Love and Devotion (21 page)

And what of Carrie in all this? What on earth had been going through that girl’s head to make her say such ghoulish things?

Harriet knew from experience that most children - usually older than Carrie - go through a phase of being fascinated by death. Certainly when she and Felicity had been teenagers it was a topic of conversation that had cropped up with morbid regularity, and invariably with Dominic and Miles. Felicity had always been adamant that she wanted to be cremated when she died; she hated the thought of being buried. Harriet could remember one conversation in particular on the subject. It had taken place during late summer, the year Dominic had been offered a place at Cambridge. They’d been lying on the flattened grass in the corner of a field, just behind the hawthorn hedge along the towpath of the canal. On their backs, staring up at the clouds and trying to spot Margaret Thatcher’s face, which Miles swore blind was there in the sky, Felicity had said that she wanted her body to be donated to medical science and that what was left had to be cremated. ‘I don’t want worms wriggling in and out of my eye sockets and centipedes crawling up my nose,’ she’d explained, just a little too graphically.

Rolling onto his side and running his hand over Felicity’s stomach then letting it linger on her breasts, Dominic had said, ‘I’ve got a better idea: why don’t you donate your body to me to research.’ It had always amazed Harriet that Felicity could let Dominic touch her like that. It upset her because she knew he was only doing it to annoy his brother - Miles had always had a bit of a crush on Felicity.

‘What’s wrong with what we do?’ Felicity said to Harriet when she tackled her about it one day. ‘Dominic knows I like it when he touches me. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘But it drives Miles mad, and that’s the real reason Dominic does it.’

‘Miles knows better than to be upset by anything his brother does.’

It wasn’t often that Harriet questioned her sister’s judgement, but in that instance she did. Privately, she thought Miles minded a lot of things, especially the way Dominic would treat people. On one memorable outing to a club in Manchester, when Dominic was home from Cambridge for Easter, he had really excelled himself. Even Felicity, his constant champion, was cross with him. As a foursome, they were used to people staring at them when they went out, mostly because Dominic was so strikingly good-looking. With his black hair swept back from his broad forehead, his piercingly blue eyes and his easy nonchalance he had an aura of glamour that attracted attention wherever he went. On that particular night he was attracting the normal number of looks and stares, and after several drinks he suddenly announced that he was going to make someone’s night. ‘And it’s that girl there,’ he said, indicating the most under-dressed over-permed, and possibly ugliest girl in the club. To their surprise, he sauntered over to where she was standing and started chatting to her. The girl’s friends drew close, clearly impressed.

‘What the hell’s he up to now?’ muttered Miles. Minutes passed, then Dominic joined them where they’d been queuing for a drink. Leaning against the bar, he drained the remains of his Jack Daniel’s and smiled. Intrigued, they then watched the girl come towards him. She tapped Dominic on the shoulder. ‘Are you ready for that dance now?’ she said.

Dominic swung round and said, ‘Good God, you didn’t think I was serious, did you? That I’d willingly dance with a fat cow like you? Why don’t you try my brother; he’s much more your type. Not so choosy either.’

It was like watching a balloon being popped. The girl burst into tears and fled.

It was one of the cruellest things Harriet had ever witnessed. Miles was so furious with Dominic that he dragged him outside, pushed him up against a wall and punched him hard. A fight broke out between them and only when a bouncer intervened did they pull apart. For days afterwards, Harriet and Felicity refused to speak to Dominic. In the end, in a typically over-the-top gesture, he stood beneath their bedroom windows late one night and read out a letter of apology. ‘For the love of God, tell the bloody stupid fool that you’ve forgiven him,’ Dad had said, as lights up and down Maple Drive switched on and windows were opened and pointedly banged shut, ‘or we’ll never get any sleep.’

That was Dominic all over. A clever, self-obsessed man who ruthlessly trampled others underfoot for his own pleasure and saw it as his right to be forgiven, no matter what the offence. On that occasion, Harriet and her sister let him stew for a further three days.

 

In danger of dozing off at the wheel - she’d only had three hours’ sleep - Harriet stopped at Stafford Services. She bought a newspaper, a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. Half an hour later, feeling suitably revived, she went back out to the car park, ready for the rest of her journey home. But when she saw her car, she stopped in her tracks. The driver’s window was smashed and the alarm was screeching. A panicky first glance told her that her laptop had been stolen.

 

 

 

 

Carrie knew she was in big trouble. Grandma and Granddad had calmed down, but Harriet would be home soon and then she’d really get it. She just hoped that when Harriet started shouting at her she’d remember to tilt her head back and stare at the ceiling so that it was impossible for any tears to spill out. She’d learned to do this (and to blink a lot) when Mummy and Daddy had died - and everyone kept asking if she was okay.

It felt like for ever since they’d died. Sometimes she had trouble remembering what they looked like. Part of her thought it might be easier to forget them, but then she’d suddenly think of something nice, like her birthday, when she’d unwrapped their presents and found the best one of all: Poppy. Poppy was an enormous fluffy polar bear and lying on the bed with her arms wrapped around her, Carrie suddenly wished that it was Mum she was cuddling. Mum had been nice to cuddle up to. She’d smelled nice and she always knew what to say or do to make her and Joel smile when they were upset. She was better at that than Dad. But then Dad was good at making them laugh; he’d tickle them or tell them jokes that didn’t make sense. If only Mum and Dad were here now, they’d cheer her up. She hugged Poppy tightly. Harriet was going to be so cross. She reminded Carrie of Professor Snape sometimes, always scowling and looking serious. But then, just when you thought she was about to tell you off or be cross about something, she’d surprise you. Like that time in the car when she’d used that word Mummy said they weren’t to say and had laughed her head off.

But there wouldn’t be any laughing today. She shouldn’t have told all those lies. She hadn’t meant to but they’d just kept slipping out. She was sorry she’d frightened Joel, but she wasn’t sorry about the others at school. They deserved it. Hadn’t they started it by asking if Mum and Dad had had their heads chopped off? How would they feel if it was their parents who were dead? Burying her face in Poppy’s white fur, she let herself quietly cry, safe in the knowledge that no one was there to see. Grandma was downstairs with Joel and Granddad was out walking Toby.

 

With Toby off the leash and snuffling on ahead in the bushes, Bob followed slowly behind. It was only the second week of September, but already there was a hint of things to come. There was a soft gauze of mist hanging over the surface of the canal and the air was both sharp and damp. Either side of the path, grass glistened with early-morning dew, and a scattering of fallen willow leaves, yellow and wet, lay like a catch of slippery fish on the ground. Pausing at Will’s house, Toby peered through the hedge as if hoping for something to eat - Will often gave Toby a titbit while he and Bob passed the time of day. But there was no sign of Will this morning. It was Saturday after all; he was probably at work. Disappointed, Bob pressed on. After the night he’d had, he would have appreciated the opportunity to talk to Will. He struck Bob as being a good listener. Perhaps they ought to have him over for a drink. Maybe invite Dora and the McKendricks too — knowing full well, of course, that only Harvey would turn up. They could put on a sort of belated ‘welcome to the neighbourhood’ do. Except that would mean fuss and bother, something he couldn’t face. For now it was as much as he could do to keep treading water, his chin just skimming the surface. It’ll change, he told himself. Things
will
get better. They had to.

Following the towpath as it curved away from the last of the houses of Maple Drive and through the patch of elderberry trees, their branches heavy with beads of shiny black fruit, Bob watched Toby chase a startled moorhen out of the undergrowth. Worried the dog might hurl itself into the water after the bird, Bob called him to heel. At the sound of chugging, he turned. Coming towards them was a traditional tug-style narrowboat, its small brass chimney chucking out puffs of sooty smoke. Toby barked at the boat, and when it drew level, a well-wrapped-up woman with an arm resting on the tiller waved at Bob. ‘Beautiful morning,’ she said.

‘I suppose it is,’ he said. He couldn’t remember the last time he had thought anything beautiful.

‘You wouldn’t give me a hand, would you?’ she asked. ‘I want to moor up for a brew. If I could just throw you a rope, it would make things a lot easier.’

Surprised at the request, and that she was apparently travelling alone, Bob went on ahead to the prow of the boat and kept pace while the woman steered it towards the bank. She then cut the engine and nimbly made her way to the front where she scooped up a neat coil of rope and tossed it to him. While he held the boat firm, she returned to the stern, stuffed some mooring pins into her jacket pockets and hopped out with a coil of rope in one hand and a rubber mallet in the other. ‘You okay to hang on while I bang this one in?’ she called to him.

‘No problem at all.’

Toby went over to investigate, keeping a cautionary distance as the mallet rose and fell. Bob watched the woman; she clearly knew what she was about and had a purposeful weather-beaten look about her. He wondered why she was travelling alone. Or maybe she wasn’t. Perhaps there was a companion sleeping soundly on board. He wondered what the interior of the boat looked like. He knew they could be very smart these days, all the mod cons thrown in: hot and cold water, carpets, log-burning stoves, toilets, even showers. Peering through one of the brass-rimmed portholes, he could make out a cabin that looked invitingly snug. He had often been tempted to go on a canal holiday but somehow it had never happened. The children had either been too young and therefore in danger of falling in and drowning or they’d been too old and in danger of being bored. There had also been the busman’s holiday element to take into account; having the Shropshire Union Canal on their doorstep it hadn’t seemed that big or worthwhile a change. Instead, they’d spent most of their summer holidays camping in France. Remembering the many child-friendly campsites they stayed at, Bob felt a pang of compromise and regret.

‘Right then, that’s the back end sorted; let’s see about relieving you.’ The woman was by his side now, and with Toby in obedient attendance, she pushed a mooring pin into the damp earth, then hammered it home. In no time at all, she had the rope expertly knotted and the excess neatly dealt with.

‘You look like you’ve done this before,’ he said when she was finished.

Hot from all the exertion, she pulled off the woolly tea-cosy of a hat she was wearing and revealed a head of curly salt and pepper hair. ‘Just once or twice,’ she said with a broad smile, unzipping her bulky jacket. Without the hat, she was less weather-beaten than he’d first thought. Slimmer and younger too. Late fifties he reckoned. She looked like an old-fashioned games mistress, cheerful and robust. ‘Thanks for the help, by the way,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘It’s a large boat to manage on your own.’ He was blatantly fishing, curious to know if there was a companion on board who was too lazy to shift his weight and help.

‘It’s not as difficult as you’d think. I can do locks on my own quite easily, which was my biggest worry initially. With the centre rope, it’s not too bad.’ She smiled again, revealing, he thought, a hint of pride. ‘Although, being an opportunist at heart,’ she went on, ‘I’m quite happy to grab a useful pair of hands if they’re available.’

‘Then I’m glad I was around.’

A flurry of movement from the other side of the canal had them both turning. A pair of moorhens was scuttling noisily out of the bushes, but as if knowing they’d been spotted, they adopted a more leisurely pace, slipped into the water and swam sedately away.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’d better leave you to your brew.’

She laughed - a happy, carefree laugh. ‘I’m afraid that was a euphemism for wanting the loo.’

‘In that case, even more reason for me to take my leave. Come on, Toby, stop sniffing round that rope.’ The dog looked suspiciously like he too needed the loo and was about to raise his leg.

Normally Bob would walk Toby as far as the bend just before The Navigation, where there were official mooring places, but this morning, knowing that Harriet would be arriving home soon, he cut short their walk and within a few minutes was returning the way he’d come. ‘It’s got nothing to do with chatting to that woman again, then?’ He asked himself.

The mist had cleared when he spotted the boat. It was still moored where he’d left it, but a different chimney, one in the middle of the boat, was now sending out a thin plume of smoke. Sniffing the air, he recognised it as woodsmoke. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but there were gaily painted pots (decorated with the traditional narrowboat rose motif) of flowering chrysanthemums on the roof of the boat, which he now saw was named the
Jennifer
Rose. The flowers suggested that the woman was a live-aboard, as the boating fraternity described people who lived on the waterways, and not a casual holidaymaker. He pictured the curly-haired woman sitting in the cabin, cosily insulated from the outside world and planning where to go next. He suddenly wished he could do the same. Oh, to leave all those painful reminders of Felicity behind so that they couldn’t hurt him any more. How much better it would be to pretend he was someone else, that he had never known Felicity. The thought was such a betrayal of his love for his daughter that he had to fight to keep his composure.