'
He nodded jerkily, remembering the first time she had ever uttered
those words. It had been the night their mother died. He had crept
into Damson's room and stood at the side of her bed. 'I can't sleep,'
he had whispered. Without a word she had pulled back the
bedclothes and let him in. She had cradled him in her arms, already
assuming the role of protector to him. 'It's just you and me now,
Caspar,' she had said, 'you and me against the world.' They had
fallen asleep, and the following morning, with their lives changed
irrevocably, and unable to penetrate the wall that had sprung up
around their father, they knew they could rely on no one but
themselves.
'Caspar, are you listening to me?'
'I'm sorry, what did you say?'
'I was saying we got it wrong. We should never have isolated
ourselves as we did, or been so cruel to Jonah and Val. We treated
her despicably.'
Caspar felt his body tauten. He didn't want to think about Jonah
or Val, the woman who had dared to try to replace their mother.
A knock made them look up. The door opened and Hall poked his
head round it. 'Damson, the nurse is here to see you. Okay if I show
her up?'
'Of course, Roland. Caspar, would you mind leaving me now,
please? These nurses can be very thorough and I don't want you to
see more of me than is necessary. Why don't you go for a walk? It's
such a lovely day.'
But Caspar didn't go for a walk. He shut himself in the room he
had been given last night and wondered how Damson could be
aware of what the weather was like. Since his arrival he had been
oblivious to what was going on outside Rosewood Manor. Every
thought revolved around the appalling knowledge that he would
soon be without his beloved Damson.
Now he regretted every bad word he had ever spoken about the
way she had recently chosen to live her life. He should have tried
harder to understand what she was doing instead of condemning it.
He had considered her weak and deluded, and he had never stopped
to ask why she was doing this.
It hurt that she hadn't turned to him when she knew she was ill.
But it hurt more to know that, although they were together now, it
was too late. With painful clarity he realised that most of the derisive
comments he had made about Rosewood Manor had been based on
jealousy. It had been impossible to accept that his precious Damson
had chosen to be with a bunch of misfits rather than with him.
He lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling rose, tracing the
circular pattern of leaves with his eyes. He remembered doing the
same as a young child in the summer months when his bedroom was
still light and he couldn't sleep. He could recall one particular
occasion, before their mother died: Anastasia had come in to kiss him
goodnight before going out to a party. Dressed in an elegant evening
dress that showed her shoulders - the fabric was silky soft and
whispered as she moved - she had kissed his cheek and let him twist
her lovely long hair around his fingers. Then Dad had come in and
kissed him too. How happy he had felt, lying between them, so
loved, so safe.
And as Caspar drifted off to sleep now, he was back in his old bed
in Mermaid House. He was covered with a blanket of love ... It
reminded him that Damson hadn't been the only person he had truly
loved.
Before everything had gone wrong, he had loved his parents.

Jonah took Clara's supper in to her. She was sitting up in bed
reading, which he took to be a positive sign.
'On a scale of one to ten, how are you feeling?' he asked. From
where he was standing, she looked a little better, less flushed and
feverish.
She lowered the book. 'Around four,' she said, 'bordering on five.' 'That's good. I hope you're well enough to eat this.' He placed the
tray on her lap. 'Scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and a glass of
freshly squeezed orange juice. I trust everything's to Madam's liking.'
He shook out a white linen napkin with a flourish and offered it to
her.
She smiled. 'I could get used to this.'
He passed her a knife and fork. 'Eat it while it's hot.'
'Yes, Teacher.'
'That's "Sir" to you. Are you in the mood for some company, or
would you rather eat alone?'
'Company would be fine. The house is quiet, where is everyone?'
He positioned a chair in front of the open window and sat down.
'Dad's taken Ned to the stream. They've gone fishing, with the most

high-tech equipment they could find: a plastic sieve and a jam-jar.
How's the book going? Decided who the murderer is yet?'
She finished what was in her mouth. 'Two chapters to go and I
think I have it in the bag.'
He smiled. 'When you've proved yourself right, do you want me to
fetch another book for you?'
'Please, if it's not too much trouble. Also, if you could bring me my
mobile, I'd be grateful. Though to be honest, I think it's high time I
pulled myself together. I feel guilty about you and your father having
to amuse Ned.'
'Well, don't. Dad and I are quite happy to look after him. He's a
great kid. I'm used to hulking great teenagers, so a four-year-old is
a novelty.'
'I'm not sure I like my son being described as a novelty, but I'll let
you off if you tell me about the school where you work. Your father
says it's full of hooligans.'
He started warily, but when he saw she was genuinely interested,
he talked at length about the pupils at Dick High, his frustration with
some of the other teachers, and his hopes for the school. He even told
her about Jase. 'I just hope the wind was blowing in the right
direction for him when he sat the first history paper this week. He's
never been given any encouragement before, and I want to prove a
point to him, and everyone else.'
She smiled. 'You're a real heart-on-your-sleeve crusader, aren't
you?'
Thinking of the conversation he'd had recently with Barbara
Lander from school, he recrossed his legs and frowned. 'I don't see it
like that. And please don't make me out to be a naive idealist. I'm
not. I'm a determined, hard-working optimist.'
She drank her orange juice and looked at him thoughtfully. 'And
would I be right in thinking this isn't the type of school you, Caspar
and Damson went to?'
'More or less, but there are comparisons between Dick High and
the first boarding-school I attended. The number of demoralised
teachers and the degree of bullying were certainly the same. I hated
the place and spent most of my time planning my escape.'
'But your brother loved it?'
Surprised at her insight, he laughed. 'It made Caspar the man he is
today. So what about you, then? Tell me about the job you gave up
to become a happy wanderer.'
It was the first conversation they had shared without his father as
the focus, and because Jonah was curious to know more about Clara,
he listened attentively to her husky voice, trying to read between the
lines of what she was saying. When she had finished, he said, with a
touch of irony, 'And you don't miss all that? The money, the power,
and the kudos of being a corporate high-flyer?'
'I'd hardly describe myself as a high-flyer, but there are bits I miss,
mostly the camaraderie with some of the people I was close to. David
and Guy were great colleagues, friends too.'
'It must have been hard to juggle a demanding career with bringing
a child up on your own,'
Clara laid her knife and fork together neatly on the plate. She
wondered why Jonah was suddenly giving her the third degree. But
then she realised she was overreacting: always on her guard to
protect the identity of Ned's father, she was too sensitive to any
question she thought might lead her to giving the game away. 'I've
been extremely fortunate,' she said carefully, 'my parents have been
wonderful and helped out selflessly with Ned.'
'And Ned's father, where - where does he fit in?'
She looked up sharply. 'Nowhere.'
'I'm sorry,' he said hurriedly. 'I had no right to ask that.' He got to
his feet and took the tray from her. 'Ready for pudding now?'
'No, thank you,' she said stiffly. Then, 'I'm full. That was more
than enough. It was delicious too. Thank you.'
'Sure I can't tempt you with a strawberry meringue bought fresh
from the baker this morning?'
She hesitated. 'Well ...'
'One meringue it is. Tea?'
'Need you ask?'
While he was downstairs in the kitchen, Clara relaxed and stared
through the window at Kinder Scout. Suddenly she wanted to be out
there in the hills, to feel the wind on her skin, to breathe in the peaty
smell of the moors. She was tired of being in bed with nothing to do
but read or sleep. Which was why Jonah had become such a comfort,
she supposed. She was sorry that she had just been so curt with him
when she liked him so much. She thought of his enthusiasm for his
job and envied him. When had she last felt like that about her work?
He had reminded her of Todd's imminent visit to England, and it
occurred to her that Jonah, who a good listener, might be just the person with whom she could discuss the problem. He was so
detached from her life back home that he would be a safe pair of
ears. There was the added bonus that he could give her not just an
objective opinion but a considered male view.
She waited for him to reappear. When he did, she said, 'Jonah,
would you mind me using you as a sounding-board?'
'I've been used for far worse things, believe me.'
She sank her teeth into the meringue he'd just given her. 'Mm . . .
heavenly,' she murmured. After another mouthful, she said, 'Now,
what I'm about to tell you, you must promise never to discuss with
anyone else.'
Leaning against the window-ledge, he raised an eyebrow. 'Sounds
intriguing.'
Do you promise?'
'Hand on heart.'
'You asked me earlier about Ned's father. I'm sorry I was a bit
short with you, but, back home, people know better than to press me
on who he is. I've got rather used to shooting people down in flames
if they get too close.'
'Does that make me incredibly brave, or very foolish?'
She smiled. 'Neither.' Then she plunged in, and told him about her
relationship with Todd and its consequences, ending with, 'So, what
I want to know is, how would you feel if you were in Todd's shoes, if
a secret like that had been kept from you?'
Jonah rubbed a hand over his jaw. He had wanted to know more
about Clara, but this was way beyond anything he had expected her
to share with him. Putting his surprise to one side, he tried to imagine
how he would feel if Emily, whom he had loved and wanted to
marry, turned up now with a child and announced that it was his.
Shock would come first. Then anger. Yes, he would definitely be
angry that he had been kept in ignorance of something so important.
But next would come acceptance, and delight that he was a father.
Looking steadily at Clara, he said, 'If I were in Todd's shoes I
would want to know the truth. No matter how complicated it might
make my life.' He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. 'Does
that help?'
She nodded. 'I think it's the conclusion I'd reached too, but I
needed someone else to confirm it for me. Thanks.'

Later, when his father and Ned had arrived back from their fishing
expedition, Jonah remembered Clara had asked him to fetch her
mobile phone. He had the key already in his pocket, so he went out
to the camper-van, thinking, as he turned the key in the lock, that
when Clara was feeling better, he would invite her to have dinner
with him. He had already suggested that he could take her and Ned
on a walk to show them some of his favourite haunts, and she had
accepted quite readily, but would the idea of dinner - just the two of
them - go down so well?
He let himself into the van, and was just acknowledging how much
he would enjoy an evening alone with Clara when he realised she
hadn't given him any clue where her phone would be. He began
hunting through the racks and overhead lockers. He found lots of
maps and colouring books that belonged to Ned, and a copy of Wuthering Heights, but no phone. There was one last cupboard, the
one above the cooker. He opened it and peered inside. Moving aside
a first-aid kit and a lot of buff-coloured envelopes, he found the
mobile and was about to let the door click shut when something
caught his eye. He did a double-take, thinking he must be imagining
things.
But he wasn't. He'd know those notebooks anywhere. He had seen
Val with them hundreds of times, but had never let on to her that he
knew she was keeping a journal. But since her death, and until this
moment, he hadn't given the notebooks a thought. But what on earth
were they doing here in Clara's camper-van?
He sank down on the bench seat behind him, untied the ribbon,
and opened one of the books. He read the first page, the second, the
third, and kept going, turning the pages and absorbing every painful
word his step-mother had written. But with every instalment he took
in, he was conscious that Clara had been there before him.
So that was how she knew about Emily!
Furious, he slapped the diaries together, tied them up, and
wondered at her nerve.


Chapter Forty-Nine

By the time Clara was feeling better, May had slipped into June and
summer had arrived. The weather was glorious, sunny and warm.
The yellow gorse bushes scattered over the surrounding hills were
ablaze with golden flowers and the sky held wisps of fresh white
clouds. Everything seemed sharper, more intense. Although Clara's
temperature was normal now, and the racking cough little more than
an occasional annoyance, she was still under orders from Gabriel to
take it easy.
To her amusement, Gabriel continued to fuss over her, insisting at
every opportunity that she rest and build up her strength. He had
also stressed there would be no talk of her and Ned moving on until
he was convinced she was fully recovered. 'And be warned,' he'd
barked at her, 'I'll confiscate your keys if I detect any insubordination
in the ranks, young lady. So behave and do as you're told.'
Now she was in the library doing some of her tapestry. Sitting in
the bay window, where the sun shone warmly through the glass, she
could hear the trill of birdsong with the occasional base note in the
echoing call of a dove. Other than this, there was no other sound to
be heard. Gabriel had taken Ned into Deaconsbridge to post some
letters and to buy some cheese, and ham and a loaf of bread for
lunch. She knew, though, because she'd caught Gabriel whispering to
Ned, that they would be gone for a while - they were planning to slip
in a don't-tell-your-mother visit to the Mermaid cafe for a clandestine
sticky bun or two. Thick as thieves the pair of them.
Whatever adventures she had envisaged for Ned during this time
away from home, acquiring a second grandfather had not featured.
But that was exactly what had happened: Gabriel had won Ned's
devotion. Ned had played his part too: he had befriended an old man
nobody else had wanted. But that was children for you: they saw
things the way they wanted to see them. And now that Gabriel, like
her, was feeling so much better, she felt the time had come for her to
give him Val's diaries: they contained the final truth he needed to
confront and accept.
She knew that when the time came for them to leave, she and Ned
would always stay in touch with him for a connection had been
made between them.
Once again, she recalled what had led her to Mermaid House, and
it all came down to Mermy. Who would have thought that when her
parents gave her that little bit of nonsense, it would lead her and Ned
to Gabriel?
It made her wonder if there really might be such a thing as fate.
And if there was, what did it have in store for Ned in the
foreseeable future? Was Todd about to make his appearance in his
son's life? It seemed likely. From the moment she had received that email
from Guy in Edinburgh she had known that events were
conspiring against her. Her conversation with Jonah had also flagged
up what she had known already: that Todd had a right to know
about Ned.
But this didn't take away the fear: she was terrified of losing
control of a situation at which she had worked so hard to stay on
top. Despite what people thought of her, she did have moments of
self-doubt - not often, and not over trivia, but with something as
important as this, she needed to know she was doing the right thing,
and for the right reasons. Which was why she had confided in Jonah.
To her disappointment, there had been no sign of Jonah for some
days now. The last time she had seen him was when she had told him
about Ned's father. She missed his company, his thoughtfulness and
quiet sense of humour. It had been nice having somebody of her own
age to talk to.
She put down her tapestry and looked out of the window. Who
did she think she was kidding? Her enjoyment of Jonah's company
went deeper than that. She had liked having an attractive man
around - she hadn't experienced that in quite a while.
And Jonah was, to use a Louise-ism, borderline gorgeous. He was
patient and attentive with a sensitivity that one rarely came across in
a man. Beneath it, though, she sensed a strong will and spirit. How
else could he have survived his childhood and hung on to his sanity?
She thought of the entries she had read in Val's diaries, the fight he
had got into at school, and she didn't doubt that, if sufficiently
provoked, the mild-mannered Jonah Liberty would come out
fighting.
So why had he disappeared? It was so unfair, just as she was
feeling better and looking less like a bag-lady, he was nowhere to be
seen.
She tidied away her tapestry and reached for Wuthering Heights. Perhaps it was reading of such passion and unrequited love that was
making her long for Jonah's quiet, responsive company. With this in
mind, she decided to test herself. It was a game she and Louise had
played late at night, when they were more than a little mellow. You
had to close your eyes, picture a man you knew and imagine kissing
him. If the image made you cringe and squeal, you could safely
assume that he had as much charm and sexual magnetism as a
landfill site. But if .. .
Well, the 'if was obvious.
She sat back in the armchair, closed her eyes, and conjured up the
necessary scenario: a backdrop of rugged moorland against which
she and Jonah were indulging in a slow, tentative kiss. However,
before long it had developed into a wallopingly good, lip-smacking,
heart-thumping, knee-buckling snog of monumental proportions.
She snapped her eyes open, faintly embarrassed by such an
enjoyably erotic image.

Archie let the door of the estate agent's office close slowly behind
him. He had agreed to sell his home or, more correctly, his and
Stella's home. It was practically a done deal, with no reason why
contracts couldn't be exchanged within two months.
It was all happening so fast:
The For Sale board had only gone up on Friday afternoon, but by
Sunday three couples had viewed the house and the first - who were
planning to get married in the autumn - had offered him the full
asking price. They weren't in a chain and, as the estate agent had just
said, they were a safe bet, as eager to buy as he was to sell. Except he
wasn't eager to sell. It was his home and he was parting with it
reluctantly.
He crossed the busy market square to go and view what might well
become his new home, albeit a temporary one. It was a small,
unfurnished flat above Joe Shelmerdine's antiquarian bookshop,
which he let on a strictly short-term basis. 'Nothing worse than to be
stuck with a bad tenant,' he had told Archie yesterday afternoon.
Archie hadn't been able to view the flat then, because the carpets
were being cleaned, but Joe had told him to come back today. 'It's
not very big,' he warned Archie now, as he handed him the key, 'and
the carpets haven't come up as clean as I'd hoped they would. It
needs a lick of paint too.'
The entrance to the flat was via a gloomy alley at the side of the
shop, and in the half-light, Archie stepped cautiously round a wheelie
bin and an upturned rusting metal stool. He put the key in the lock
and climbed the narrow stairs, determined to like what he found at
the top.
A lick of paint was an optimistic understatement. The walls of the
sitting room were covered in dirty marks, and there were holes where
picture hooks had once been. Chunks of plaster had come away from
one wall where there was clearly a damp problem, and the window
that overlooked the square had two cracked panes.
However, he told himself, as he stood in the middle of the room, it
wasn't a bad size, and there was a working fireplace, which would
make it nice and cosy in the winter. But the thought of winter
depressed him. He saw himself celebrating Christmas alone here.
The floorboards creaked as he moved through to the tiny
kitchenette. It looked big enough to accommodate the cooker and
fridge freezer he would bring with him. But there was no room for a
table, or for all the crockery and glassware Stella had collected over
the years and which they had hardly used. But that wasn't a problem:
she would probably take it. If she didn't, he'd sell it.
The bedroom, like the kitchenette, overlooked what had been the
backyard: Joe had turned it into an attractive courtyard. There were
vines covering the white-painted brick walls, some raised beds with
flowers growing in them, and a wooden bench and table. He
imagined Joe sitting there during a lull in the day, enjoying a glass of
wine.
There was an ominous smell in the bathroom, but the modern
suite and shower over the bath appeared new and clean. He located
the smell to the stained cork tiles around the toilet and wondered if
Joe would object to him replacing them.
It would do, he decided, returning to the sitting room and
visualising it with his own furniture, until he had made some real
decisions about what he was going to do permanently. Really, when
all said and done, compared to others, he was a lucky man. What's
more, Shirley had offered to lend a hand with curtains and the like,
stuff he was useless with. She had even offered the decorating services
of her son, Robbie. 'Not that I'm saying you can't manage yourself,'
she'd said, 'but it's time, isn't it? There's never enough of it.' And
when he had a bit more time on his hands, he ought to do something
about thanking her for all her kindness.
He stood at the window and stared down at the crowded market
square; a car horn tooted, a door slammed. Over the weekend, the
council had put up hanging baskets, as they did at this time every
year, and the bright splashes of colour gave an added gaiety to the
shop fronts. Everywhere he looked the place was buzzing with
people, cars and tourist buses. Now that it was June, and visitors
were pouring in, the place had a jolly, prosperous air, but by next
month it would feel the strain of so many visitors: the roads would
be clogged and tempers would fray as people fought over too few
parking spaces. He watched a dusty old Land Rover reverse into a
space that looked perilously small, but the driver seemed to know
what he was doing. Having accomplished the impossible, he got out
and walked stiffly to the nearest pay-and-display machine. Archie
recognised the tall, slightly stooping figure: it was the Commandant
from Mermaid House. He continued to watch the man as he
returned to his vehicle. He put the sticker on the dashboard, then
went round to the passenger door to let someone out. It was young
Ned, Clara Costello's boy.
After taking one last look around the flat, he locked the door and
returned the key. 'I'll have it, Joe,' he said. 'Okay if I come back later
to tie up the loose ends?'
'Any time you want. By the way, I forgot to mention the floor tiles
in the bathroom. I'll see to those for you.'
Out on the street, Archie saw the Commandant with Ned again.
They were crossing the road in the direction of the post office. Archie
needed some stamps, so he decided to wander over and see if Ned
remembered him. He caught up with them as the Commandant was
lifting Ned so that he could slip some letters inside the postbox.
When Ned saw him, he said, 'Look, Mr Liberty, it's Archie.'
'Archie who?'
Archie smiled to himself. Trust the Commandant not to remember
him. 'Hello there, Ned, what are you doing back here?' With a tilt of
his head, he added, 'Archie Merryman, Mr Liberty, Miss Costello's
disreputable rag-and-bone man.'
'Ah, yes, I remember you now. You came to the house a couple of
times, didn't you?'
'That's right.'
'Mummy thinks we're only here to post some letters and buy some
bread,' Ned said importantly, 'but we're going to have a cake and a
milkshake in the cafe as well.' He leaned in close to say this last bit,
as though it was a big secret.
'Well, aren't you the scallywag? And how is your mother?'
'She's been very ill with flu and Mr Liberty has been looking after
her. Do you want to come and have a cake with us?'
Archie laughed. 'I'd love to, but I've got to get back to the shop.
Will you give your mother my best wishes when you get home? Tell
her I hope she's soon feeling better.'
Ned nodded, then said, 'Have you got any more jigsaws in your
shop? Mummy gave me a pound to buy myself something. A jigsaw
would be nice. I liked the last one you gave me.'
'As a matter of fact I have got some more. Why don't you come
and have a look?'
'Can we, Mr Liberty?' He looked up eagerly at the Commandant,
who had been silent throughout this exchange.
He said, 'I should think that could be arranged.'
Ned swivelled his head back to Archie. 'Do you have anything that
Mummy might like? I wanted to buy her a present too.'
'I'll have to think about that. You go and see Shirley in the cafe,
and I'll have a fossick and see what I can find for you. How does that
sound?'
Archie walked back to Second Best wondering what Clara might
like. She had far too much taste and class to want anything from his
tatty old shop. But then he remembered the teapot Samson had
nearly smashed yesterday morning when he was emptying a box
from a house clearance. It was a novelty teapot, with a pair of
stumpy legs, an arm for a handle and another for the spout. He could
easily get more than a pound for it, but Ned's pennies were good
enough for him. Quickening his pace, he hoped no one had bought it
while he'd been out.
As he let himself into the shop and saw Samson with his feet up,
reading the paper, his mood was lighter than it had been when he'd
gone out. He had been miserable at having to go to the estate agent
and accept the young couple's offer on his house. Now things didn't
seem so bad: he'd found himself a decent flat that was cheap and
conveniently handy. Okay, it wasn't anything special, but it would
tide him over until he'd sorted himself out. If there was one thing
he'd learned recently, it was that you never knew what was around
the corner.
Half an hour later the irony of those words was brought home to
him when the hospital rang to say that his Mother had just died.


Chapter Fifty

With the house still empty, and confident that she would be alone for
some time yet, Clara decided to be brave.
Well, brave-ish.
Although she'd had her mobile phone with her since Saturday, and
had intended to ring her friends while she was housebound, she had
not got around to doing so, for the simple reason that she had lacked
the courage to set in motion the sequence of events she knew would
unfold once she spoke to Louise.
But now she was determined to grasp the nettle.
To seize the bull by the horns.
To seize--
Oh, get on with it! she reprimanded herself.
She tapped in Louise's work number, muttering that there was to
be no more yellow-bellied prevaricating. It was time to see what
Louise knew about the latest goings-on at Phoenix - specifically if the
corporate wonder-boys were over from the States yet. It made more
sense to speak to one of the boys, but she was in the mood for a good
old girlie gossip with Louise. But Louise's voice-mail informed her
that she was out of the office for the next two days. Clara mentally
tossed a coin: Guy or David. Guy won. She tapped in his number and
waited for him to pick up.
'Clarabelle!' he said, when he heard her voice, 'How's it going?'
She pictured him leaning back in his chair with his feet up on his
desk. 'I'm fine. Well, not that fine, I'm recovering from a nuclear
attack of flu.'
'Poor you - but that explains why your voice is husky and sounds
so dead sexy. So where are you now? Outer Mongolia?'
'We're back in the Peak District. It's a long story, but do you
remember we stayed with an eccentric man in a place called Mermaid
House?'
'Yes.'
'Well, we're with him again. He's been fantastic and taken care of
Ned while I've been flat on my back with--'
'Clarabelle, please, you're shocking me. I've told you before, your
private life is your own.'
'Guy Morrell, the only thing that would shock your delicate ears is
if Moira told you she was pregnant.'
'Ooh, as sharp as ever. So how's Ned? Still as cute as a button?
Missing us all, I hope.'
'Of course he is. He's grown. He's already gone through two pairs
of shoes and is due for another hair-cut. My mother would claim it's
all the fresh air he's getting.'
'She might be right. Hey, and before I forget, you were right about
that Todd Mason Angel dude, the women on the packing line have
been drooling over him ever since he arrived.'
Clara tightened her grip on the small mobile phone, pressed it
harder to her ear. 'You always did say I was a good judge of
character,' she said lightly.
'What's even more galling is that he's a nice bloke into the
bargain.'
'You've met him?'
'Don't sound so surprised, of course we have. David and I took
him out for a drink. We discovered he was a keen squash player and
the next thing we knew we were being thrashed within an inch of our
lives. But to get our own back, David invited him home for a
typically English barbecue. The rain never stopped, and the poor
bloke thought we were mad when we put the brollies up and carried
on as though nothing was wrong.'
Clara couldn't believe what she was hearing. Her friends were
socialising with Ned's father! The meddling hand of fate was up to
its tricks again.
'Oh, and I mustn't forget,' Guy carried on blithely, 'when he
realised you were a close friend of ours, he sent his best wishes. I have
to say, it strikes me that you were holding back on us, Clarabelle.
We're all getting the impression that you knew him a lot better than
you've been letting on.'
He laughed and Clara wondered if he was fishing. But then a more
worrying thought occurred to her. 'Guy, is your door shut or are you
broadcasting this conversation to the whole of Phoenix?'
'The door's shut, but the phone's on monitor and I'm in the middle
of a meeting.' He must have heard her sharp intake of breath. 'Hey,
I'm only joking. Clara, what is it? What's wrong?'
She kept her voice level. 'Nothing's wrong, silly. So what else have
you been up to with your new-found chum?'
'Not a lot. In a way, we all feel sorry for him. He's obviously
homesick. You know what these Yanks are like, no place like the old
homestead. He got some photographs out of his wallet during the
barbecue, showed us pictures of his wife and daughters, even phoned
home while he was with us. A true blue-blooded family man, I guess.
A rare breed.'
Clara couldn't take another word. 'Guy, are you sure your door's
shut?'

'Yes. I told you it was. Why, what's up?'
She took a deep breath and threw herself into the abyss. 'The thing
is, Todd is Ned's father.'
There was a stunned silence. Then, 'Gee whiz, girl, does he know?
I mean, does Todd know about Ned?'
'No. I never let on that I was pregnant.'
Another silence. Until: 'But, Clara, he's seen pictures of you and
Ned!'

It was her turn to fall silent.
Filling the gap in the conversation, Guy said, 'It was late and we'd
all had a bit to drink. Well, we had, he hadn't, he's practically
teetotal, but, oh, Clara, don't be cross, we were in the kitchen and he
was looking at the collection of photos David and Louise have on the
wall, you know that montage Louise made.'
Clara knew it well. Quite apart from a range of silly pictures of her
and the Gang, there was a large picture of her with Ned slap-bang in
the middle of it - she had an arm around him while he puffed his
cheeks with air ready to blow out the four candles on his birthday
cake. 'Go on, Guy, tell me the worst. He asked who the boy was,
didn't he? And then he counted up the candles, I'll bet?'
'He did.' Guy's voice was miserable.
'Oh, well, that would do it. Did he say anything?'
'I can't remember. It was one of those crazy moments when we"
were all doing something. Moira was making the coffee, and David
and I were sorting out the dish-washer and making our usual hash of
it. We weren't taking much notice of him to be honest.'
'So it was Louise who was talking to him?'
'Yes.'
'Then I have to speak to her.'
'I think she's away on a course in London. But she's at home in the
evenings.'
'I know. I tried her office before ringing you.'
'Well, I wish she'd been there, then she would have been the one to
get the grilling.'
Clara felt awful. 'Guy, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. It's mine.'
'I don't understand why you didn't tell us.'
'I ... I couldn't. I thought the fewer people who knew, the less
danger there was of Todd ever finding out.'
'You don't think he had a right to know?'
'Come on, Guy, you said it yourself, he's a family man. I couldn't
rock the boat for him.'
'He's not that committed if he had a fling with you.'
'It wasn't a fling.' She explained that when she had met Todd he
had thought his marriage was over.
'So what will you do?'
She sighed heavily. 'I think I have to tell him, but I'm frightened of
the consequences. I don't want to do anything that might jeopardise
his marriage.'
'And what about you?'
'What about me?'
'Do you still have feelings for him?'
'How sweetly put, Guy. But if you're asking am I still in love with
him, the answer is no.'
'Are you sure? Or is this why there's been no one since? From the
little I know of the man, I'm under the impression he might be a hard
act to follow.'
'Don't give up the day job, Guy, you'd make a hopeless agony
aunt. You're wrong on all counts. Look, I'm going to have to go, I
can hear a car - it must be Ned coming back with Mr Liberty.'
'Okay, but before you go, do I have your permission to tell the
others so that we can be on our guard? And what do we do if Todd
starts interrogating us? If he's guessed, and let's face it, he must have,
he's probably going to want to know where you are and how he can
see you.'
'For now, tell him the truth, that I'm in the Peak District, but you
don't know where. But don't let on to him that we've had this
conversation. Play it as dumb as you can.'
'You mean, play it like a man, don't you?' The wry laughter in his
voice lifted Clara and she said a hurried goodbye, then waited for
Ned to come rushing in with Gabriel following behind.
But Ned didn't come bursting into the room as she had
anticipated. He ambled in, his face downcast. He came over to where
she was sitting, climbed up on to her lap and said, 'I wanted to buy
you a present but I couldn't because when we went to Archie's shop
it was closed. His mummy had died and he wasn't there.'
Hugging Ned to her, she got up from the sofa and went to find
Gabriel so that he could elaborate on what Ned had told her.
He was in the kitchen, and while they put some lunch together, he
explained how they had met Archie outside the post office and after
they had been into the Mermaid cafe they had popped along to
Second Best to find Ned a jigsaw. 'The door was locked,' Gabriel
said, as he hacked at a wholemeal loaf and laid out the uneven slabs
of bread on a plate, 'but because we knew he was expecting us, we
knocked on it to get his attention. Anyway, someone else, a brute of
a man with few words at his disposal, came to the door and told us
they were shut as a mark of respect. Apparently Archie's mother had
just died and he'd left for the hospital.'
Although Clara had met Bessie Merryman only once - and Gabriel
not at all - lunch was a sombre affair. They both admitted that the
faintest association with death tended to make one re-evaluate what
was important.
It made Clara realise that the sooner she talked to Todd about
Ned, the happier she would feel. She also sensed that now wasn't the
right time to hand over Val's diaries, not when Mr Liberty was so
quiet and downcast.
Across the table Gabriel was thinking of what he had done in
Deaconsbridge that morning with Ned, when he had posted a letter
to Caspar and another to Damson.
He had written late last night, asking his elder children to come
and see him: he had something important to discuss with them.

That night, when Ned was fast asleep and Gabriel had also gone to
bed, Clara phoned Louise at home. 'Have you heard the news?' she
asked, without preamble. 'Has Guy been beating those tom-toms?' .
'He has. But I'd guessed already, Clara.'
'You had?'
'Yes. Whenever your name came up, I noticed that Todd showed a
little too much control over his reaction. Then when I saw his face
while he was looking at the photos of you and Ned, the penny


dropped and I knew for sure. He went so pale I thought he was going
to faint. He excused himself and spent ages in the loo. He might even
have been sick. He looked very green about the gills when he came
back into the kitchen.'
Clara groaned. 'And the boys didn't reach the same conclusion?'
'Oh, come on, you know the boys never reach any kind of a
conclusion on their own.'
'So why didn't you put them in the picture?'
'Because, Clara my sweet, I'm not the ditsy blabbermouth you
clearly have me down as. You could have confided in me, you know.
I feel quite hurt that you didn't trust me.'
'I'm sorry, it's just that once a secret is shared, it has a ripple effect
that's impossible to contain. Forgive me, please?'
'Done already. So what happens next? Guy says you're going to
come clean with Todd about Ned. Are you really?'
'Yes, I am. I have to.'
'Not that you've asked for my opinion, but I think you're right.
The day was always going to come when you would have to be
straight with Ned. You might just as well bite the bullet now. And
from what I hear, this sell-off that Todd's over here for will soon be
wrapped up, so you'd better get your act together. I'm assuming you
want to do it face to face and not over the phone.'
'You assume correctly.'
'So, tell me about you and the lovely Todd Mason Angel. I must
say, I'm pretty envious - he's very attractive. No wonder Ned turned
out to be such a great-looking boy. It also explains why you haven't
looked at another man since.'
'Not you too! I had enough of that from Guy this afternoon. And
for your information I have looked at another man with lustful
thoughts - quite recently too.' Immediately Clara regretted saying
that. 'Strike that from the record,' she said. 'I never said it.'
'Not on your life. If there's a man up there and you have the hots
for him, I need to know all about him. Give.'
Clara squirmed. 'There's absolutely nothing to tell.'
'Thank you, but in view of how close to the chest you play it, I'll
be the judge of that. Who is he and what's his name?'
'Louise, this goes no further than you. Not a word to another
living soul. Do you hear me?'
'Loud and clear. Come on, I'm all agog. What's he like?'
'Urn . . . tall, dark and handsome.'
'Oh, please, spare me the cliche!'
'But it's true. He is tall, he is dark and he is handsome. His name's
Jonah and he's a history teacher and he's the same age as me.' She
told Louise how sweet he'd been while she'd been ill in bed.
'Hot diggity, the man's a gem!'
'I think you could be right.'
'And talking of bed, is he a lurve machine between the sheets?'
'Louise, keep it focused!'
'That's exactly what I'm doing. I want you to promise you'll be
careful. You got pregnant during your last away match and I don't
want a repeat performance.'
'Believe me, there's no danger of that happening again. And if he is
a lurve machine, I wouldn't know.'
'What, no nooky? None at all?' Louise sounded incredulous.
Clara laughed. 'Certainly not. He doesn't even know I like him.' 'Is he soft in the head? Oh, I get it, he's another married man, isn't
he? For crying out loud, Clara, what is it with you?'
'What a blast you are, Louise. Now, stop leaping to conclusions
and pay attention. He's not married, he's pleasant to have around
and as every good celeb says, Jonah and I are just good friends.'
'Mm . .. but let's not forget those lustful thoughts you have for
him, eh?'

Having made the fatal error of getting herself drawn into the
conversation, Clara knew it was going to take real effort on her part
to end it: Louise would be reluctant to let go of this one. She realised
too, having heard herself openly discuss Jonah, that he was the first
man, since Todd, who made her feel that he might be worth taking a
risk for.

On the landing, just the other side of Clara's door, and having been
downstairs to make himself a drink, Gabriel considered what he'd
overheard.
Now, who'd have thought it? The lovely Clara carrying a torch for Jonah.

Taking care where he placed his slippered feet on the wooden
floorboards, he crept back to his bedroom. By jingo, he hoped that
Jonah had the sense to see what was right under his nose.

Sitting at the kitchen table, the last of Val's diaries now read, Jonah
stared at his step-mother's final entry and wished that her life had
been happier. She had deserved better than she had received from the
Liberty family. She had tried so hard to pull them together, to make
everything better for them. And what had they given her?
Nothing but trouble, heartache and bitterness.
Caspar had always been particularly brutal. 'Don't think for one
minute you can seduce us with a slice of home-made apple pie,' he'd
said to her one afternoon, when they were sitting down for tea.
'You'll never replace our mother, so don't bother to try.'
How Val had coped and never lost her temper, was a mystery to
Jonah. She must have been angry at times, had to have been, but she
had never shown it. Not once.
He poured the last of the wine into his glass, then went and stood
at the back door that opened on to the garden. Staring into the
darkness, he considered the reasons behind his own anger, which had
increased with each page he had read of Val's diaries. It was bad
enough that Clara had read them, but it was worse that she had kept
it from him. From his father too. He did not doubt that his father
had no idea what she'd been up to behind his back.
Draining his glass, and feeling he had been taken for a fool - that
Clara had derived some kind of perverse pleasure from stringing him
along - he decided he would go to Mermaid House tomorrow
morning and confront her.
It would be interesting to see how she would justify her actions.


Chapter Fifty-One

While she was hanging out a basket of washing in the warm
sunshine, Clara congratulated herself on feeling better than ever that
morning. She felt so good she was even humming a little tune,
slightly off key. She stopped, though, when she heard a car
approaching. She continued to peg a row of Gabriel's shirts on the
line, until the car turned into the courtyard and she saw it was Jonah.
In view of what she had admitted to Louise on the phone last night,
she felt awkward suddenly at the prospect of talking to him.
She watched him shut his car door and walk towards her. He was
dressed, as he so often was, in jeans with a loose-fitting cotton shirt,
the sleeves rolled up. But there was something unusually purposeful
about his step, which was curiously at odds with his appearance: it
made Clara think he had come here with a specific task to complete.
Or perhaps he was just in a hurry.
'Hi,' she said, 'long time no see. We've missed you.'
'I've been busy. How are you feeling?'
She pegged the last of the washing on the line - Murphy's law
dictated it was a pair of her knickers - and said, 'Much better, thanks
to you and your father cosseting me and--'
'Good,' he cut in. 'Are you up to a walk?'
Something jarred with her in his unfamiliar clipped tone, and it
occurred to her that maybe he was nervous. Was it possible that he
had reached the same conclusion about her as she had of him? 'I '
should think so. I'll go and get Ned.'
'I thought we could go on our own.'
She bent down to pick up the empty washing basket and allowed
herself a small smile that had a hint of Yesss! tucked into it. It was to
be a romantic stroll, just the two of them. 'Okay, then, I'm game if
you are. Shall we go inside and see if your father will agree to look
after Ned?'
Gabriel greeted the suggestion with such enthusiasm that Clara
was prepared to put money on it that he was in on the whole thing.
Perhaps, and in view of their new-found relationship, Jonah had
confided in his father.
'Quite all right by me,' Gabriel said, putting an arm around Ned
and ruffling his hair. 'You go off and enjoy yourselves. Ned and I
will be fine, won't we, lad?' And then to Jonah, 'But be careful mind
you don't go too far and tire her out.'
After she had swapped her slip-on shoes for a pair of trainers, they
set off in an easterly direction across the fields. They climbed over a
wooden stile that had been built into the drystone wall and soon
Mermaid House was far behind them. They were alone, surrounded
by a patchwork of lush green slopes. Filled with a lightness of heart
she hadn't felt in a long while, Clara felt sorry for anyone who didn't
have the opportunity to experience such a golden summer's day. It
was what her mother would call a Grateful Day - a day to be glad
one was alive. In the distance sheep bleated and overhead she heard
the call of a bird she didn't recognise.
'What's that, Jonah?' she asked.
'It's a skylark,' he responded, without interest. Puzzled at his
terseness, she decided that he was one of those people who preferred
to take his nature walks in peace and quiet.
They walked on, the path rising steeply, the sun warm on their
backs. She tried not to steal too many sideways glances at him, but
found her gaze drawn irresistibly to his face: it was set as if he was
deep in thought. There was no sign of a smile, or that he was
enjoying himself. They crossed a tumbling stream, and in front of
them, Clara saw a gathering of large rocks. She opened her mouth to
suggest that they rest awhile, but before she could speak Jonah said,
'I expect you're tired. Let's sit here.'
Glad of the opportunity to catch her breath, and grateful for his
intuitive consideration, she chose a comfortable-looking stone on
which to sit, one that was large enough to accommodate the two of
them. But he remained standing, his back to her, his hands thrust
into his trouser pockets as he stared at the view. A soft breeze blew at
his hair, rippled his shirt, and Clara had to fight back the urge to
reach out and touch him. Irrationally, she wanted him to turn and
kiss her. 'I used to come up here on my own when I was a child,' he
said, turning slowly to face her. "in fact, it's one of my favourite
places, where I like to come and think.'
His expression was serious and made her want to touch him even
more. Kiss me, she willed him. One kiss to make me feel young and
wild again. One divinely long-drawn-out kiss and I'll never trouble
you again. How about it?
'But you know that, don't you?'
She stared at his sexy mouth, not listening to his words, but taking
in the soft curve of his lips and how they might feel pressed against
hers.
'Like you know that this is where my brother clinched matters
with Emily. Just as you know all about my family.'
Suddenly she saw that the beguiling softness was gone from his
mouth, and a feeling of sick dread swept through her.
'Jonah, what is it?' But she knew what was wrong. Knew it with
painful and shameful clarity.
He stared down at her, his eyes dark and hard. 'I'm talking about
Val's diaries. I found them among your things in your camper-van
when I was looking for your mobile.'
There was no point in denying it. 'I - I was going to put them
back,' she confessed, accepting that while she had to give him the
truth, it would not lessen the seriousness of her crime. She lowered
her gaze. She had nearly made a fool of herself. Jonah hadn't brought
her up here for a passionate smooch, as she had hoped, but to take
her to task. Oh, how stupid and misguided she had been!
'So you admit you took them?' He was towering over her,
blocking out the sun and everything around her - everything but his
simmering contempt.
She nodded. 'I'm sorry. It was awful of me, I know. But it was
when I was sorting through Val's things. I started reading them and
was fascinated by what she--'
'You took them and read them,' he said sharply, as though she
hadn't spoken. 'Despite their intensely private nature, you felt you
had a right to read them. What Val wrote was private. She never
intended a stranger to read them. A lying stranger at that. They were
meant for my father. No one else.' His voice was cold and stinging,
utterly condemning. He was every inch the tough adversary she had
imagined him to be if sufficiently provoked. But he hadn't finished.
'What gave you the right to do that?' he persisted.
'It was wrong of me,' she murmured, 'and I'm sorry. But it was
why I came back to Mermaid House. I forgot I still had them, and
wanted to give them to your father . . . I've been waiting for the right time.@

He turned away from her. 'Perhaps it would have been better if
you hadn't come back.'
She let this last comment sink in then realised she couldn't let it go
and, with her humiliation and meekness subsiding, she said, 'If I
hadn't come back when I did, your father might have gone through
with what he'd intended to do down in the copse.'
He swung round. 'If you're going to take that line of argument I
could say that if you had never come here in the first place my father
would never have got so depressed.'
Clara was getting angry. She didn't like illogical arguments, and
this one was heading that way. 'Oh, please, enough of the self
righteous fest, Jonah! If it wasn't for me, you and your father would
still be carrying on like a couple of bickering children.' She saw she'd
hit home. And, oh, boy, he looked as mad as hell now.
'Don't you dare denigrate what my father and I have been through
in so offhand a manner!' he thundered.
She leaped to her feet, stood just inches from him. 'Time to bring
the truth trolley round! What bothers you most about me reading
those diaries? Could it be something to do with the fact that I know
more about you than any other living person? That I know your
weaknesses as well as your strengths. That you ran away from school
all those times because you were so desperately unhappy. That
you've never stood up to your brother because, deep down, you're
scared of him. Oh, I think it's all of that and more, but what
probably irks you most is what we both know, that if you had kicked
Caspar into touch years ago, you would have married the woman
you loved and be standing with her here. Instead you're stuck with
me, a "lying stranger". Which begs the question, who do you despise
more? Me or yourself?'
¦	For a moment she thought she had gone too far. His face turned white and his eyes took on a wild, shining darkness that made her
¦	step back from him. His body was taut with barely concealed rage.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't have--' But she got no further. He stepped in close, pulled her to him and kissed her. She resisted at first,
¦	unnerved by the rough suddenness of what he was doing, but then
the desire she'd felt for him earlier came flooding back and she relaxed into him and let herself be kissed. And before long, the
¦	dreamy, knee-buckling kiss she had fantasised about was a thrilling reality. His arms held her tightly and she pressed her hands into his
shoulders, wanting to feel the warmth and strength of his body
through the soft fabric of his shirt, wanting to absorb every bit of
him.

But, annoyingly, the need to cough got the better of her desire. 'I'm
sorry,' she said, releasing herself from his embrace. 'I hope I'm no
longer infectious.'
He waited for her to finish coughing, then circling her waist with
his hands, drew her gently back to him. 'What you said a moment
ago about Emily, you're wrong. I'd much rather be standing here
with you.' He smiled hesitantly, his handsome face now devoid of all
animosity. 'May I kiss you again but this time without the threat of
world war breaking out? And when I've done that, it might be a
good idea for us to talk.'

Chapter Fifty-Two



The mail at Rosewood Manor was delivered by van, usually at
around ten o'clock, and after someone had carried it up the long
drive from the postbox by the gate, it was sorted and placed in the
appropriate pigeonholes in the purpose-built shelving unit in the
dining room. Damson's was brought up to her by one of Roland
Hall's acolytes, a frumpy earth-mother type in sandals. That morning
Caspar decided he would check Damson's pigeonhole himself.
It was Monday and he had been at Rosewood Manor for over a
week, and while the place and its creepy inhabitants continued to get
on his nerves - had him wanting to nuke all of the brain-dead idiots its
isolated location and day-to-day routine made him focus on what
was important. Being with Damson was all that mattered now. The
rest of the world could go hang, as far as he was concerned. He
didn't know how much longer he would stay, that depended on his
sister, but he didn't care. It was a relief to have escaped his problems
at home.
When he had arrived, he'd been worried sick about the loss of his
business - the money he owed, and the humiliation. Previous
business ventures that had gone belly-up on him had involved other
partners and backers so the fallout had been shared. This time the
buck had stopped with him and there had been no one to bail him
out. But stuck here in the middle of nowhere, he was experiencing a
strange, unexpected sense of freedom. It was as if he was in exile,
buffered from the raging storm the Inland Revenue and his creditors
had whipped up, and he felt absurdly safe.
It was weird and he had told Damson about it, just as he had told
her everything since his arrival. She had smiled - especially when he
confessed to having thrown away his mobile phone so he could be
doubly sure that no one would track him down. He had driven into
the nearest town for some items of clothing to tide him over - some
new shirts, underwear and socks, paid for by Damson - and on the
way back he had stopped the car and hurled the phone into the air.
Hearing it crack open against a drystone wall and smash to a
thousand pieces had been surprisingly satisfying.
Damson had made no comment on what he had just told her, but
had asked if he would do something for her. They were sitting in a
secluded spot in the garden, the afternoon sun was shining down
from a clear sky, but despite its warmth, Damson needed a rug over
her legs. On the other side of a wall, they could hear the irritating
chatter of a group of inmates who were working on the vegetable
plot: they were discussing the most humane way to deal with the
army of slugs that, overnight, had invaded their organically grown
crops. 'What is it?' he had asked, his heart bursting with the need to
make her well again, to have her as she'd once been.
'I want you to accept that what we did as children, and continued
to do as adults, was wrong.' Her voice was faint and he had to strain
to catch her words. 'We held Jonah responsible for destroying our
family, for taking our mother away, and for making Dad so
unhappy. But we both know the truth, have known it since the day
we first blamed him.' She paused, as if stocking up on air and energy.
'We both held on to that anger in the misguided hope that it would
protect us from the pain. But, Caspar, it caused us so much more. It
still is, for you, isn't it?' Covering his hand with hers, she had held his
gaze steadily. 'We turned ourselves into victims, when really we're
survivors. Remember that, Caspar. And here's a little Rosewood
Manor truism for you, one that will make you shudder with
cynicism, but I want you to think about it. For every sixty seconds of
anger you experience, you deny yourself a minute of happiness.'
From nowhere a smile had appeared on her face, and suddenly the
real Damson was there beside him, the beautiful, bright-eyed twin
sister who had comforted and empowered him, and meant everything
to him.
There was just one letter in Damson's pigeonhole and Caspar
instantly recognised the handwriting on the envelope. Climbing the
stairs, and ignoring the moronic greetings of passers-by, he gripped it
and felt that his haven was under attack. The outside world was
never far away, no matter how much he kidded himself.
Damson was sitting in her wheelchair by the window when he
tapped on her door and stepped inside. She was combing her cropped
hair. When he had asked her why she had had it cut, she had said, 'It
seemed frivolous in the circumstances. You don't like it, do you?'
'Not much,' he'd said. He found women with long hair attractive;
he had never looked twice at a woman with short hair.
As he looked at Damson now, he saw that she appeared weaker
today. He held out the letter to her. She hesitated, then said, 'You
open it for me, darling.' It was almost as if she had been expecting it.
'You don't seem surprised. Does he write to you often?'
She put the comb down on the table beside her. 'No, but I was
expecting this one. The pieces are all coming together, just as they
should. Just at the right time.'
He slit open the envelope. There was just one sheet of paper. The
writing was uneven, the lines badly spaced, and there were crossings
out in several places.
Damson sank back into her chair. 'Read it to me. Please.'
'Are you sure?'
She sighed heavily. 'Yes. And read it nicely.'
He caught a hint of a smile as she said this. 'Nicely does it, then,'
he said.

Dear Damson,
Just lately I have been forced into thinking a lot about the past
and I'm ashamed to say it's been a painful process and made all
the worse by knowing that I put you and Caspar through a hell
of time.
I know you will probably regard this letter with cynicism, and
I can hardly blame you for that, but please, I would very much
like to see you again. Caspar too. I have written to him in the
hope that the pair of you might be prepared to forgive a stupid,
selfish old man who should have known better. It would mean
everything to me if you would get in touch.
Regards,
your father

Caspar lowered the letter and looked at his sister. Her eyes were
shut, her head tilted back against the chair. He was used to seeing her
fall asleep without warning, but he had never seen her so still. He
cleared his throat. 'Damson?'
She didn't answer.
He bent down to her. 'Damson?' He was frightened. He reached
out to her. At his touch, her eyelids opened and relief, like none he had ever known, washed over him. He swallowed his fear.
She took the letter from him and stared at it, tears filling her eyes.
'I said the pieces were coming together, didn't I?'
'I'd rather they didn't if it meant you could be well again.'
'It's the way forward, Caspar. If the future is going to mean
anything for you, you must do as he asks.'
'What about you?'
She held the letter to her chest. 'This is enough for my future. He'll
understand.'
Understanding only one horrible truth in all of this, that a future
without Damson would be worse than any hell his father could
imagine, Caspar left her sleeping peacefully. He went downstairs,
and sat in the garden where yesterday he and Damson had chatted. It
was another warm, sunny day, and as if he were locked in a time
loop, he could hear the same people arguing the toss about the best
way to deal with the slugs - jars of home-made beer was held up as
the ideal solution. 'Take a bloody great spade to them!' he yelled at
the brick wall. 'Smash their stupid brainless bodies in!'
The voices went quiet.
'For once I'm in agreement with you.'
Caspar turned his head sharply and saw that Roland Hall had
crept up on him.
'Oh, it's you. What do you want?' Though Damson had told him
repeatedly that Hall was a good, sincere man, that he had never tried
to turn their friendship into anything more, or to inveigle money out
of her, Caspar still didn't trust him. But, then, other than Damson,
whom had he ever trusted?
Hall sat down. 'I want to talk to you about Damson,' he said. 'It's
been your sister's intention to move into the local hospice when she
felt she couldn't cope with the pain any more. I think that time is
drawing near.'
Caspar wanted to take a spade to Hall and smash him to
smithereens. To see the man's infuriating face pulped. 'You want to
be rid of her now, do you?' he muttered savagely. 'She's become a
nuisance, is that it? Frightened that the smell of death will scare the
punters off?'
Hall's expression was impassive. 'It's what she wanted, Caspar.'
Exasperated, he dragged a hand over his face. 'Tell me, Hall, what
the hell did you do before you took up scamming deluded fools who
are more concerned about the finer feelings of slugs than themselves?
You're so bloody inscrutable. What were you - an MI5 interrogator?'
'Actually,
I was a monk.'
Caspar laughed nastily. 'A monk? Oh, that's a good one. But,
don't tell me, the celibate life proved too much of a challenge for
you?'
'I had no problem with the vow of chastity. It was the other monks
I found difficult to live with. There was no escaping them and their
inbuilt prejudice of right and wrong.'
'So what's different about this place?'
Hall sat back, steepled his hands together in front of him, the tips
of his fingers just meeting. 'I'm not saying it's perfect here community
life can never be that. Put a group of people together and
it's human nature for them to disagree over something or other. Here
at Rosewood Manor, in our search to build a caring and sustainable
lifestyle, we value autonomy and independent thinking. We try to
support one another and support ourselves in any way we can, for
instance, by growing and selling organic food.' He canted his head
towards the brick wall. 'But even that provides a breeding ground for
dispute. It means we have to try harder, to be more self-aware. And
while we're striving to achieve all that, no one at Rosewood Manor is
forced to be what they're not. So long as one isn't harming another
person, one can be oneself here, without fear of being judged. It's
why your sister has enjoyed being with us.'
Caspar took this as a criticism of his sister, which he couldn't
countenance. 'Damson has never been frightened of anyone, or
anything.'
Hall looked at him hard. 'That really isn't true, Caspar, and it's
time you realised it. Damson was terrified of herself and what she
was capable of inflicting on her mind and body. She came to us
crippled by fear and regret. She'd had two abortions by the age of
twenty-two and she never forgave herself. It's haunted her for most
of her life.'
Caspar's jaw dropped. 'No! That can't be true. I don't believe you.
She would have told me.'
'She never wanted you to know. She told me you idolised her and
saw her as perfect. She hated knowing that she wasn't, hated
knowing that she had let you down.'
'But she didn't!' cried Caspar. 'She hasn't let me down. She could
never do that. Not ever.'
Hall's voice was steady. 'Are you sure about that? What about her
coming here? Didn't that annoy you? Didn't you berate her for
hitching up with a bunch of sad losers whose only interest in her was
to relieve her of her worldly goods?'
Caspar had the grace to turn away. He tried to take in what Hall
had told him. He was mortified that he had added to Damson's
problems. And, worse, that he was perhaps the source of some of
them.
'When you're thinking more clearly,' Hall said, 'you'll understand
that Damson has spent most of her life searching for something to
make her happy, something to take away the guilt. She's told me
about the series of unsuitable men who used and abused her, and
who, in her own words, she used as a means to inflict yet more
punishment on herself.'
'Stop! I don't want to hear any more. Just be quiet, will you?'
Caspar pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes. It was too
much to take in. Unable to speak, he got to his feet and left Hall
. sitting on the bench alone. He went back inside the house. He needed
to be with Damson. Needed to apologise to her.
She was sitting in the window where he had left her no more than
half an hour ago. The sun was shining through the glass and its rays
lightened her hair - the same colour as his own. He remembered how
she used to dye it during the school holidays, much to Val's and their
father's horror. One summer, having already dyed it jet black, she
had another go at it and it turned a vivid orange. She didn't care: she
just laughed and tied it up on top of her head with a green silk scarf
and said, 'How's that for a carrot head?' Nothing bothered her. 'It's
just another experience to add to the rest,' she said.
But some things had bothered her and she had not shared them
with him.
Why hadn't she? The truth bit into him. Because she had been
selfless in her love and support for him and, like a spoiled child, he
had greedily accepted her unconditional love. By putting her on a
pedestal, he had imposed restrictions on what she could do with her
own life. He was allowed to change and make untold mistakes, but
she wasn't. She was his sister, but he had treated her as a mother.
And everyone knows a mother must be constant in a world of chaos
and upheaval.
He crossed the room silently. There was so much he had to say to
her. More than anything, he wanted Damson to know that she
would always be perfect in his eyes, no matter what.
But when he knelt beside her, took their father's letter that was still
on her lap and laid it on the table, he saw that he was too late.
Damson was dead.
He held her in his arms and wept. Wept as he had never wept
before. 'Oh, Damson,' he groaned, 'I'm so sorry for what I did to
you. I didn't realise.'

Jonah had spent the afternoon on tenterhooks. His GCSE history
class was sitting its last paper. Once the exam was under way he had
slipped in at the back of the sports hall and had scanned through the
questions, reassuring himself that there weren't any horrible surprises
in store for his pupils. Or him. But it had been fine. He had covered
all the ground in his lessons. He went back to his classroom to share
the joys of the 1832 Reform Act with 7B, confident that so long as
his students kept their cool they would do well.
When it was all over and the papers had been gathered in, he was
waiting outside the sports hall to see how they had survived. He was
greeted with a mixture of relief, anxiety and cautious optimism. And
an element of cockiness from an unexpected quarter. 'Did you get the
eight main points to the treaty of Versailles?' he asked the group.
Jase grinned at him. 'No sweat, man. It was a breeze.
Jonah smiled. 'Atta boy. You off home, now?'
'Nah. Thought I'd stick around and polish up the candelabras.
'Course I'm off home. Were you offering a lift?'
'I wouldn't inflict that on you again, Jase. I wouldn't want to be
held responsible for damaging your image.'
'A word of advice, Sir, you wanna get yourself fitted with a flash
set of new wheels or you'll never pull a decent woman.'
'I was wondering where I was going wrong.'
Driving home, Jonah wondered how Clara might have responded
to Jase's worldly wisdom. From what he had learned of her lifestyle
before she'd upped sticks in favour of taking to the road in a camper
van, she had owned a smart car herself. And, like shoes, he had
always believed that a car gave away a lot about its owner. He could
easily imagine Clara dressed in a power suit sitting behind the wheel
of a sports car, mobile phone ringing, headlamps flashing.
In contrast, his rusting Ford Escort, which would pass its next
MOT by the skin of its teeth, shouted from the rooftops that his
attitude to life had a more casual slant. Sure, he could splash out on a
better car if he wanted, he certainly had the money, but so long as his
existing one provided him with a safe, reliable drive, he didn't much
care what it looked like.
And, anyway, he had managed to pull himself a decent woman.
He was seeing Clara that evening.
His father would baby-sit Ned, and instead of taking Clara to a
restaurant, Jonah had offered to make dinner at his cottage. 'Having
already sampled your cooking and enjoyed it, I'll take the risk,' she
had said. What surprised him most about the evening ahead was not
that Clara had agreed to see him, but that his father was so keen for
them to enjoy themselves. Jonah had anticipated a somewhat less
than enthusiastic response to his poaching Clara away from
Mermaid House for the evening, but it seemed that the opposite was
true. 'No, no, don't you worry about me, Jonah, you go ahead and
have a little fun. It's high time you did. Ned and I will have a grand
old time of it.'
Jonah was always suspicious when things came to him too easily.
Everything he had really wanted in life he had had to fight for.
It was only yesterday that he had behaved like a pompous idiot
with Clara over Val's diaries - oh, he'd gone the full nine yards - but
it felt like days ago. She had apologised over and over again for what
she had done, and each time she said she was sorry he felt a bigger
heel. He had tried hard to make her understand why he had been so
angry.
'It was reading them and having everything brought back so
vividly,' he had said, still with his arms around her. 'It was a shock
reliving it, I guess.'
She had looked deep into his eyes and said, 'I'm sorry, Jonah.
Truly I am. It wasn't a gratuitous act on my part, I was genuinely
interested in you all. I wanted to understand why your father
behaved as he did and why you had such a bad relationship with
him. I admit it was wrong of me to do it so sneakily, but it just sort of
happened. I wish I could apologise more. I feel awful. I should never
have said that bit about you and Emily.'
'It's okay, forget it. Though I ought to 'fess up the reason I became
so angry and Jo Regular turned into Stormin' Norman. I didn't want
you to think I was a spineless wimp.'
'I'd already decided that anyone who enjoyed teaching at a school
like Dick High was anything but a wimp.' She'd kissed him, then
added, 'I've been lucky, Jonah. I've had what must seem to you a
very boring middle-of-the-road but happy upbringing, and it's made
me the way I am. Just as your upbringing has made you wary and
guarded, not to say perceptive, it's also, I suspect, made you
determined to fight for what you want. So don't go selling yourself
short.'
'In that case, dare I ask you to have dinner with me?'
'Just the two of us?'
'Is that a problem?'
'Only if your father doesn't want to baby-sit.'
They had walked back to Mermaid House, hand in hand, and as
though to underscore what he had already told her, he said, 'I'm not
devaluing what Val wrote, but I can think of any number of kids at
Dick High who have suffered far worse than any member of my
family has. Some of those kids survive levels of violence, abuse,
degradation and neglect that make my childhood look like something
out of The Waltons. I don't want your sympathy.'
She had come to a stop and given him one of her stern but sassy
looks. 'Don't worry, it's the last thing you'll get from me.'

Clara's first impression of Church Cottage was that she liked it. She
could see why Jonah had bought it: it was him down to the ground,
from the cosy proportions of the rooms to the eclectic taste in decor
and furniture. She had plenty of time to poke and pry, as the moment
he had opened the door to her the telephone had rung. 'Don't worry
about me,' she had told him. 'I'll make myself at home while you see
to that.'
Standing in the sitting room, which looked out on to the street
where she had parked Winnie, she studied the small, simply framed
pictures that had been squeezed in where there was space between
overfilled bookcases. In front of the window, there was a mahogany
desk and two piles of exercise books along with a collection of
wooden puzzles - she pictured Jonah patiently piecing them together.
Either side of the fireplace, where there was a wood-burning stove,
there were two sagging armchairs and, set out neatly on the
mantelpiece, a collection of old clockwork toys: a performing seal
with a ball attached to its nose, a marching soldier beating a drum, a
laughing policeman and a strutting sausage dog with a bone in its
mouth. She wandered over to the largest bookcase and ran her eyes
over his taste in reading matter. It was mostly historical, with
biographies coming a close second, and the complete works of P. G.
Wodehouse, Oscar Wilde and Evelyn Waugh bringing up the rear.
An interesting mix, she decided. Scholarly with a dash of whimsy.
And no slacker when it came to matters of the heart, she thought,
remembering their embrace on the moors. Their second kiss had been
just as intense as the first, but in a completely different way. Slow and
gentle, but sublimely erotic, it had held her firmly in a dizzy state of
longing. Him too, if she wasn't mistaken.
Through the open door she could hear him winding down the call.
Seconds later he was back with her. 'Sorry about that,' he said. 'A
neighbour wanting me to keep an eye on their house while they're
away.'
'Does everyone rely on you?'
He raised an eyebrow. 'Meaning?'
'Hey, no criticism. I just get the feeling people see you as rock
steady, someone they can turn to in their hour of need.'
'A bit like you, then?'
She smiled. 'Touche. First point of the evening to you.'
He smiled too. 'Well, that's the pleasantries dispensed with. I
thought we could eat outside, if it's warm enough for you. Come
through to the kitchen and I'll pour you a drink.'
The kitchen smelt heavenly, and she said so.
'Thai fish cakes. Wine?' He held up a bottle of white for her
approval.
'That's fine. Anything I can do?'
He passed her a glass. 'No, it's all done. I'm quite organised for a
mere man, don't you think?'
'Young Master Liberty, you wouldn't be casting your net in search
of a compliment, would you?'
'Credit me with more sense than to do that.' He chinked his glass
against hers. 'Cheers.'
They ate on the small terraced area just off the kitchen. It was still
light and just above a pretty lilac tree, a cloud of gnats danced in the
warm evening air. The view from where they were sitting was
stunning. 'This is lovely,' she said. 'You've created yourself a proper
home here, haven't you?'
He leaned back in the chair. 'It's going to take something very special
to make me want to leave. Caspar thinks it's a hovel, but it suits me
perfectly.'
'And what kind of house does Caspar live in?'
'A clinical wasteland. An airy loft apartment in Manchester. Very
grand, and very expensive. What about you? What's chez Costello
like?'
'Oh, executively smart - four beds, two baths, double garage. Not
very imaginative, I'm afraid.'
He smiled. 'But eminently practical, like it's owner?'
'Eminently practical. With the demands of my job I had to buy
something that would fend for itself and leave me free to enjoy my
weekends with Ned. Patching up leaking gutters was the last thing I
needed. Though I suppose you're the opposite. I bet after a tough
week at school you like nothing more than to get stuck into some
house-restoration therapy.'
'Something like that. Between you and me, my next-door neighbours
keep dropping hints that they might be putting their house on
the market. If so, I'm hoping I might get first refusal. Knocking the
two together would make a great conversion. I'd love to get my teeth
into a project like that.'
'Here's to knocking through, then.' She raised her glass. 'You're a
man of many talents, Jonah.'
'If you say so.'
They continued eating in contemplative silence, until the church
bells struck the half-hour and Jonah said, 'Clara, it's none of my
business, but have you decided what you're going to do about Ned's
father?'
She put down her knife and fork. She had been wondering at what
stage in the evening to bring up the subject that had occupied her
mind for most of that day. And the decision she had reached after
speaking to Louise on the phone again. 'Yes. I'm going home to see
him before he returns to America.'
'When will you leave?'
'In a couple of days.'
'Have you told Dad?'
She shook her head. 'Not yet. I only decided this afternoon.'
'He's going to miss you when you've gone.'
'It works both ways. I'll miss him.' She wanted to add, 'and I'll
miss you,' but her nerve failed her: her come-hither skills were too
rusty to dish out romantic one-liners. Instead, she said, 'And
goodness knows how Ned will take it. He loves being here. Mermaid
House has become a second home for him.'
Another silence grew between them. Finally, Jonah said, 'Is there
any chance you'll come back? You've still got a few months before
Ned starts school in the autumn. You know you'll always be
welcome.'
She knew what he was really asking and she knew she had to be
straight with him. 'Each day as it comes, Jonah. I need to keep the
plans to a minimum. That's what I've learned from this trip. Nothing
works out quite the way one thinks or hopes it will.'
'Would it be pushing things to ask you to keep in touch? Just as
friends, perhaps?'
She stretched out her hand across the table and made contact with
his. 'I think I'd like it to be more than that. But first I need to settle
things with Todd.'
'I understand,' he said. Turning her hand over so that her palm
faced upwards, Jonah laid his on top. Dispirited, he had the feeling
that maybe this was the end between them, and not the beginning as
he had hoped. He could tell from the way she spoke about this Todd
character that he'd meant a lot to her. He was the father of her son,
after all. And now, after more than four years of not seeing him, who
knew what the outcome might be of their meeting up again?
The shrill ringing of the telephone made them both jump. 'That's
probably Dad checking up on me, making sure I'm behaving myself
and not besmirching your good name.'
She laughed. 'Tell him we're being very respectable, and that
although we're making mad passionate love in full view of the
neighbours, I've still got one foot on the floor.'
He answered the phone in the kitchen, but the smile was wiped off
his face when he heard Caspar's distraught voice and what he had to
say.

Chapter Fifty-Three

'How can this be? It's against nature for a parent to outlive his
children.'
Gabriel's voice was thick with tiredness and bewildered grief.
'Three women. All gone! Tell me why. Just tell me why.' He thumped
his fist on the table, sent an empty coffee mug flying and hung his
head. While Clara picked up the shattered pieces from the floor,
Jonah went to his father.
It had been a long night with only a few hours of sleep for any of
them. After he had received the call from his brother, he and Clara
had driven straight over to Mermaid House to break the news.
Gabriel had been sitting alone in the library, enjoying a glass of
whisky and reading. 'What's this, Miss Costello?' he'd joked, closing
the book and putting it aside. 'I didn't expect to see you back so
early. Jonah's cooking frightened you off?' But he must have seen
from their faces that something was wrong.
Once the words were out, he had looked at Jonah as if he hadn't
understood. Within seconds, though, his eyes had filled and his
hands had started to shake. He had tried to stand up, but his body
had failed him, and he had remained slumped in his chair. Clara had
made them all tea, and while she was in the kitchen, Jonah had
pulled up a footstool beside his father, taken his trembling hands and
held them firmly. Gabriel had suddenly looked old and confused.
Now, at six o'clock in the morning, as Ned slept peacefully
upstairs, Jonah and his father were setting out on the journey to
Northumberland. Neither knew quite what to expect when they
arrived. Caspar had sounded a broken man on the phone, but if his
grief had turned to rage, it was anyone's guess what kind of reception
awaited them.
Before going to bed last night - Jonah had spent the night at
Mermaid House - he had made two telephone calls. One was to a
colleague from school to say he wouldn't be in for the next couple of
days, and the second was to get more information from Rosewood
Manor about his sister's death. He spoke to a helpful man called
Roland Hall, who had stressed that he would do all he could to take
care of Caspar. He had explained about Damson's illness and how
Caspar had been with their sister in the last week of her life. He had
also given Jonah directions on how to find Rosewood Manor.
Armed with these and an AA road atlas, he was now helping his
father into the front seat of his car. For the first time ever, he
regretted the state of his old Escort and just hoped that it would get
them up to Northumberland in one piece.
Gabriel was too dazed to say goodbye to Clara, but Jonah stood
with her for a moment. Nothing had been said between them, but
Jonah knew that she and Ned wouldn't be at Mermaid House when
he returned. 'I'm not sure when we'll be back,' he said, 'but when are
you going?'
'Tomorrow morning. It feels the right thing to do. If you're
bringing Caspar back here, my presence won't help him. We didn't
exactly hit it off.'
'I know the feeling. But I have a hunch that Caspar is going to
need what's left of his family.'
'You'll take care, won't you?' she said, opening her arms and
hugging him.
He squeezed her hard, then pulled away. 'You take care as well. If
you want to ring, or drop me a line, you know where I am.'
'I will. And please, explain everything to your father for me. I feel
bad that I won't be here to help, but--'
He silenced her with a feather-light kiss, held her gently, pressed
his cheek against hers, then walked away.

Clara took Ned to the Mermaid cafe for breakfast. Shirley greeted
them as if they were old friends and gave them a table in the window.
There was a lot Clara had to tell Ned: why Gabriel had gone away
with Jonah so unexpectedly, but more importantly why they were
leaving. She hated lying to Ned, but she could hardly tell him the
truth: that they were going home so she could arrange to meet his
father.
Instead, she told Ned that she was feeling homesick and wanted to
see her friends.

He listened to what she told him while he munched on a piece of
fried bread, holding a corner of it delicately between his thumb and
forefinger - he was such a tidy eater. 'Does this mean we're going
home for ever?' he said finally. 'No more Winnie?'
She sipped her tea. 'Not at all. We still have two and a half months
left before we have to part with Winnie.'
He dipped the fried bread into the yolk of his egg. Stirred it round
a little. 'Then I start school?'
'That's right.'
'Will I like it this time?'
'You'll love it. Think of all the tales you'll have to tell the other
children. They'll be so envious of what you've been up to.'
He frowned and wrinkled his nose, and Clara knew that if she
looked under the table his legs would be swinging. 'I didn't really like
St Chad's,' he confided.
'Maybe we'll find a different school. But don't forget, you're older
now and it will feel better. Also you were missing Nanna and
Granda.'
His face cheered up at the mention of Nanna and Granda. 'Will
they be home from Australia now?'
'No. They're not back until after Christmas.'
Another frown.
'But don't worry. When I've seen Louise and the Gang, we'll be off
on another adventure.'
'Back here?' The change of expression on his face was so rapid, so
telling, that Clara didn't know what to say. There was a danger that
if they came back to Deaconsbridge, they might never leave. There
was so much about the place she had grown to love, from the
beautiful countryside, to the busy market square, so pretty in its
summer finery, to the friendly people who lived here. Unwittingly,
she and Ned had become a part of it, and it had become a part of
them. It had also caused her to consider abandoning her old life and
creating a new one here, where the pace was slower, the people more
genuine.
Deaconsbridge aside, there was also the small matter of their
involvement with the Liberty family. She would never forget the
protective love Gabriel had showered on her and Ned.
And there was Jonah.
With his benign social conscience, his understated charm and
thoughtful kindness, he had achieved the impossible: he had tempted
her to wonder what it might be like to be in a relationship with him.
But where could it lead them? When she and Ned were back in their
old routine, what use would a long-distance relationship be? How
soon before it fizzled out?
She felt sure, however, that even if it did run out of steam, they
would remain friends. And friends, as she had come to know, were
what counted.
'You look lost in thought. Where were you? Lying on a tropical
beach having coconut oil rubbed in somewhere pleasant?'
Clara smiled and passed her empty plate to Shirley, who had
arrived to clear their table. 'Not even close.'
'Oh, well, how about a teacake?'
'Ned? Can you manage anything else?'
Kneeling up on his chair and wobbling from side to side with his
bottom balanced on his heels, Ned puffed out his cheeks. 'No, thank
you. I'm very full.' He patted his tummy.
Passing him a lollipop from her apron pocket, Shirley said, 'You're
the politest little boy I know.' Then, in a more serious tone, she said
to Clara, 'Have you heard about Archie's mother?'
'Yes, I have. How's he getting on? They were very close, weren't
they?'
'Cut up something rotten but, like he always does, he's putting a
brave face on it. It was the same when that stuck-up grabby wife of
his left him. It was ages before he let on that she'd gone. If you want
my opinion, he's better off without her. It was what everyone told me
when my old man left me. Thing is, you don't believe it at the time.
But I'll tell you this for nothing, she was a snooty whatsit, always
looked down her nose at the rest of us.' She paused to let a customer
squeeze past, then continued, 'The funeral's the day after tomorrow.
I thought I'd get an hour off and go along. Moral support and all
that. Did you know he's sold his house? He's moving into the square,
above Joe's bookshop. I thought I'd get him a house-warming
present. Something small. Just a token. No point in being flash when
discreet will do.'
Goodness, thought Clara, when Shirley left them to serve a middle
aged couple dressed in shorts and walking boots, what a lot Shirley
has to say about Archie. And how highly she regards him. She
wondered if Archie realised what a devoted friend he had in Shirley.
Clara paid for their meal and they left the cafe. Standing on the
step outside, waiting for a young mother with a pushchair to trundle
by, Clara felt a pang of sadness: Ned and she had probably eaten at
the Mermaid cafe for the last time. It was going to be even more of a
wrench leaving than she had anticipated. 'Shall we go and see
Archie?' she said forcing brightness in to her voice.
The bell tinkled as she pushed the door of Second Best. It was a
cheerful sound that had to be odds with how the owner of the shop
was feeling. There was no one about, so she called Archie's name.
She heard the scrape of a drawer being pushed in and Archie's head
appeared from behind a pine veneer wardrobe. 'Hello there,' he said,
'and what a sight for sore eyes you two are.'
'How's things, Archie? I heard about Bessie.'
He pushed his hands into his pockets, jangled the loose change in
them, rocked on his feet. 'Oh. Not brilliant. Funeral's the day after
tomorrow.'
She nodded sympathetically. 'I know, Shirley's just told me. I'm so
sorry, Archie.' He seemed lost for words, so she said, 'Shirley also
said you were moving into the square. It's all change for you, isn't it?'
'It's probably for the best. Nothing like a shake-up. Fancy a brew?
I was just about to make one.'
Clara was awash with tea from Shirley's generous administrations,
but she said, 'That would be nice. Thank you.'
Turning to Ned, Archie said, 'Have a good old forage in that box
over there. If you're lucky, you might find a couple of jigsaws.'
Clara went through to the back of the shop with Archie, to a tiny
kitchen area where there was only just room for the two of them. He
filled the kettle at the sink where a bowl of used mugs lay waiting to
be washed. 'Sorry about the mess,' he said, catching her glance. 'It's
always the same, the moment I leave Samson in charge . . .' His voice trailed off. 'Hang on a minute, that sounds like the door.'
By the time he had joined her again, she had made their tea and
given the kitchen a blitz.
'Here, there was no need for that.'
She smiled and flicked the tea-towel at him. 'Drink your tea and be
quiet, Archie Merryman.'
Leaning against the sink, he relaxed visibly. 'That's what I like
about you, you always cheer me up. So what's new at Mermaid
House? Apart from you having had flu. You look as if you've
recovered well. Fresh as a daisy, I'd say.'
'And you can save the flattery for the punters.'
'Just speaking as I find. One look at you and I feel made up. Now,
did Mr Liberty take good care of you? I bet he terrorised you into
getting well, didn't he?'
'I've told you before, he's a poppet.' She went on to explain about
his daughter. 'I think her death coming out of the blue has hit him
very hard.'
'Oh, God, the poor man. To have lost two wives and now a
daughter.' He lowered his eyes and delved into his pocket for a
handkerchief. 'Life, eh? If we had any idea how tough it would be
we'd give it up as a bad job.'
Clara's heart went out to him. What he needed was a great big
hug.
She was still hugging him when a crisp voice said, 'If I'm
interrupting, I'll come back later. Or maybe it would be better if I
didn't bother.'
Neither of them had heard the shop bell, or the sound of footsteps,
and they sprang apart, which made an innocent embrace seem
altogether more furtive.
'Stella, what - what are you doing here?' Archie's voice shook with
alarm. He fumbled with his handkerchief, pushed it back into his
pocket.
'I heard about your mother and came to offer my condolences.'
The brittle formality of her words was as flinty as the look she gave
Clara, which left no one in any doubt of what she thought had been
going on.
Clara decided to make a tactful exit. She didn't like the look of
Stella. Too much makeup. Too much jewellery. And way too high
and mighty. Shirley had been right. Picking up her bag to go, she
said, 'I'll leave you to it, Archie. Excuse me, please,' she added, when
Stella made no attempt to let her pass.
'And you are-- ?'
'Clara is a friend of mine, Stella,' Archie said gamely, 'but I think
you gave up the right to know who I mix with the day you left me.
Thanks for the condolences. Was there anything else?'
Good for you, Clara applauded him silently. And, even better, the
horrible woman took the hint and departed as quickly as she had
arrived, slamming the door behind her and making the bell jangle
long after she'd gone.
They watched her through the window as she crossed the road to
the square until she became lost in the crowd of shoppers and
tourists. Archie looked anxious. 'Do you think I was too hard on
her?'
Clara smiled. 'Given the circumstances, you played it just right.'
He laughed. 'And just think, she now imagines that her boring
soon-to-be-ex-husband is capable of pulling a woman as young as
you.' He laughed so hard the tears rolled down his cheeks. 'What a
joke! What a huge joke!'
His mirth didn't ring out with pure happiness though. There was a
strained false note to it that Clara knew echoed the emptiness of his
new life. Watching him wipe his eyes with the back of his hands, she
said, 'Archie, how's your social life these days?'
He shrugged. 'About as good as an agoraphobic hermit's. Why?'
'In that case, I think it's time you did something about it.'
He smiled. 'You asking me out on a date?'
'Oh, dang! You've rumbled me.' She smiled. 'Actually, I had
Shirley in mind. Why don't you ask her out? I've a feeling she's quite
fond of you. And just think of the great perks on offer. More fry-up
breakfasts and Bakewell tart than you can shake a stick at.'
He rubbed his jaw, unconvinced. 'You think she'd say yes? I mean
. . . well, we've been friends for a long time, but this . . . this would
be different.'
'Oh, come on, Archie, try listening to me. The woman's mad about
you.' Clara wasn't sure that this was strictly true but, hey, what the
heck? If she was going to start flinging Cupid's arrow about, she
might just as well make a proper job of it and aim for a bull's-eye.
Besides, Shirley wouldn't have gone on and on about Archie in the
way she had, if she wasn't just a little bit sweet on him.
They stayed with Archie until Ned had chosen three boxes of
jigsaw puzzles - having tried them all out - and Clara had explained
that they would be leaving the next day.
'Is this the last I'll see of you both?'
'Who knows?' she said evasively. 'When the wind changes Ned
and I might just roll into town again.'
He gave her a final hug goodbye. 'You're a regular Mary Poppins,
you are. Not got a carpet bag and an umbrella with a parrot's head
on it, have you?'
She was almost out of the door, when she was struck by what she
thought was her second great idea of the day. She turned back. 'I
know this is a lot to ask of you, Archie, but I don't suppose you'd do
me a favour, would you?'
'For you, sweetheart, anything. Just name it.' But when Archie had
waved them goodbye and shut the door, he wasn't so sure he would
be able to carry out her request.
Unlike Clara Costello, he wasn't a miracle worker.

Before leaving the next day, and with Ned's help, Clara prepared
Mermaid House for the days ahead. Intuition told her that Jonah
would suggest that Caspar stay with their father while their sister's
funeral was organised. Caspar had been adamant on the phone with
Jonah the other night that Damson was to be buried in the
churchyard in Deaconsbridge, where their mother was buried. Clara
had never thought of it before, but Jonah lived next door not just to
his mother's grave but his stepmother's. It was a weird thought.
She changed the sheets on the beds and, working on the
assumption that Caspar would be staying, she made up the bed in his
old room. She cleaned the bathroom, and even did her best with the
guest bathroom, which hadn't been used in years - the massive iron
bath had more than a dozen rust spots scarring its interior and a
dripping tap had left an ugly stain. She put some flowers from the
garden on the table in the kitchen, and left a note for Gabriel saying
that she had been to the supermarket and had stocked up on easy
cook meals for them. She also promised him that she would be in
touch soon. Lastly, she added a postscript:

This is obviously a time for you and your family to be alone. But
I want you to know that I'll be thinking of you often.
All my love,
Clara

She wrote a separate note for Jonah, put it into an envelope, and
stuck it down. That was definitely not for Gabriel's eyes.
She locked the door, slipped the key through the letterbox, and
turned her back on Mermaid House, wondering whether she would
ever see it again. She wanted to say that she would. That she would
make it happen. But she knew as well as the next person that life was
full of unexpected twists and turns.


Chapter Fifty-Four

The silence in the car lay over the three of them like a shroud. On the
back seat, his father slept, and in the front, next to Jonah, Caspar
was sitting with his head resting against the window. His eyes were
closed but Jonah knew he wasn't asleep.
Never before had Jonah seen such a change in a person. Normally
fastidious about his appearance - to the point of obsession - Caspar
was unshaven, his hair unkempt, his clothes rumpled, and his face
sallow and ravaged through lack of sleep. He was almost unrecognisable.
His grief was so tangible it shocked Jonah almost more than the
death of their sister.
When they had arrived at Rosewood Manor, yesterday lunchtime,
Roland Hall had been waiting for them. Jonah had approved of him
instantly, grateful for his quiet, reflective manner, though his father
had been less impressed. He had demanded to know what kind of a
healing centre had allowed his daughter to become so ill that she had
died without proper medical care. Roland had explained that
Damson had chosen the care she wanted and that she had been seen
regularly by an excellent doctor.
Next, he had taken them to Caspar. He was in Damson's room,
sorting through the few belongings she had brought with her to
Rosewood Manor. Quietly shutting the door behind him, Roland
had left them alone. For what seemed for ever, they had stood in
awkward silence not knowing what to do. Nothing had prepared
them for this moment.
Seeing a framed photograph by the side of the bed, Jonah went
over to it. It was of Damson and Caspar when they were teenagers.
Dressed in matching velvet flared trousers and cheesecloth shirts, they looked wildly attractive and were undeniably brother and sister:
they had the same long straight nose, the challenging flashing eyes
and high cheekbones that gave them an air of lofty grandeur.
'Please don't touch it,' Caspar murmured from the other side of the
bed, where he stood hunched like an old man sheltering from the
rain. In his hands he held a silk scarf, which he was twisting around
his fingers. 'Don't touch anything.'
Jonah and Gabriel exchanged glances. 'So what can we do to
help?' their father asked gruffly.
Caspar stared at him blankly. 'Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I
don't know why you've come. I didn't ask you to.' There was no
cruelty to his voice, just painful detachment.
'We're here because we care.'
The blank stare swivelled round to Jonah. 'Well, as you can see,
your care has come too late.' There was a trace of blame in his tone.
Gabriel moved slowly across the room and, with his big, rough old
hands, he gently removed the scarf from Caspar's whitening fingers.
'I know how you feel, son. Believe me, I do. I lost someone who
meant the world to me. But don't make the same mistake that I did.
Let people help you.'
Jonah had never admired or loved his father more than he did
then. What courage had it taken for him to lay down the past and
reach out to Caspar in the way that he had?
Raising his head, Caspar looked his father in the eye, but there was
no clue in his face as to how he was going to react. From his back
pocket, he slowly pulled out a piece of paper. 'The letter you wrote to
her . . . I. . . I. . .' He swallowed. 'I read it to her yesterday morning
. . . She said it came just at the right time.'
Gabriel closed his eyes. 'Too late,' he groaned. 'Too bloody late. I
should have done it years ago.' His body sagged. Worried, Jonah
shot across the room and, with Caspar's help, manoeuvred him into
the nearest chair. Gabriel sobbed openly. 'My poor girl,' he wailed.
'What have I done?'
'What have we all done?' murmured Caspar, the colour gone from
his face.
There had been a lot to organise, and with Caspar and Gabriel in
no fit state to do it, Jonah had dealt with everything. Damson's body
had already been taken to a chapel of rest by a local firm of
undertakers, who were delivering it to Deaconsbridge for the funeral
later that week. There was endless paperwork and phone calls to get
through, but with Roland Hall's help, Jonah got it all done. Roland
wanted to attend the funeral, so he offered to drive Caspar's car
down to Deaconsbridge and catch the train home afterwards.
'It might be better if we did a swap,' Jonah said, thinking of his
brother's reaction to anyone else driving his expensive car. 'Caspar
might prefer to have his own car when he gets home. Which means,
I'm afraid, you'll have my old wreck to cope with.'
'Whatever you think best.'
Jonah and Roland had stayed up late, talking long into the night.
Jonah was glad of the opportunity to talk to someone who seemed to
have understood his sister better than anyone. 'Does everyone here
get such special treatment?' he had asked, conscious that his question
sounded disagreeably loaded.
But Roland took it in his stride. 'Damson was special to me.'
'You loved her?'
'Not in the physical sense, if that's what you mean. I didn't exploit
her like so many had before. She needed someone to love her for
what she was. Battle scars and all. We were friends. Close spiritual
friends.' He looked away, stared into the distance, lost in his own
thoughts. Jonah realised that this man, who had taken Damson
under his wing and given her unconditional love, which she had had
from no one else, was grieving privately for her.

They arrived home to find Mermaid House empty, just as Jonah had
known it would be. But there were still some comforting signs of
Clara's presence, from the freshly made-up beds, to the flowers on
the kitchen table and the two letters she had left for them.
Jonah had told his father in the car on the way up to
Northumberland that Clara and Ned would be gone when they
returned. He had explained the reasons why, and Gabriel had said,
'She once told me that we all scourge ourselves from time to time
with a bit of soul-searching. Obviously, she knew what she was
talking about. I hope the boy's father behaves decently.'

It was strange being home. Strange because, though it felt familiar
and welcoming, it no longer felt like home. Which was an absurd
reaction, Clara decided, they hadn't been away for that long.
But it was great to see Louise and the Gang again. When she had
phoned Louise to ask if she and Ned could stay with her and David,
she had been met with, 'Oh, so you're bored with being cooped up in
a camper-van, are you? No danger of me being proved right, is
there?'
'Rule number one for us travelling folk, we grab the chance of free
facilities whenever and however we can.'
'You're nothing but a freeloading parasite,' Louise had laughed.
They had arrived at David and Louise's last night, after a long,
tedious journey. Guy and Moira were there too, and they'd stayed up
late with several bottles of wine and a Chinese takeaway. Ned had
fallen asleep on the sofa and David had carried him upstairs and put
him to bed. 'Just like old times,' he said, coming down shortly
afterwards, 'except that he's grown and he's heavier. I'll have to get
down to the gym and build up my muscles if he's going to keep
growing at the same rate.'
It was now Thursday morning and Louise had managed to get the
day off work, so that she could indulge in a marathon gossiping
session with Clara. She had devised a simple but guaranteed way to
keep Ned amused. He had been denied access to a television since
March, so he was putty in her hands when she switched on David's
latest toy, an enormous wide-screen telly. Sitting cross-legged on the
floor with a tube of Pringles and a pile of videos, he was hypnotised.
'I don't approve of you brainwashing my son,' said Clara, when
they retreated to the kitchen and Louise put a large cafetiere of coffee
on the table, with two mugs and a jug of milk.
'Now don't come over the perfect Goody-Two-Shoes mother with
me,' said Louise. 'Let me have you all to myself, just this once. And I
said it last night, and I'll say it again, you look fantastic. Better than
I've seen you in years. You're glowing with so much good health I
almost hate you. I love the hair too. Makes you look years younger.'
'You should have seen me two weeks ago when I had flu, I looked
like death on legs.'
Louise smiled. 'So bring on the lovely Jonah who took such great
care of you. Give me a proper run-down on him.'
'I told you everything last night.'
'No, you didn't. That's what you were prepared to tell us as a
group. Now that it's just the two of us, I want the important bits
you've held back.'
Clara reached for the cafetiere, pushed the plunger down, then
poured their coffee. 'Honestly, there really isn't much more to tell.'
'But you think you could go the distance with him?'
'I think I could, but I'm not sure that it's worth the trouble of
trying. My life is here, and his is there. Why invest valuable time and
effort, not to say emotion, in something that has no future?'
Louise added milk to her coffee and stirred it. 'You don't know
that, not for sure. You wouldn't be hedging your bets, by any
chance, would you?'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning Mr Todd Mason Angel. Don't forget I've met him. He's
knock-out smart and extremely easy on the eye, just your kind of
man, I'd say.'
Clara frowned. She straightened the mats on the table, squared
them precisely. 'I admit he was my kind of man,' she said
thoughtfully, 'which is why I fell in love with him in the first place.
But I certainly haven't come back here to meet him under the
delusion that we'll magically pick up where we left off. I'm not that
stupid.'
'But how would you react if he suggested you did do exactly that?'
She was saved from answering the question by the telephone. It
was David calling to say that the first part of Clara's plan had been
put into place.
Todd had accepted an invitation to meet for a drink after work.
Except it wouldn't be a drink with Guy and David as he thought.

Ned didn't bat an eyelid when Clara said she had to go out for a
while that evening. He was much too busy to worry about where she
was going or what she doing. He was showing Louise his scrapbook
and he was telling her all about Mr Liberty and the amazing house he
lived in; about the tower, the secret passageway in the library, and
the badgers down in the copse. Clara kissed the top of his head, gave
her friend a grateful smile, and slipped away.
Louise had kindly loaned her the use of her BMW, and with the
soft top down she drove to the Kingfisher Arms where Todd was
expecting to meet Guy and David.
It was a lovely summer's evening, and the car park at the front of
the pub was almost full. Though it was mid-week, it seemed that
everyone had decided to come out and enjoy the warm weather.
David had told her that Todd was driving a hired bronze-coloured
Lexus. She saw it straight away and her heart began to pound.
Inside the pub, she scanned the bar, but drew a blank. She ordered
a glass of fizzy water and took it out to the garden where she flipped
down her sunglasses and surveyed the tables of drinkers. She
eliminated them one by one. Then she saw him. He was sideways on
to her, dressed in his work clothes - a lightweight suit and pale blue
shirt. He had loosened his tie, undone the button on his collar, and
there was no denying that he stood out from the crowd. He had that
indefinable quality that made it obvious he was from across the
Atlantic. Part of it was the confidence in his bearing, the head held
high, the neatly cut hair, the firm jaw. He looked well, and just as
handsome. Just as she had remembered him. The only thing different
about him were the glasses, but they enhanced rather than detracted
from his features.
She began the long walk across the garden, shaking so much that
she was spilling her drink. She tried to steady her hand, as well as her
nerve. She was almost upon him when he turned. For a moment he
looked as if he had seen a ghost: his mouth dropped open and he
simply stared. Then disbelief propelled him to his feet. 'Clara?'
She raised her sunglasses, as though it might convince him it really
was her, that she was no ghost. 'Hello, Todd. Mind if I join you?'

There was so much they had to say but neither knew where to start,
other than with a polite exchange.
'I like your hair. It suits you.'
'Thank you. The same goes for you and the glasses.'
'I hear you've been away, travelling.'
'Yes. Life on the open road. How are you getting on with the
French?'
'Fine. We should be done by next week. The shares will really hit
. . . Oh, hell, Clara, this is no good. Talk to me properly. Tell me
how you really are. Tell me about Ned . . . about our son.'
Her mouth clamped itself shut. She repeated his words inside her
head.
Our son.
Our son.
Suddenly she felt as if all the strength had been ripped out of her. If
she hadn't been sitting down, she would have fallen to the ground.
All this time Ned had been her son. Now, just like that, he was to be
shared.
To her horror, she began to cry, but didn't know why. She felt
Todd's arms around her and she leaned into him, remembering how
good he had always felt. How good it had been between them.
Through blinding tears, she felt him pulling her up, then leading
her away. He took her down towards the river, to the shade and
privacy of the willow trees that arched their graceful branches over
the water.
'I'm sorry.' She gulped and sniffed. 'I had no idea I was going to
react like that. It's just--'
He held her tightly. 'How do you think I feel? When I found out
about Ned I nearly went crazy. I've been out of my mind, not
knowing what I should do. I so badly wanted to turn to your friends,
but it was clear they didn't know about us. Oh, Clara, why didn't
you tell me?'
She straightened up, pulled away from him. 'You know the answer
to that. I didn't want to ruin everything for you. I knew how much
your wife and children meant to you, and the day I discovered I was
pregnant, you came into my office and told me you and Gayle were
getting back together.'
'Oh, my God, you knew then.' He took his glasses off and passed
his hand over his eyes. 'If only I'd known.'
'It wouldn't have worked, Todd. Ned and I would have got in the
way of what you really wanted. What you already had . . . Gayle and
your girls.'
She could tell from the look in his eyes and his silence that she had
been right. She had been right all along. Vindicated, at last. She
turned away from him, let her gaze fall on a pair of mallard ducks
that were kicking up a row further along the river. Composed now,
she said, 'Let's go back. I don't know about you, but I'm in need of a
real burn-the-back-off-your-throat drink.'
Their table was still free, and after Todd had fetched two glasses of
Jack Daniel's, she said, 'It's important that you understand I expect
nothing from you. I made the decision to have Ned and he's my
responsibility. I'm not about to make any demands of you.'
'Now hold on a minute, Clara. I hear what you're saying, but the
situation has changed. I can no more turn my back on Ned than I
could disown my children back home. Don't I have a say in anything
to do with him?'
Clara felt a knot of panic tighten in her stomach. If Todd wanted
to feature in his son's life, she would have to part with him. Todd
would want to have him over in the States for prolonged stays. And
the more that happened, the more likely it was that Ned would grow
away from her. Tears threatened again, but she fought them back
and took a gulp of her drink. She was being irrational, she told
herself. She looked at Todd warily. 'What are you proposing to do?'
she asked. 'Tell your wife?'
He lowered his gaze and played with his glass, turning it round
slowly. She knew she'd hit him below the belt, that she had
deliberately tried to score a point off him. She felt cheap and
unworthy. 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'that was uncalled-for.'
He let out his breath. 'It's a perfectly valid question, though, and
one for which I don't have a ready answer. It's what I've thought of
ever since I guessed who the boy with the neat smile was in the
photographs your friends showed me.'
On firmer ground now, she relaxed a little and said, 'It's your
smile.'
He shook his head. 'That's great. Just wonderful. My daughters
look like Gayle, but the child I've never seen takes after me.'
'My mother describes his smile as a gift from the angels.'
'Oh, my. And who says we Yanks don't get irony?'
They sipped their drinks. 'You haven't married, then?'
'No, Todd. Probably something to do with not having the time or
energy to bag myself a good 'un.'
'But you've managed okay on your own? I mean, financially.'
She bristled. 'Financially I've been fine. Making money hand over
fist.'
'I'm sorry. That was rude and patronising of me. But it can't have
been too easy bringing up a child on your own.'
'Everyone says that to me, but it's been okay. Mum and Dad have
been great. My friends too.'
As if sensing he was treading on thin ice and thinking a change of
subject would be a good idea, he said, 'So what made you trade in
Phoenix for a camper? I would never have had you down as doing
something as off the chart as that.'
People change, she wanted to say, feeling another frisson of
antagonism. 'It was Ned,' she said. 'I wanted to spend more time
with him before he starts school in September. It was now or never.'
'So what kind of school have you got in mind for him?'
Again, she felt herself tense with possessive defensiveness. 'A
dreadful school, of course.'
He looked at her, puzzled. 'What is it, Clara? I'm getting the
feeling I'm saying all the wrong things.'
She drained her glass. 'Forget it. It's me. I can't handle this. I
thought I could. But the truth is, I'm not sure I want to share Ned
with you. I've done everything for him, made all decisions, wiped
away all the tears, read all the books, sat up all the nights--'
He laid a firm hand on her arm and stopped her. 'You did all that,
and much more, because you chose to do it, Clara. Don't sit there
throwing hurtful accusations at me. While you were doing all those
things, I never even knew Ned existed. So don't try to make me feel
guilty.'
She pushed his hand away. 'And if you had known of his
existence, what would you have done?' She watched him collect his
thoughts before making his measured reply.
'You're angry with me, I can see that. And I can't blame you. But
please, don't think I don't care about Ned now. I do. I have no idea
how to resolve things, but I promise you, I'll do my best by him.
Which doesn't mean I'm about to wade in like an FBI agent and take
him from you. You're his mother, and as we all know, it's mothers
who make the important decisions when it comes to children. Dads
are just hangers-on who need to know their place.' He gave a small
smile and said, 'You can put down your weapons now.'
She relented and smiled too. 'So, when do you want to meet your
son?'


Chapter Fifty-Five

The back door slammed so violently that the windows rattled.
Caspar was leaving the house to go for another of his long walks.
Since they had arrived back from Northumberland, he had done a lot
of walking, always alone and always for hours at a time. It was as if
he was trying to walk his grief out of his system. Gabriel knew from
bitter experience that it wouldn't work.
They had buried Damson yesterday. It had been an exhausting,
emotionally draining day. An unlikely mixture of people had turned
up for the funeral.
Jonah and Roland had gone through Damson's address book and
had contacted as many people as they could, working on the theory
that because Damson was so pragmatic, if she had entered a name in
the book, it was because she liked that person: ex-husbands' and
boyfriends' names were conspicuously absent.
Not knowing how Caspar was going to survive the day, Gabriel
had concentrated on keeping people away from his son: their looks
and words of sympathy, no matter how well meant, were not what
he needed. Once the service was over, they had walked next door to
Jonah's house where he had laid on a modest buffet of sandwiches
and drinks. While Jonah and Roland had poured drinks and chatted
politely with the guests, Gabriel had grabbed a plate of sandwiches
and taken Caspar back to the churchyard. 'Your brother has it all in
hand,' he'd said. 'Let's have some time on our own.' They had sat on
a wooden bench in the warm sun, just yards away from Damson's
grave. The gravediggers had finished their work and the hole was
now filled in, decorated with flowers. To the right of this was her
mother's grave, and further along, her step-mother's. Gabriel had
deliberately avoided coming here since Val's funeral and it surprised
him to see how well tended the plots were. There was only one
person who could have been caring for them so diligently. And how
typical of Jonah that was. There was never any song and dance about
him. He never went out of his way to look for thanks and glory. It
was a trait that was wholly reminiscent of his mother.
'Is this supposed to help?' asked Caspar, his gaze on his sister's
grave.
Putting the plate of sandwiches on the bench between them,
Gabriel produced a dented silver hip flask from his suit-jacket
pocket. He passed it to Caspar. 'Can it make it any worse?'
Loosening his tie, Caspar took a swig of the brandy, then another.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. 'No. You're right.
Wherever I am, I'll always feel the awful loss of her.'
'Better to accept the truth of that than spend the rest of your life
running from it.'
'Is that what you did with Mum?'
'I never stopped running. It's why I buggered up things with you
three children so spectacularly. I turned away from you, left you to
cope with something you weren't able to deal with. It's only now that
I've come to realise the harm I caused through my selfishness.
Heartbreak rots our integrity, Caspar, remember that. And I'm
telling you this because I'm being selfish once again. I need you to
know why I behaved as I did.' He cleared his throat. 'My biggest
regret is that I didn't have a chance to apologise to Damson. Are you
going to drink that flask dry?'
Caspar passed it back to him. 'I think Damson was ahead of you,
had worked it out for herself.'
'She had?'
'She was always the smarter one of the two of us. More astute than
anyone gave her credit for. One of the last things she said to me was
that we're survivors, not victims.'
Gabriel pondered on this. 'From what Jonah's told me, Roland
Hall played a crucial part in her life towards the end.'
'Are you saying I didn't?'
At once Gabriel felt Caspar's body turn rigid on the seat next to
him. 'No, I'm not,' he said emphatically, keen to avoid upsetting his
son. There had been enough explosive outbursts from Caspar lately,
when he had ranted and raved and thrown things, then left the house
to tramp across the moors, returning hours later exhausted, his rage
spent. It was just what Gabriel had done when Anastasia had died.
'I'm saying you, me, Jonah, we weren't the people she needed at that
time.'

Caspar's chin dropped. 'So what's brought on all this understanding,
Dad? Bit of a change of tune, isn't it?'
Gabriel ignored the dismissive tone, and after a swig of brandy, he
said, 'I came very close to killing myself last month.' He waited for
the words to sink in, then saw the disbelief in his son's face.
'You? But why? How?'
'Yes, me - of all people. But you see, I suddenly understood how
much I hated being alone and the reasons why I was alone. Having
reached that conclusion, it seemed the perfect moment to take my cue
to exit stage left. As to the how, well-- picture the scene if you will-- I went down to the copse with a shotgun, all ready to blast my stupid
head off.'
Caspar looked suitably horror-stricken. 'What happened?'
'You mean, what went wrong? I didn't have it in me when push
came to shove. Oh, I meant to do it, I really did. Maybe if I'd taken
some Dutch courage with me I would have done it. But there I was,
bawling my eyes out, the gun shoved up under my chin and an angel
of mercy appeared from nowhere.' He watched Caspar's expression
change to one of time-to-humour-the-old-boy. 'She was an angel of
sorts,' he went on, 'although she doesn't have wings.' He smiled. 'It
was Miss Costello.'
Caspar looked confused. 'But I thought she'd left weeks ago.'
'She did, but she came back that day. Was it fate, or just good
timing?' He shrugged. 'Who knows? Sandwich?'
'No.'
'You need to eat, Caspar.'
'I will. Just not today.'

The sound of knocking jolted Gabriel out of his reverie. He was
expecting Jonah - it was the weekend - but Jonah never knocked
twice. He knocked once then let himself in.
He opened the back door and was momentarily nonplussed. It was
Clara Costello's junk-dealer friend, Archie Merryman.
They stared at one another warily.
'I was sorry to hear about your daughter--'
'I was sorry to hear about your mother--' they said simultaneously
and, in a perfect mirror image of each other, they looked down at
their feet, not knowing what to say next. Crippled with embarrassment,
they were like a pair of schoolboys who had been forced to
apologise for fighting in the playground.
Clutching a carrier-bag, Archie hoped that he could live up to
Clara's expectations of him. She had asked him to visit the
Commandant with a view to keeping an eye on the old boy. 'He's
going to need someone to cheer him up in the weeks ahead,' she had
said, 'and I can't think of anyone better suited to the task.'
Personally, Archie thought he was the last person on earth fit for
such a task. But still, she had thought him capable of it, so here he
was.
'I've brought you this,' he said, dipping his hand into the bag and
pulling out a bottle of whisky. 'Just by way of saying I reckon I know
what you're going through.'
Gabriel stared at the bottle. He thought of the letter Clara had
written for him on his return from Northumberland, in which she
had asked him, when he felt able to, to keep an eye on Archie
Merryman in her absence. 'I know you like to think of yourself as an
unsociable crosspatch,' she had written, 'but underneath it all, I
know you're the sweetest man alive who won't think twice about
doing this one small thing for me.'
Just for the sheer hell of it, he'd show her what he was made of.
He took the offered bottle and said, 'Mr Merryman, it's a little
early, but how do you feel about a pre-lunch snifter?'
'Please, it's Archie, and thank you, a drink would slip down a
treat. Especially after the week I've had. Though yours can't have
been much better.'
'You're not wrong there. Not wrong at all.'

'For once it looks as if we'll get through an entire barbecue without a
drop of rain.'
Clara passed Guy a glass of wine and agreed with him absently.
'Oh, come on, Clara,' he said, 'lose the long face. It'll be okay.
Anyone would think Ned was being put through some kind of test.'
Louise came over from where she and Moira had been setting the
table. 'You're not still worrying, are you?' she said to Clara.
'Of course I am! Wouldn't you be, if your child was meeting his
father for the first time?' Though Ned was at the bottom of the
garden playing football with David and well out of earshot, Clara
kept her voice low.
'The important thing is that Ned doesn't have a clue what's going
on,' Guy said, equally circumspect. 'As far as he's concerned, Todd is
just another of his mother's many friends.'
Clara knew that what Guy was saying was right. But, oh, she just
wished this day could be over. It had seemed so reasonable when
Louise and David had offered to invite Todd to a lunchtime barbecue
so that he could meet Ned in a relaxed setting. But now she was
regretting the whole idea. What if Todd suddenly felt the need to
blurt out to Ned who he was? Common sense told her that Todd
would never do that: he was one of the most rational people she
knew.
They had discussed this important day on the phone several times
and had even met up again for a drink last night. He was as
concerned as she was that Ned was not put through any emotional
upset. It helped enormously that he was the same understanding
Todd with whom she had fallen in love, and while it seemed a
paradox, she frequently found herself thanking her lucky stars that
she had had an affair with such a considerate man.
Determined to safeguard Ned, Clara had laid down the ground
rules straight away. She had told Todd that until he had decided
whether he was going to tell his wife about Ned and therefore offer a
real, open commitment, he could not reveal who he was. It was
harsh, but it was Ned's feelings that mattered, not hers, not Todd's.
Yet she wasn't without sympathy for Todd. She knew he was up
against the worst dilemma he would probably ever have to face. But
the cool, efficient and detached woman within her reasoned that it
was his problem. She had cleared her conscience by telling him about
Ned; what happened next was down to him. She could do nothing to
help him.
She was a hard-headed realist, if nothing else.
She had said this to Jonah on the phone late last night - she had
phoned him several times, always when Louise and David had gone
to bed and she could be sure of talking to him without Louise
listening in. 'Nothing wrong in being hard-headed or a realist,' he'd
said.
'Did I say there was?'
'No, but something in your tone suggested you were defending
yourself.'
'Goodness, you're being mighty forward all of a sudden.'
He'd laughed. 'Only because I know I'm out of slapping range.'
After he'd brought her up to date with how his brother and father
were getting on, he'd said, 'It's a pity you're not here, it's a beautiful

night.' He hadn't said he was missing her, but the implication was
there.
'Are you in the garden?'
'On the terrace with a glass of wine and a bag of pistachio nuts.'
'Sounds good. Describe the view for me.'
'Mm . . . it's dark and starry.'
'Come on, you can do better than that.'
'Did I mention the moon?'
'No.'
'It's very white and looks like a clipped toenail.'
'Stop! You're spoiling it for me. Where's your romantic, chivalrous
soul, Jonah Liberty?'
'It's cowering under the table too scared to show itself.'
'Then tell it to pull itself together.'
'I've tried but it's no good. It said, "What's the point? Who's here
for me to sweet-talk?"'
It had been good talking to him, and not just because he took her
mind off Todd.

Todd arrived exactly on time, just as Clara had known he would.
One look at his face as he stepped out of his car and she knew he was
as nervous as she was. It made her feel better, took away some of her
edginess.
Which couldn't be said of her friends.
They tried too hard to show that they were relaxed with the
situation. Louise and Moira laughed too loudly at Todd's joke about
the weather, and Guy took the bottles of Californian wine he'd
brought with such expansive gratitude that anyone would have
thought he had been presented with the Holy Grail.
And while they tried to hide their awkwardness, a piercing squeal
came up from the bottom of the garden. Seconds later, Ned came
running towards them, his dark hair shiny in the bright sunlight,
bouncing with each step he took. His face was a huge grin of delight.
'Mummy, Mummy, I beat Uncle David. Ten goals to five!'
Breathless, he threw himself at her legs and raised his arms for her to
scoop him up as she usually did. But on this occasion, she didn't.
'Ned,' she said, 'this is an old friend of mine. He lives in America and
his name is Todd. Have you got enough puff to say hello to him?'
Ned looked up at him and smiled confidently. 'Hello, Mr Todd.
Do you like playing football?'
It was such an emotionally charged moment that everyone
suddenly found something to do -- the barbecue coals needed
lighting, the salads had to be dressed, and a new bottle of wine
opened. Clara watched Todd's face as he hunkered down to be on
eye level with Ned. 'Hi,' he said, 'I'm more of a baseball fan, but I'll
give football a shot if you'll teach me.'
Ned grinned. 'I'm very good. Jonah taught me when Mummy was
ill in bed. He showed me how to tackle. Do you want to see?'
Todd glanced up at Clara and her heart twisted as she saw both
sadness and joy in his face. 'Would you mind?' he asked.
She smiled. 'Not at all.'
They were three very important words, she thought later that
evening when Todd had left for his hotel, and she was kissing Ned
goodnight.
'Todd was nice,' Ned said, snuggling down beneath the duvet and
holding Mermy up for her to kiss as well. 'I like the way he talks.
Will he come and see us again?'
'I don't know. He's very busy at the moment and then he has to go
home to America.'
She pushed the hair out of his eyes, and was about to get up from
the bed, when he said, 'Mummy?'
'Yes?'
He gave her one of his melting looks. 'What do you think Mr
Liberty is doing right now?'
'Probably wondering what you're doing right now.'
He seemed pleased by this thought. 'Do you think so?'
'Absolutely. You're a hard boy to forget, Ned.'
'Can we go back to Mermaid House to see him?'
She had known it would only be a matter of time before he asked
her this question.
'Don't you like being here?'
He hesitated, as though not wanting to cause offence. 'Mm ... it is
nice, but I miss Mr Liberty.'
'Well, that's not a bad thing. It means you care about people, and
that's good.'
'It doesn't feel good. It feels . . . horrible.' His lower lip wobbled.
'Oh, Ned.' She lifted him out of bed and sat him on her lap. It
wasn't often he cried, but when he did, Clara knew it was with good
reason. She cuddled his warm body against hers, but the tears had
taken hold of him and there seemed no way to comfort him. Hearing
the noise, Louise popped her head round the door.
'What's wrong?' she asked, concerned.
'A surfeit of good times, I think.'
Eventually Clara settled him by promising that they would ring Mr
Liberty tomorrow morning so that Ned could speak to him. When
she joined her friends downstairs, she sensed they had something to
say to her: they had formed themselves into what looked suspiciously
like a deputation.
Guy patted the seat next to him on the sofa. 'Clarabelle, for once
in your life you're going to take the advice of your friends.'
'And please don't take this the wrong way,' Louise said, 'but quite
frankly you've outstayed your welcome.'
'Yes,' agreed David, handing round cups of coffee. 'So you can pack up your things and go. We've had enough.'
'More than enough,' said Guy. 'If I have to hear one more word
about Ned's superhuman friend, Mr Gabriel Liberty, I think I'll go
mad.'
'And as for the wonderful Jonah Liberty,' said Moira, 'well, please,
is any man that perfect?'
'Oh yes,' groaned Louise. 'If I have to eavesdrop on another of
your midnight phone calls, I'll die of envy.'

Clara stared at them confounded. 'What's going on? What are you
up to?'
'Get real, sister,' laughed Guy. 'You and Ned have done nothing
but go on about Deaconsbridge. If we've heard it once, what a
fantastic time you had, we've heard it till we're ready to go up there
and see for ourselves the Utopia you've discovered.'
'But--'

'No buts,' interrupted Louise, with a warning finger. 'If you hadn't
come back here to see Todd, you'd still be up there in the Peak
District, wouldn't you?'
Clara nodded. 'Possibly.'
'No possibly about it! Now, what's stopping you from taking off
tomorrow and seeing how the land lies?'
'But why would I want to do that?'
Nobody answered her. They just stared at her hard. She knew she
was being pushed into a corner, and that her friends wouldn't let the
matter drop until they were satisfied. She decided to humour them.
'Look, the truth is, it has crossed my mind to do just as you're
suggesting, but--'
'We told you, no buts!'
'But, Louise, I'm worried if Ned and I do go back we might not
want to leave.'
'I'm sorry, call me a dumb old bloke,' said David, 'but what's the
danger in that? You've found somewhere you like, where you've
made friends, and where there's even the chance of you getting off
with a real live man. Explain the problem.'
'The problem is you lot! What would I do without you all?'
'Oh, so we're just here to be used, are we?'
'Guy, don't you dare try twisting my words. I meant, how would I
survive without your friendship permanently on hand?'
Moira shook her head. 'Poor excuse. We're not having that one,
are we?'
'Certainly not,' agreed Louise. 'You left us behind in March
without so much as a second thought. What's different now?'
'Are you trying to get rid of me?'
'Yes!' they all shouted together.
'But this is different,' she said, trying not to get carried away with
their enthusiasm. 'If Ned and I go back, and we find that we want to
stay, what then?'
David sighed as if she was being particularly dense. 'You'll get a
job, get Ned into school and find yourself somewhere to live.'
'And if it doesn't work?'
'You come back here,' Guy said. 'But what would be worse, doing
that, or knowing you were too much of a coward to try it?'
'You sneaky dog, Guy Morrell. Nobody gets away with accusing
me of cowardice.' Smiling, she thumped him with a cushion. 'I'm
beginning to think that I would be better off living miles away from
you lot.'
Louise grinned. 'I think we're getting somewhere. We're wearing
her down.'
'Oh, you did that a long time ago. But be serious for a minute. Do
you really think I should go back for the rest of the summer and see
how it pans out?'
'All you have to do is ask yourself, what have you got to lose?'
Louise's question stayed with Clara as she fell asleep that night.
The only answer she could come up with was that she had a
resounding nothing to lose - but maybe everything to gain.

With her fondness for having everything organised, and every
conceivable contingency catered for, Clara spent the following week
planning. At no time did she let on to Ned what she was doing.
There was one important phone call she had to make, to her
parents. 'I just wanted to know how you would feel if Ned and I
weren't here when you came back from Australia,' she said to her
mother.
Her mother went very quiet and said, 'Whatever decision you
make, you know we'll go along with it. We always have and there's
no reason why we would change now.'
'You're the best, Mum.'
'I know.'
'Wonderfully modest too.'
'You would know, dear - like mother like daughter. Now, explain
what you're up to, but quickly, this call must be costing you a small
fortune.'
After Clara had outlined her plans, her mother wished her luck
and asked if Ned was around for her to speak to.
'I'll go and get him, but don't mention anything I've just told you. I
want it to be a surprise for him.'

The night before she planned to drive north with Ned, she met up
with Todd one last time. His work was almost finished at Phoenix
and he was due to fly home in two days.
They sat in the garden of the Kingfisher Arms once more, but
Clara didn't press him for details about the future. She had no right
to do that.
'I want to thank you for being so understanding,' he said, 'and for
letting me see Ned. A lot of women wouldn't have acted as
generously as you have. I'm more grateful than I can say.'
'But I have so much more to be grateful for,' she said. 'I have Ned.
He means the world to me.'
'I know he does. I can also see how much you mean to him. He's a
wonderful boy, you've done a fine job of raising him. I'm just
envious and shamefaced I haven't been there for you both when I
should have been.'
There was an awkward moment when he brought up the question
of financial support. 'I'd feel a whole lot better if you'd take this,
Clara.' He handed her a cheque. Without looking at it, but knowing
instinctively that he would have been generous, she passed it back to
him.
'And I'd feel a whole lot worse taking it. When you know exactly
what you want to do about Ned, then we'll discuss money. Not
before.'
'Fair enough,' he said. Then looking faintly embarrassed, he
asked, what did you put on the birth
certificate?'
She smiled and covered his hand with hers. 'What do you think?
Your name, of course.'
He swallowed. 'You always did play it dead straight, Clara. Thank
you for doing that.'
They exchanged addresses and telephone numbers, and after
they'd drunk a toast to Ned's future, Todd took her by surprise.
'So who's this Jonah I kept hearing about from Ned when he was
trying to teach me to kick a ball?'
Annoyingly, she felt the colour rise to her face. 'A friend.'
'A special friend?'
'Maybe.'
'Ned seems quite taken with him. What's he like?'

Driving back to Louise and David's, Clara felt sorry for Todd. How
complicated his life had suddenly become. He had arrived in England
a happily married man with, presumably, few cares in the world, and
he was returning home with the knowledge that he had a son. Not
only that, he had an unexpected emotion to deal with. One that
Clara certainly hadn't anticipated.
Jealousy.
In his brief cross-examination of her about Jonah, he had clearly
been troubled by the idea of another man forming a relationship with
Ned.
Funny that Guy and David hadn't undergone the same scrutiny.


Chapter Fifty-Six

For the last day or so, the weather had alternated between blustery
showers and intermittent sunshine, but now it had settled again and
the sky was blue save for clouds of fluffy whiteness that bubbled up
then drifted away on the light wind that blew in from the west.
Standing in front of the mirror, Gabriel straightened his tie and
admired his new blazer. He pushed his shoulders back, turned to the
right, then to the left, and decided it wasn't a bad fit. He was glad
now that he had asked Caspar to take him shopping for some new
clothes, and even more so that he had taken his son's advice and
chosen the single-breasted rather than double. Next he turned his
attention to his hair. Again, Caspar had intervened and pushed him
to have it cut dramatically shorter than he wanted. Grudgingly
Gabriel admitted that it was a great improvement. It made him look
younger, distinguished - with a dash of jauntiness, he liked to think.
He tilted his chin up, raised an eyebrow like Roger Moore did in all
those old Bond movies and mentally declared himself a handsome

devil.
Chuckling, he turned his back on the mirror and left his room.
Enough of the preening. Time was of the essence. He still had lots to
do. Ned and Clara would soon be here. He paused on the landing
outside Val's old room, then went in. With Archie's help, he had had
it spruced up for Clara. When he had mentioned to Archie that he
wanted to have it redecorated, he'd said, 'I know just the chaps you
need.' Turned out that Shirley from the Mermaid cafe had a son
who, with a friend, had started up his own painting and decorating
business and was looking for work. 'You'd better be cheap,' he'd
said to them when they arrived on their motorbikes to give him an
estimate. 'Just because I live in a large house, don't imagine my
wallet is a bottomless pit.'
The following day they'd shown up in a wreck of a van with a
ladder strapped to the roof. Dressed in overalls, they plugged in a
large radio that belted out something that could never be described
as music and got down to work, stripping off the old flowery
wallpaper that had been there for more than twenty years and
replacing it with a cheerful yellow paper that brightened the room.
Shirley's son, Robbie, had explained to him that there was a range of
bed linen to match the paper and border they'd used, so he'd
instructed them to get that too. 'Might as well go the whole hog,'
he'd said, handing over more money. They had transformed Jonah's
old room too, giving it a fresh new look that they swore blind would
appeal to a small boy. They had worked quickly and tidily, and
Gabriel was so pleased with the results that he thought he might get
them to have a go at some of the other rooms. His own, perhaps.
Shirley had been a great help too. Funny, that - he'd only ever
talked to her in the cafe when he was ordering his lunch, but she had
been ready to lend a hand when he had mentioned the party he
wanted to give. 'You'll be needing food, then,' she'd said. 'Want any
help with that?'
'I don't want anything fancy.'
'You mean you don't want anything expensive, you old skinflint.'
She and Archie were somewhere downstairs. It was only a small
party he was throwing, but he didn't know how he would have
organised everything if they hadn't offered to help. He supposed
Archie still needed to be busy. He'd had a tough old time of it
recently, what with his wife leaving him and his mother dying, and
Gabriel was looking forward to telling Clara that he'd more than
risen to her challenge of keeping an eye on him. Under the guise of
clearing out yet more junk from the house, he'd seen quite a lot of
Archie, had found him an agreeable man, and he was pleased, if not
a little amused, that he and Shirley were getting on so well. He knew,
from first-hand experience, that it wasn't good to be on one's own
too much. Having people around made things bearable.
And that was what he had wished for, that day at the Mermaid
Cavern. He had tossed his coin into the pool and wished that he
would have the pleasure of seeing Ned and his mother again. Because
when they were around, life was infinitely better.
Downstairs, he found the kitchen empty. An appetising smell was
coming from the oven, but apart from that, there was no sign of any
activity. Like Clara, Shirley was a tidy worker and she put everything
away after she had finished with it. She had been coming to Mermaid
House for just over a week now to keep the place in order, and the
arrangement was working well. She still had her part-time job at the
cafe in town, but as she had said to him after Archie had come up
with the idea, 'We'll give each other a trial run for a month. And this
is what I'll do for you. For six pounds an hour, I'll keep your home
sweet if you promise to keep your temper sweet. How does that
sound?'
'It sounds to me as if we ought to spit and shake on it before either
of us changes our mind.'
So far she had been as good as her word. The rooms that mattered
were as neat as a pin. He had no complaints at all.
The only gripe he had was that Dr Singh wasn't around to see how
smoothly he now had his life ticking over. He'd heard through
Shirley that he had moved up to Blackburn. Or was it Bury?
Anyway, wherever he had beggared off to, doubtless he was poking
his nose into some other poor devil's affairs. Though, of course,
despite his annoying interference, Gabriel was aware that if Dr Singh
hadn't been such a nuisance, he might never have formed the
friendship he now had with Ned and Clara. Or be reconciled with
Jonah and Caspar. He still had a way to go with Caspar: his elder
son had yet to recover from the shock of Damson's death. He was
currently dividing his time between Manchester and Mermaid
House, and though it was hard work having Caspar around, Gabriel
didn't want him to be on his own. The more time they spent
together, the more alike Gabriel realised they were. Neither suffered
fools gladly, both were as stubborn as hell and they each possessed a
temper that could scorch asbestos. And while Caspar's dandified
arrogance and assumption that the world revolved around him
would always infuriate him, Gabriel could, none the less, appreciate
and admire his sharpness of mind. If only he would apply it to
something more constructive than he had until now.
In the meantime, Gabriel took it as an encouraging sign that
Caspar had agreed to join the party today. He had expected his son to turn down the invitation, denouncing it as in poor taste. Instead,
he had said he would try to put in a brief appearance.
Jonah was the only person who didn't know what was going on.
He didn't even know that Clara would be here this afternoon - he
had been deliberately misled into believing that she was arriving
tomorrow. Revelling in all the skulduggery, Gabriel had phoned
Jonah and told him to get here when school was finished because
there was something important they needed to discuss. Which was
partly true, there were things he needed to say this afternoon. Things
he should have said and done a long time ago.
It was reading Val's diaries that had clinched it for him. Jonah had
given the notebooks to him last week, saying Clara had found them
when she had been sorting out Val's room. Seeing the anxiety in
Jonah's face, Gabriel had guessed that he wouldn't be the first person
to see the journals. They had made for difficult reading, and it
saddened him to know that Val had felt such an outsider at Mermaid
House. What moved him most, though, was her determination to try
to understand a family that had, in her words, 'had its heart ripped
out of it'. More graphically, she had written, 'I've been brought in as
a plaster for this family, but what they really need is a tourniquet to
staunch the flow of their misery. I doubt they'll ever know peace of
mind. Because, perversely, they don't seem to want it.'

After he had finished arranging the flowers on Damson's grave,
Caspar straightened up. He flicked at a hover-fly that had landed on
his sleeve and then stood still, his head bowed, his eyes closed.
Anyone seeing him would have thought he was praying, but he
wasn't. He was remembering Damson as a young girl. Vital and
beautiful. Sharp and funny. Wilful and passionate. And dangerous to
be with at times. 'I'm just like my namesake,' she would say to
anyone meeting her for the first time, and commenting on the
uniqueness of her Christian name. 'I have a dark and bitter-sweet
soul.'
That darkness of the soul of which she had spoken frequently as a
teenager had frightened him. She talked endlessly about death, and
what it might feel like when you knew the end was near. Around the
time of their twentieth birthday, she had taken to disappearing for
weeks at a time. He hadn't liked her doing that, had hated not
knowing where she was, who she was with, or what she was up to.
Selfishly, he had felt excluded. But when she surfaced again, she was
the same old Damson, ready to party and stir up some fun. In view of
what Hall had told him at Rosewood Manor, it was possible that
these absences had been connected with the abortions.
He opened his eyes and sighed. How was it possible to be so close
to someone, and yet so far from them?
Checking his watch, he saw that he would have to leave soon. He
wasn't in the mood to be sociable, but he had made his sister a
promise, and he would do his damnedest to keep it. He had let her
down when she was alive, he would not do the same now she was
dead. So a party it was.
He knew exactly why his father had chosen today to throw a
party, and he supposed it was about time, but it was a woefully
sentimental and symbolic gesture. And what a lot of fuss he was
making about it. New clothes. A hair-cut. Not to mention the
bedrooms that had been tarted up for the benefit of the shrewish
Clara Costello - the angel in the copse - and her son, who were
coming to stay for the rest of the summer. Bizarrely, it seemed that
his brother had fallen for the woman's sharp-tongued charms, and
stranger still, their father was keen to play the part of Cupid and
encourage the blossoming romance.
'Oh, Damson,' he murmured softly, 'I wish you were here with me
to witness this madness.'
He turned and walked away, back down the gravel path and out
on to the road where his car was parked in front of Jonah's house.
He was now the not-so-proud owner of a second-hand Rover. The
Maserati had been sold, and his beautiful loft apartment was on the
market. The bank, the creditors, the taxman, they were all feasting
greedily on his remains, but he didn't give a monkey's. It was gone.
Another chapter in his life dealt with.
Bruised and battered he might be, deserted by his so-called friends
and treated as a social leper, but he was far from being down and out. Oh, not by a long chalk. It would take more rope than that to
hang Caspar Liberty.
Ironically his father, after stubbornly refusing to help him, had
changed his mind the other day and offered to bail him out when he
discovered the mess he was in, but Caspar had rejected the offer.
Pride had made him sensitive to pity. Besides, Damson had left him
her pretty little house in Bath with a sizeable amount of money,
which she had made from shrewd investments from her two divorce
settlements. He planned to move down there and start afresh. A new
beginning was what he needed. And, thanks to his sister, he had been
given the opportunity to do just that.
Damson's will had been clear on two points in particular, that (a)
she had been of a sound mind when she had written it, and (b)
Caspar was to be the main beneficiary of her estate and that he was
to agree to her instructions that Rosewood Manor was to receive a
modest annuity from a trust fund she had set up.
He had no problem with this. He might not like Hall and all he
stood for, but he would always respect Damson's wishes.
Darling Damson. How dull his world was going to be without her.

Ned was so excited, he was in danger of bouncing out of his seat. If
he hadn't been strapped in, he very nearly would have when Clara
swerved to avoid a large pothole. They juddered on, and suddenly
Mermaid House appeared over the brow of the hill. It was the most
welcoming sight, made her heart beat just a little faster. For the
coming months it was to be their new home.
Before they had set off first thing that morning, Louise had
threatened to come up in the next week so that she could see
Mermaid House for herself.
'You're all talk, Louise,' Clara had said, giving her a huge hug
goodbye. 'You've never been further north than the Cotswolds.'
'Yes, but I'm prepared to make an exception in this case.'
Guy had moved in for a final hug and produced an envelope from
his jacket pocket. 'For you, Clarabelle.'
'What is it?'
He'd smiled. 'A bet's a bet. Open it and see.'
She'd laughed when she'd seen the cheque for two hundred
pounds. She'd forgotten all about the bet he'd made with her that she
would be crawling home within a month and applying for her old
job.
Saying goodbye to her friends this time round had been tough,
because in her heart she knew she wanted to give Deaconsbridge her
best shot: she wanted to stay there and really make it work. Other
than the brief sojourn in the States and her time at college, she had
never lived away from where she had grown up, she hadn't felt the
need to break away.
But now she did. And tied into this was the realisation that she
wanted to give herself the chance to discover what else she was
capable of doing. The Clara Costello she knew was - and to
paraphrase her friends - smart, unflappable, hard-working and
supremely resourceful. Less flattering, and to paraphrase her brother,
she was a regular bossy boots. 'Give it time and you'll turn into a
formidable old battle-axe,' he'd said to her not so long ago.
Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn't. But unless she allowed
herself this chance to find out what other talents she had, she would
always regret it. She had never liked the expression 'down-shifter',
but in essence that was probably what she was opting for. A simple
life that would enable her to spend more time with Ned had to be
more enriching than the hectic one she had tried before.
And if it didn't work out? Who was to judge and condemn the
path she had taken? And was there really such a thing as a wrong
path? Critics were ten a penny. They were people too scared to try it
for themselves. Too scared to break with convention and enjoy life to

the full.
But she wasn't without a back-up plan. Gabriel Liberty's part in all
of this was crucial. In letting her and Ned stay at Mermaid House for
the rest of the summer, he was giving her the luxury of time and
space to reflect on her next move. For now, she had only vague
glimpses of the future. She saw herself living here, having traded in
her overpriced executive house for something old with character, and
odds on, in need of some work. If she let her imagination break free,
she pictured herself running a bed-and-breakfast. Okay, she might be
deluding herself that she could scrape a living from it, but it was an
idea that refused to budge, despite common sense waving a
threatening stick at it. It would take a lot of thought before she
committed herself to it, and she might even come up with something
else but the big plus was that she saw herself being happy. Ned, too.
And she would be the biggest liar that had ever walked the planet,
if she didn't admit to wanting Jonah to be a part of that happiness.
Just to see if he fitted into her life. And if she and Ned could fit into
his.

She pulled into the courtyard, and before she had yanked on the
handbrake, Ned was out of his seat. She watched him hurtle across
the cobbles and pound on the door with his small fists.
When Clara caught up with him, it was all noise and laughter in
the kitchen. Archie was there, and so was Shirley. Wearing a PVC
apron over a tight-fitting black dress, she was sliding a tray of
sausage rolls out of the oven, her face flushed from the blast of heat.
With Ned held aloft, Gabriel came towards her. He stooped to kiss
her cheek. 'Welcome back. You're late.'
'Well, well, well. And who might this handsomely rakish stranger
be with the smart hair-cut and snazzy blazer? Where's the scruffy Mr
Liberty I know and love?'
'But, Mummy, it is Mr Liberty! Look, it's him!'
She smiled. 'I know, Ned. I'm only teasing.'
'Ah, I see the first of the honoured guests have arrived.'
They all turned. It was Caspar. Brandishing a bottle of champagne,
he said, 'A contribution towards the merriment.' He put it on
the table and held out his hand towards Clara. 'We didn't ever really
introduce ourselves properly, did we? Caspar Liberty, the family
ne'er-do-well.' He clicked his heels together and bowed elegantly.
Clara shook hands with him, seeing him as other women might:
handsome, charming but, above all else, dangerous. For a lot of
women that might be his appeal. But he held no attraction for her.
'We need to hide your van,' Gabriel said, some minutes later, when
the kerfuffle of their arrival had died down.
'I'll help you bring your stuff in if you like,' offered Archie.
They went outside together, and after Clara had put Winnie out of
sight, and was passing Archie Ned's bag, she said, 'How have you
been since I last saw you? You look much better, if you don't mind
me saying.'
'Thanks, love, I'm feeling great, on top of things again. And you
were right about Shirley.'
'No kidding?'
He smiled shyly. 'And I've moved into what she calls my bachelor
flat. It's quite comfortable, really. Less to fret over, if you know what
I mean. It's been quite liberating throwing off a lifetime of clutter.
You'd think I would have sussed that long ago, given the work I do.
Funny thing is, I needn't have moved. Bessie left me her house over in
Derby and the money it's going to fetch, much more than I'd ever
thought, could have been used to pay off Stella.'
She touched his arm. 'For what it's worth, I think you did the right
thing in moving. Leave the memories behind.'
'Oh, aye, I don't regret selling up. It was the best thing I could have
done. Now I've got a bit of spare cash to enjoy myself. I'm thinking
of taking a holiday. Do a bit of travelling.'
'Good for you. Hey, I don't suppose I could interest you in a
camper-van, could I? Generous rates for friends.'
He laughed. 'Oh, that sounds dangerous. I might do a Clara
Costello - find somewhere I like and never come back.'
She wagged a finger at him. 'Not dangerous, Archie. Adventurous.
Living life to the full. That's what you must do from now on. Just
think of the fun you and Shirley could have in a camper-van.'

Jonah wondered what his father wanted to see him about. He had
sounded serious on the phone and he hoped it wasn't bad news.
There'd been enough of that recently.
He drove into the courtyard and parked alongside his father's
Land Rover. He knocked on the back door, then entered. 'Dad,' he
called, 'it's me, Jonah.'
There was no reply.
Passing the gun room, he caught the smell of cooking. Bit early for
his father to be getting his supper ready, wasn't it? He pushed open
the kitchen door, but stopped dead in his tracks. 'Clara! What are
you doing here? I thought you were arriving tomorrow.'
She put down the tea-towel she'd been using to dry some plates. 'I
could go away and come back in the morning if you'd prefer.'
'Don't even think about it!' He moved forward, was all set to put
his arms around her and kiss her, when he held back. 'Are we alone?'
he asked. He glanced over her shoulder towards the hall. 'Or are we
likely to be interrupted by a curious son and a jealous father?'
She smiled. 'We're alone. And you have full permission to make
the most of it.'
He did.
Afterwards, he said, 'It's so good to see you again. When did you
change your mind about coming?'
'Oh, days ago.'
'But you never said anything. We spoke on the phone last night
and--'
'The plot thickens, Master Liberty.' Grinning, she took his hands
in hers. 'I think it's time you came with me. But you have to promise
to close your eyes.'
Puzzled, he did as she said and allowed her to lead him outside. He
knew they were crossing the courtyard, but all too soon he became
disorientated and didn't know where they were heading. 'No
peeping,' she said, just as he was tempted to open an eye.
He heard a door creak and she told him there were two steps in
front of him. He lifted a foot exaggeratedly. Then the other.
'You can open your eyes now.'
He was in the banqueting hall. It had been thoroughly cleaned,
was almost unrecognisable. There were candles everywhere, and
balloons and streamers. A long, thin table ran the length of the room;
it was laden with food. There was a square cake in the middle of it all
and it had . . . small blue candles on it.

And then it dawned on him. It was a party. A birthday party.
His father came towards him with a glass of champagne. 'Happy
birthday, Jonah.'
'But . . . it's not until next week.'
His father shook his head. 'This is your proper birthday, son. This
was the day you were born, and from now on, this is when we
celebrate that fact.'
Still recovering from the surprise of seeing Clara, Jonah now had
this second shock to deal with. Nothing could have stunned him
more. To anyone else it might have seemed an act of madness to
accept what his father had laid down all those years ago, but it had
never bothered him. All families had their foibles, their unique way
of handling difficult situations, and Jonah had simply gone along
with Gabriel's wishes. But it touched him deeply to know that his
father now cared enough to rewrite the rule book. He took the glass
from Gabriel's outstretched hand. 'I don't know what to say,' he
murmured. 'I'm overwhelmed.'
Gabriel turned to the rest of the room. 'In that case, how about we
all have a crack at it for him?'
With his arm round Shirley's waist, Archie raised his glass. 'Here's
to new beginnings and making the most of what time we have.'
'Hear, hear!' said Shirley, chinking her glass against his.
'Or, how about here's to Clara not discovering that Jonah's gay?'
'Caspar!'
'Only joking, Dad. Here's to it, brother, may you always look
older and uglier than me. May the heavens always rain on you and
the sun shine its rays on me.'
Smiling, Jonah turned to Clara who now had Ned resting on her
hip - he was dipping a finger into her glass. 'And do you have any
words of wisdom?'
'I think I'm with Archie on this one. It's got to be, "To new
beginnings".'

They sat in the gathering darkness on the stone bench beneath the
library window. The air was warm and still, and way off in the
distance, a dog was barking. Archie and Shirley had gone home, Ned
was in bed, and Gabriel and Caspar were in the kitchen tidying up.
Clara leaned into Jonah and he rested an arm around her shoulder.
'A good birthday?' she asked.
'The best.'
'Even if Caspar did try to bring your sexuality into question?'
He tilted his head back and smiled. 'I took that as a reassuring sign
that my brother is on the mend. I'd rather have him like that than the
shattered mess he's been since we brought him back from Rosewood.'
'How
generous of you. I'm not sure I'd be so forgiving.'
'Don't go making me out to be a saint, I haven't always thought so
well of him.' He picked up her hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it
tenderly. After a companionable silence had passed between them, he
said, 'Clara, this might seem a strange question, but why do you and
my father still call one another by your surnames?'
'Because it's all part of the act we put on for one another's benefit.
It would spoil everything if we ever stopped doing it. It's a sign of
affection between us. A code, I suppose. A game that only the two of
us are in on. Sorry if that excludes you.'
'Don't apologise. I think it's nice. You realise, don't you, that it's
going to be a strange old courtship, trying to win the heart of a
woman who lives with my father? Heaven help me if I don't get you
home on time.'
She laughed. 'Only you would call it a courtship.'
He laughed too. 'What would you prefer I called it?'
She thought about this. 'Mm . . . after giving it my fullest
consideration, I think courtship will do just fine. Despite outward
appearances, I'm a straightforward old-fashioned girl, who needs to
take things slowly.'
'Just my kind of girl, then.'
'I bet that's not what you thought when you first met me.'
'That's true. If I remember rightly it was fear at first sight. I
thought, Here's a woman who could more than punch her weight.'
'No better basis for a long and lasting relationship.'
Smiling, he turned his head towards her. 'Dare I ask permission for
an extremely long and lingering birthday kiss?'
'Permission granted.'

Having said goodnight to Caspar, who had decided to head back to
Manchester and not stay the night as he had thought he might,
Gabriel stood in the darkness at the library window. With a glass of
whisky in his hand, he gazed at the silhouetted figures on the bench
outside.
He raised his glass to them both. 'Happy birthday, Jonah. By God,
you've earned it. And to you, Miss Clara Costello. I may have lost
my daughter, but I have the feeling I might be lucky and have the gift
of another.'
He turned and looked up at Anastasia's portrait, conscious that
she had waited a long time for this moment. 'We got there in the end,
my darling girl. It took a while, but I think we got there.'
Raising his glass once more, he said, 'To you, my dearest
Anastasia. To Val, and to Damson ... In my clumsy inadequate way,
I loved you all.'

The End.