Precious Time (37 page)

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 campervan, 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.’