Love and Devotion (11 page)

Privately Harriet was counting the days until the children would go to school. Once they were there, it would give her and her parents some much-needed breathing space, but more importantly it meant that Harriet could make a start on finding a job. She’d promised her parents she wouldn’t do this until the children were settled at school and the pressure was off them all. There had been talk of Carrie attending school part way through the summer term, but rightly or wrongly, they’d decided against it. Splitting the two children at such a crucial time hadn’t seemed a good idea.

Bob parked in an allotted visitor’s space next to one marked ‘Headmistress’. The school was just as Harriet remembered it. An expanse of depressing dark brickwork that shouted from its slate roof tops that you entered at your peril. The Victorians had a lot to answer for when it came to designing schools. Had they deliberately gone all out to make them seem like prisons? But despite its daunting appearance, both Harriet and Felicity had enjoyed their time there.

‘Well,’ said Eileen, when they were all out of the car and she was fussing with Carrie’s skirt, which had got rucked up during the journey. ‘Here we are then.’ The breezy note was again too forced and completely at odds with the look on Carrie’s face as she glanced up at the forbidding building.

‘It looks horrible,’ she said.

Yesterday, in a rare moment of loquacity, Carrie had talked about her old school - not the one in Newcastle, which she’d hardly got to know, but the previous one in Exeter. She’d told them how new and modern it was, and how there were carpets in the classrooms and hamster cages and fish tanks in the corridors.

‘Well,’ said Bob, echoing his wife. ‘Shall we go in?’

Neither child moved.

Impatient to get on, Harriet took hold of their hands. ‘Okay kiddos, let’s get this over and done with.’ She dragged them through the doors, ignoring the dead-weight reluctance in their bodies and the look of alarm on her parents’ faces.

The headmistress, all bustling efficiency, greeted them with a handshake. Her name was Mrs Thompson. She was a plump woman in her mid fifties with a shaggy perm and gold, hooped earrings. She was wearing a navy jacket that was slightly too large for her, the cuffs dangling down as though she might one day grow into it. Pearly pink toenails peeped through open-toed sandals. Her lipstick was the same colour. ‘And you two must be Carrie and Joel,’ she said with excruciating cheerfulness, pushing her shaggy head into their faces. ‘We’re all looking forward to having you here with us.’

Carrie gave the woman a cool stare. Joel edged away.

‘And now that you’re such a big boy starting school,’ she laughed, fixing her attention on Joel and giving his grubby silky a disapproving look, ‘you’ll be able to leave that at home, won’t you? Now then,’ she continued to the adults, still using the same patronising tone, ‘I thought we’d have a little look around the school, and then stop for a little chat in my office.’

Where I might give you a
little
slap, you irritating woman, thought Harriet as they fell in behind her. She wished now that they’d got this over and done with sooner, but not wanting to rush the children into too much too soon, her parents had said that so long as Carrie and Joel had places lined up at the school, having a look around it could wait. It was immaterial anyway. This was the school they were going to, whether they liked the look of it or not. It was more or less on their doorstep, and there was also the link with their mother, which Harriet hoped would mean something to them, maybe even help them settle in.

She certainly hoped this was the case, because precious little else she was seeing gave her cause to hope that Carrie and Joel would feel settled. Reports of schools being woefully under-funded were always in the newspapers, but here was the reality. The building looked as if nothing had been spent on it since Harriet and Felicity had been pupils here. The corridors were just as gloomy and echoey. The walls were all bare and Mrs Thompson was currently explaining the reason for this. ‘It’s always a bad time to see a school between terms, but once we’re underway next week, these walls will be beautifully decorated with children’s artwork. The place will really come alive.’ She pushed open a door and suddenly turned on Carrie. ‘This will be your classroom.’

They dutifully trooped in and stood to admire the book corner, the freshly painted blackboard and the groups of desks. Harriet didn’t know exactly how old she’d been, but this had been her classroom at some stage. She could remember being told off for talking when she should have been listening to the teacher read out some dreary poem. She’d been made to stand at the front of the class and recite her seven times tables. She’d recited them in seconds flat only to be reprimanded again for showing off. She then remembered who it was she’d been talking to: Miles McKendrick. In those days he hadn’t enjoyed English; like her he’d preferred maths and fiddling around with jars of water and food dyes in their makeshift science lessons. Ironically, he’d gone on to study English at university, as his brother Dominic had done, and he now ran Novel Ways, the bookshop over in Maywood. She kept meaning to get in touch with him, but since she’d moved back permanently the days had just slipped by. She was slightly hurt that he hadn’t been in touch himself. His mother, Freda, had mentioned to Eileen something about him being away on holiday, so maybe that was it. She decided to give him a ring. Having an old friend around would go a long way to cheering her up.

Realising that the others were moving on to the next part of the tour, she followed behind. When they were back out into the corridor, she felt a hand slip through hers. It was Joel, and clearly something was bothering him; his eyes were brimming with tearful misery. Her heart sank. What now? ‘You okay, Joel?’ It was a stupid question, but what else could she say? But then he did something that inexplicably made her throat constrict. He leant against her, his head resting on her side, his face hidden. She knew he was trying hard not to cry. Leaving the others to go on without them, she prised him away from her and bent down to him. ‘What is it, Joel?’

He raised his head. ‘I want to go home,’ he whispered, his lower lip trembling.

‘Right now?’

He nodded.

‘Any particular reason why?’

His eyes flickered to the far end of the corridor where the headmistress was opening another door.

‘You don’t like Mrs Thompson?’

He shook his head. Tears spilled down his cheeks. He buried his face in his silky.

Harriet had to steel herself. She hated it when he cried. It made her want to cry too. ‘That’s okay,’ she said quietly. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone, but I don’t like Mrs Thompson either. The good news is that you’ll hardly see anything of her. She’s a headmistress, which means she has to sit behind a big desk every day and write lots of boring letters and ring the bell for break-time and lessons.’

He peered over the top of his silky. ‘Really?’

‘For sure. Come on, we’d better catch up with the others.’

She should have felt relieved that yet another crisis had been averted, but all she felt was exhaustion. Was that how it was going to be for the next thirteen and a half years? Thirteen and a half long years until Joel was eighteen and legally no longer her responsibility. She’d get less for murder.

 

That evening, and while her mother was upstairs supervising the children’s bedtime, Harriet helped her father clear away supper. The children were now at least eating and the return of their appetites did mean Harriet and her parents had one less worry.

The subject of school hadn’t been discussed during the meal, yet it was clear it had to be very much on Carrie’s and Joel’s minds. Tomorrow Harriet was taking them to buy the necessary items of school uniform.

As the last of the plates was stacked in the dishwasher, Bob said, ‘Harriet, I want to talk to you.’

It sounded ominous and at once Harriet was worried that it was about her mother. Was Mum’s ME getting worse? ‘What is it, Dad?’

‘Don’t look so worried. Come and sit down with me.’

She did as he said.

Sitting opposite her, he said, ‘I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, and your mother and I certainly aren’t criticising you, but — ’

The ‘but’ hung in the air.

‘But what?’

He took a fortifying breath. ‘Your mother and I are worried. We think that perhaps you’re — ’

Another hesitant pause.

Tired? Depressed? Thoroughly cheesed off that her life had hit the skids so spectacularly? Not to mention that she was homeless. Jobless. Boyfriendless. No, strike that one from the record. Spencer didn’t come into it. Compared to everything else, his cowardly selfishness didn’t even register.

‘We think you’re a little too hard on the children.’

Harriet sat back in her chair. What the hell did that mean?

‘Oh, dear, we knew you wouldn’t take it well. I told your mother — ’

‘Dad, it’s not a matter of taking it well; it’s a matter of understanding. I haven’t a clue what I’m being accused of.’

‘We’re not accusing you of anything.’

‘Sounds like it to me. So come on, tell me what I’ve done wrong.’

‘It’s your manner. You’re so short with them. So brusque. We’re worried that you’re scaring them. Adding to their problems. There’s a chance you might be making things worse. Especially for Joel.’

Just then the telephone rang. With a look of relief, Bob went to answer it.

Left on her own, Harriet stared at the table. The injustice of her father’s remarks made her head throb, and claustrophobia crushed in on her. She stood up abruptly. She had to get out of the house. Within seconds, she was hurtling down the drive and across the road, heading for the footpath and the canal. As a teenager it was where she had always gone when she was annoyed or upset. The soothing stillness of the water usually calmed her.

Right now she was far from calm. Boiling over with fury, she could hardly breathe at the unfairness of it. After all the sacrifices she had made, her parents had the nerve to criticise her. How could they turn on her? Was it her fault that she wasn’t the maternal type? Not for the first time she wondered why the hell her sister had thought she would be any good at raising her children.

At the end of the footpath she was about to go right but changed her mind when she saw a row of fishermen, their lines cast, their nets and wicker baskets in place. Instead she turned left. From here it was a twenty-five-minute walk into town, and to the nearest decent pub, The Navigation. Drinking her anger into submission could be the answer, but having left the house without any money, she was resigned to walking it out of her system. She ground the path beneath her, her arms swinging, her hands tightly clenched into fists.

And if her parents really thought she was doing such a bad job, then perhaps she ought to go back to Oxford and leave them to it! How would that suit them? Or perhaps they wished it had been her who’d died. Doubtless that would have been easier all round, especially for her father. She’d always known that Felicity had been the special daughter for him, the one he idolised. It had never bothered Harriet before, this preference, but it hurt now, knowing that her death would have had dramatically less impact. Let’s face it, she’d been dispensable; no ties, no commitments, no responsibilities. Well, all that had changed. Now she had commitments coming out of her ears. It felt as if she had the full weight of the world on her shoulders.

She was so deeply locked into her thoughts that she didn’t notice the man sitting on the bench until she was almost upon him. It was their new neighbour, and with his legs stretched out in front of him, he was drinking from a bottle of beer. He smiled at her over the top of his sunglasses, which were set low down on his nose. ‘You look different without the cap,’ he said.

A week had passed since he’d mistaken her for a boy late at night. She had been too upset at the time to stop and put him right, having just spent the previous half-hour on the towpath trying to walk off the fear that she was destined to live out the rest of her days cooped up with her parents and two small children. She’d learned that afternoon that completion had taken place on her flat. The finality of it had left her feeling trapped and isolated. The very last cord had been cut. She now had no reason to return to Oxford. And there hadn’t been so much as an email or text message from Spencer - which shouldn’t have surprised her; he was probably glad to be rid of her. Far worse, though, was the anger she suddenly felt towards her sister. Why did Felicity have to be so careless and die! If only she and Jeff hadn’t gone out that night, they’d still be alive and Harriet wouldn’t be lumbered with picking up the pieces. Appalled at her train of thought, Harriet didn’t know who she hated more: the teenage boy who had done this terrible thing to them all, or herself.

Even if Harriet had had the nerve to blank their new neighbour and walk on by, she wouldn’t have been able to. He was now on his feet, effectively blocking her path. ‘Hi,’ he said, removing his sunglasses and pushing back his hair.

‘I’m Will Hart. I expect the neighbourhood’s rife with gossip about me, but I’d like to put the record straight and say that it’s all untrue.’

She was in no mood for small talk, but forced herself to say, ‘How long are you taking the lease on for? The usual six months?’

‘Actually, I’ve bought the place.’

‘I didn’t know it was for sale.’

‘It didn’t get a chance to go on the market. The previous owners are clients of a friend of mine and when they told Marty they’d decided to settle abroad, I nipped in sharpish and made them an offer. I don’t suppose you’d like to join me in a drink,’ - he held up his bottle of beer as though indicating what sort of drink - ‘so that I can pick your brains about the neighbourhood? I’ve been so busy since moving in that I haven’t had a chance to get to know anyone.’