Jago (16 page)

‘Dad,’ said Jeremy in the whiny voice he always used when he was about to ask an unanswerable question.

Maskell entered the housekeeping account, hoping Sue-Clare had left something he could use to fill in a financial crack.

‘Daaaad?’

‘Yes, Jeremy?’

‘Dad, what’s scary for you?’

It was a favourite question. Since so many of the child’s problems had to do with what scared him, he was fascinated by the subject. Hannah was scared of spiders, things Jeremy recognized as harmless animals. After all, why bother being afraid of nonpoisonous creepy-crawlies when you had an Evil Dwarf to worry about? Realizing scariness was inherent in people who were scared, not in things that were scary—just like the varying taste in foods that made him love parsnips, which his sister would rather go hungry than eat—he was interested in what was scary for other people.

Maskell had been asked before, many times, and settled on an answer. ‘Jerm,’ he said, ‘the only thing that scares me is stupidity.’

‘Um,’ said Jeremy, thinking. ‘Um.’

S
he had lived in south London until she was ten, and in Hove ever since. Used to streets and seafronts, this was the first time she’d been away from buses every ten minutes, shops round the corner, cinemas and parties and clubs within walking distance, and being able just to go into the town centre and run into people she knew. Here, apart from Paul, she was on her own. Her ideas of the country had come from
The Archers
and television serials about bodice-ripping in olden times. The reality was heat and insects, the whiff of silage, dusty earth that got tracked everywhere. And the quiet: you heard every car that passed, but there was no constant background buzz of traffic. Even the birds were less raucous than the seagulls which flocked on Brighton beach.

Hazel was surprised it was easy to find her way over the hill back to the Pottery. The directions she’d been given were vague, but the paths were clear. She’d expected to get lost in a jungle, but this wild wood was open and sunny. Until now, she’d been too busy to explore. Up here she could get an idea of where places in the village were in relation to each other. This might be her only chance in all her life to live in the country; she shouldn’t waste it all bent over a wheel or complaining about the lack of a Chinese takeaway. From some of the hillside clearings, the views were pretty. There was a bump on the horizon, sticking a finger into the sky, Glastonbury Tor. Paul said it was one of the places King Arthur was supposed to be buried. Nearer, she saw the Church out on the moor, cows standing like toys in yellow fields. With straight ditches and winding roads like lines, it was like looking down on a map.

She’d given herself a turn or two last night, on her way out to the kiln shed with her torch, imagining strange shapes in the shadows of trees and the outbuildings. It was a different dark, with no underglow from street lighting. Now, with the sun high, that was a distant memory. It was cooler up here, with shade from the trees and a slight wind. No wonder those kids camped up here. It was like being above the world.

It had done her good to get away for a morning and most of an afternoon. Paul was right, she’d been working too hard, knocking herself out. If she was tense, she messed up her pots. After only a few hours of wandering, the pains in her lower back faded. Backache was an occupational handicap for a potter, for ever bent over a wheel, humping heavy boards of work about. Was that really something she wanted to take on for life? Was she really good enough to make it worth the effort? Yesterday, last night, this morning, she hadn’t thought so. It wasn’t too late, she knew, to change; move into the teaching stream, even switch completely and take computer courses. Today, with the sun up, the bottles abandoned and a kiln waiting to be unpacked, she was beginning to feel good about it again. Her hands felt competent. She was even looking forward to unpacking the kiln this evening. It would be a discovery.

There weren’t so many insects up here. She hadn’t been bitten all day. She found herself a spot that overlooked the Pottery. She could see Paul. A few people (customers?) came and went. Paul saw to them. Someone had left a pair of old binoculars hanging on a dead bush. She tried them out, but all she saw through them was a fuzzy blur.

She’d been moody lately. Paul was scratching against her, getting sarky when she didn’t need it, making half-apologetic demands. They shared the cooking equally, but she always ended up loading the dishwasher. And she did the ironing. Patch had wanted her to join a women’s group this spring, but she had been busy, been sidetracked, with Paul. Maybe when they got back, she’d have time. Hazel wasn’t sure Paul would last through the autumn. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him, it was just… She didn’t know, just he could be so miserable at times.

He looked small now, working at his desk. His typewriter chattered like a tiny woodpecker. Every so often, he would stop tapping and rummage through his piles of books. There were more things than books, Hazel thought. More things to do. This was the first relationship she’d been in where she’d had to think beyond the next stay-over, the next day out. But that wasn’t necessarily a sign
this
was the Big One. She didn’t believe in lifelong love affairs, anyway. When Paul had been away lecturing in Manchester last term, she’d missed him fiercely, had read and reread ragged his letters. She hadn’t wanted to do much of anything, go out with Patch or her friends. She’d even read some of Paul’s books, to try to get close to him. But shed caught a bug of some kind and felt nauseous. Then her period was late, and she’d known, with a terrible certainty, that she was pregnant.

She waved to Paul. He didn’t notice.

During the Week of the Baby, she’d thought through the life they might be stuck in. Paul would want the child, would insist that he could help her, and she’d give in. But he’d go forward while she’d come to a halt. She’d take time off to have the baby, and never get back to her courses. Maybe they’d get married. Dad would give them both what for if they didn’t. Then they’d find they didn’t have the money to get a mortgage on a house or flat big enough for a family. And childbirth, she knew, would be an agony. She loved Paul, yes, but did she love him enough to fit into that kind of life? Did she love him enough to end up like Mum, stuck with order-barking Dad?

There wasn’t a gate proper, but there was a gap in the hedge with the slatted top of a packing case wired into it. She undid the wire and pushed the wooden square aside, then refastened it behind her.

The day before Paul was back, she had started to bleed. For the only time in her life, she was jubilant to get her period. No baby. However, it had still been a reprieve rather than a not-guilty verdict. She’d seen the future, a future, and not liked it.

Paul saw her. She waved again. He stood, and waited for her to come down. The slope was steep and the basket heavy, so she had to be careful.

‘Plums,’ she said to him, tilting the basket to show off the fleshy yellow fruit. ‘It’s a good year for plums.’

Paul looked nervy, a little annoyed. She would have missed lunch. Paul was as keen on routine as her ex-Navy dad, and always wanted things on time or not at all.

‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked, speaking evenly, ready for the debriefing. ‘You didn’t say when you left.’

‘It was just a walk.’

‘What about your work?’

‘I was up all night. And I’ll be unpacking the kiln after teatime. I deserve a morning off. I’ve more than made up the time. Have a plum.’

She picked one out, and took a bite. Juice squirted through her fingers. She giggled, chewing the sweet meat, and put the basket on his desk. He took a plum too, and bit it. He spat out a mouthful on the ground. The half-plum in his hand was mostly brown.

‘This is rotten.’

‘There’s always one. You should look before you eat.’ He tried to lick the taste off his teeth. She finished her plum, and dropped the stone into a used cup on his desk.

‘Tea?’ he asked.

‘I’ve just had some, thanks.’

Hazel noticed the jam-jar wasp trap she had put on the low stone wall of the verandah earlier in the week was full. Yellow-black corpses clogged the inch of greasy water in the bottom. There was a nest nearby. The killing jar wasn’t making much of a dent in the local insect population, but there still ought to be a queue at the doorway to Wasp Heaven. Paul had made a joke about insect angels sharing cloud space with California surfies, Bible-thumping bigots and US presidents, and suggested they should dedicate a special Hazel Chapelet wing. His jokes were all like that, long and complicated and hardly worth the effort.

‘Tell me about your walk,’ he said, obviously digging.

She wasn’t stopped. ‘Later, Paul. I want to wash. I’m all sticky.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll make some tea. Do you want any lunch? I can nuke the rest of the spaghetti in the microwave.’

‘I’ve eaten, thanks,’ she said, walking towards the house, cutting short further questioning.

He followed her into the house, and took a detour into the kitchen while she went upstairs to the bathroom. She ran the cold tap on to a flannel and wiped her face. Then she did her arms and legs. Some of her bites were inflamed, but the stinging was going away. She must have developed immunity. She had a pee, and took a brush to her tangled hair. It was getting long. Back in Brighton, she might have it styled shorter, like Patch’s, but in the meantime, she’d better wear a headband. It kept falling into her work while she was throwing. She changed her shorts and shirt for a fresh-smelling loose dress.

She went out to the verandah, feeling cleaner, and Paul brought a teapot and some mugs. The teapot was Mike Bleach’s, but the mugs were hers. They’d been using them all week, but Paul hadn’t noticed. She decided to have a cup of tea after all. Paul made it too weak as usual, but she didn’t complain. He kissed her. He was good at that. He didn’t kiss like anyone else she’d gone out with (the list was into double figures by now) and she was always surprised at the variety he brought to basic tongue-wrestling. They sat in basket chairs, shaded from the sun. She drank her tea.

‘Well?’ he said after a while.

‘Well what?’

‘Your walk. Where did you go?’

She smiled and leaned back. ‘A long way. Out over the moors, up through the woods. It’s lovely up on the hill. You can see for ages. There are kids camped up there, a bit beyond our boundary, in a clearing.’

‘I know. Someone told me. Were they the people who gave you lunch?’

‘No. There was someone asleep in a van, but no one else about. They’ve got tents set up, and there was an ashy campfire place.’

‘Silly buggers. They’re warning about forest fires on the radio.’ He couldn’t hold out any longer. ‘Where
did
you eat?’

‘I went round to see Wendy and ask some more about the festival.’

‘You went to the Agapemone?’

‘It’s a beautiful old house, Paul. Like something from an Agatha Christie book, and—’

‘Hazel,’ he said, ‘you should be careful with those people. You know, they’re not…’

He was reacting just as she’d known he would. She had a spark of anger. ‘Come on, Paul, they’re really nice.’

‘It’s not that.’

The whine was creeping into his voice, the I’m-cleverer-than-you-so-why-don’t-you-listen? whine. On the verge of one of their almost-rows, Hazel didn’t want to go further. But there was no avoiding it.

‘What is it then, clever-clogs?’

‘You know what these cults are like. The Moonies…’

‘You think I’ve been brainwashed, then?’

‘No, but… but you shouldn’t get too involved. They’re very clever at what they do. They’ve got all kinds of techniques. Some of their methods are sophisticated, very nasty.’

‘I’m not about to join up or anything. I’m not religious. I hardly think they’re going to slip me the Queen’s shilling in a basket of plums’

‘I don’t think they want to go to the bother of kidnapping you—’

‘Thank you very much, I’m sure!’

‘That’s not what they want, Hazel. It’s this festival.’

She was angry now. ‘That’s got nothing to do with the churchy stuff.’

‘Hasn’t it? Some people get very rich being the new Messiah. It’s big business, like TV evangelists in America. God doesn’t have anything to do with it. But the festival isn’t just there to raise cash. It’s supposed to make you forget what the Agapemone is really about. It’s to make Jago respectable. And by associating yourself with it, you’re associating yourself with him.’

As he was talking, she saw another wasp going headfirst to its doom in her trap. It landed on the tracing paper fixed to the jam jar with a rubber band, and poked its head at one of the holes she’d made with a pencil. The head went through, and the wings, and the whole body.

‘So you think I shouldn’t have a table at the festival.’

‘You ought to be bloody careful.’

‘It’s not like you think, Paul. There aren’t any hooded devil monks or slaves in chains. They’re just people who live together in an old house. They’re no different from your friends in the Montpelier squat.’

‘Yeah, well, I never said Brian, Alex and Eugene were normal, Haze.’ Inside the jar, the wasp had caught on and was buzzing furiously against the smeared glass. ‘So, what was it like, then?’ He couldn’t help being curious, she noticed. ‘Did you see Jago?’

‘No. He stays in his room, apparently. He’s very busy. I helped pick plums, and they let me keep a basket—’

‘The rotten ones.’

‘…to bring home. Wendy and Derek were there, and some others. Young people, mostly. And just ordinary. They didn’t talk about religion all the time. They told jokes. Paul, they were
happy.
There’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘Yeah, well, happiness can’t buy you money.’

‘I’ll bet you got that from a film.’ A lot of things he said he did. ‘There was a girl called Marie-Laure. She was a bit funny, looked at the ground all the time. And there’s Mick, who used to be a rich poet.’

‘Until he gave it all away to the rev, I suppose?’

‘He didn’t say, but he did say he was happier now, sharing with others. That doesn’t sound sinister, does it?’