Sea Glass Summer (43 page)

‘That's OK.' Oliver almost said it would be fine with him if she cancelled what for him still loomed as a hurdle, but then she might take that as an opportunity to put off Brian's visit, using the weather as an excuse. ‘It doesn't matter how small it is, does it?'

‘No, of course not. There has, however, been an increase in numbers.' The face below was veiled by the dim lighting. ‘I got a call this afternoon from Emjagger's and Rolling Stone's mother, asking if it would be all right for them all, including her husband, to stop by this evening. When I told her about the memorial service she said both boys are such great animal lovers they'd really hate not being present, offering their support at what has to be a very sad time for you.'

‘Right. I can picture their faces when she tells them of this golden opportunity . . . to do good, I mean. Is it all right if I go and read until Brian gets here?'

‘Absolutely. I'll send him up when he gets here, if that's what you'd like.'

‘Yes, please.' The moment Oliver got inside his room he flopped down on the bed without bothering to turn on the reading lamp. The shock of what he'd overheard was fading. Believing you're a murderer is one of those figure of speech things. If you really are one it's not the sort of thing you can be unsure about. Clearly Gerard felt horribly guilty about something – that would account for his drinking and sleepwalking – but at this moment Oliver had enough to think about without trying to work out the cause. Those two coming with their enmity rekindled, if it had ever faded, by his taking the inhaler out to Rolling Stone in the kayak! They'd think he'd done that to make them look even smaller, and now here was the opportunity to get even by sitting smirking as he fumbled not to look ridiculous when struggling for what to say about Feathers – or just as bad, sanctimonious. With so much else going on in his life this shouldn't matter, but it did; perhaps the case of one seemingly small thing stretching to become the final straw. He rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't think he slept, but he must have done, because when he opened his eyes the bedside lamp was on and when he sat up there was a boy sitting on the window seat. It should have been Nat because his voice still lingered inside Oliver's head.
Remember, the time has come . . . the time has come . . .
His own question:
The time for what, Nat?
The repeated whispered answer:
Phone Evan . . . phone Evan . . . phone Evan.
Not Nat on the window seat looking at him with concern, but Brian.

‘You OK, Ol? You must've been dead to the world, because I sure couldn't wake you, not without tossing something and giving you a black eye.'

‘Fine. Well, not really – it was pretty bad about Feathers.'

‘What happened?' One of the great things about Brian was that he didn't waste time starting off with useless stuff.

Oliver swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘Elizabeth met me in the hall when I got back from being with Sarah most of yesterday. She told me Feathers was dead and accused me of killing him while she'd been gone in Boston. I asked her how she thought I'd done it and she said by squeezing the life . . .' Oliver choked, unable to go on. When he prised his hands away from his face Brian had joined him.

‘Hey, I'm here now and I'm getting you out of this creep house. We'll slip out and run to Sarah's.'

‘She went to Portland for the day and may not be home.'

‘Then we'll go to Aunt Nellie's.'

Oliver shook his head. ‘Thanks, Bri. That's what I wanted to do last night, but then Nat came and talked me out of it. I'll tell you what he said and how this morning it began to fit together when Elizabeth apologized and suggested the memorial service.'

Brian listened with few interruptions, not bothering to readjust his glasses when a poke of the fingers sent them askew. At the conclusion he sat staring at Oliver as if needing more time to take it all in. ‘Wow!' he said at last. ‘There has to be an important reason for Nat wanting us to explore the cellar. And I don't think it can be to find a picture of him because by now he knows you're sure he's real. Talk about Walker Plank and Captain B. Curdle preparing for a midnight raid.' A flash of lightning briefly lit up the room in suitably eerie fashion. ‘Where do you have the cellar key?'

Oliver patted the bed. ‘Under the mattress, right about where we're sitting.'

‘Awesome. What does stink is those two coming over.'

‘I felt like throwing up when Elizabeth told me. And I think it was she who called their mother rather than the other way round. From what Mrs Poll says both parents like their drink, so they'd be a sort of cover for Gerard if he couldn't resist having a few, but she found him so far gone already he now has to be kept out of the way.'

‘Got you! I know it's an illness, but Gerard could try getting help.'

‘I wonder if Elizabeth's tried to persuade him, or pushed him to man up and do it on his own.' Oliver decided not to say anything about the snippet of conversation he overheard earlier. Brian would have made much of the scarily thrilling idea of Gerard's really being a murderer. And it was not one Oliver wanted to be talking about as the time drew near to descend to the basement.

‘They're sure one messed-up couple, but not your problem, Ol. I wonder if he'll come sleepwalking in on us tonight. It would be something to see.'

‘About that dream I just had, or the tail-end of it.' Oliver spoke over a rumble of thunder. ‘Do you have your cell phone with you?'

‘Natch!' Brian dug into his pants' pocket and handed it over. ‘Want to call Evan, right? I'll leave you to it,' he said nobly, ‘while I hunt for the bathroom.'

‘Three doors down on the right; this side.'

Brian departed with his Captain B. Curdle swagger and Oliver took Evan's card from his pocket; originally it had been given to have on hand in case of trouble from Emjagger and Rolling Stone. That need had not arisen until now, so this was Oliver's first time phoning Evan from the Cully Mansion. He tried the cell phone number first and held his breath for two rings. Then the enormous relief of hearing the familiar voice answer with a ‘Hello?'

‘Evan, it's me, Oliver. I'm in my bedroom calling from Brian's phone. I had to talk to you. Nat told me I should.'

Evan was like Brian in that he didn't waste time asking such questions as
What's wrong?
Or,
How can I help?
He said simply: ‘Tell me.'

‘Feathers died, but there's more, a lot more. Nat told me to call you or, I should say, I woke from a dream still hearing his voice.'

‘I'm listening. I've got all the time in the world. Keep going until you've got it all out.'

It was amazing how simple it was; Evan might have been right there in the room; his strength and comfort wrapped itself around Oliver. Things that he had forgotten from last night's visit from Nat slipped into place. ‘You do see I have to go down to the cellar tonight with Brian after Gerard and Elizabeth go to bed? I know I'll always be sorry if I don't.'

‘Yes. I'd feel the same in your place. Just make sure you take a flash light, a couple if possible, in case the lights go out in this storm that's heading your way, or because someone turns them off. And keep that cell phone with you. If anything causes the least anxiety make sure you dial nine-one-one.'

‘Promise.'

‘Now back to Feathers. From the sound of it Elizabeth's heading for a breakdown. I'm sorry the little bird died and know you are too. I've had my regrets about feeling I didn't love sufficiently, but I think you'll realize on looking back that you gave all you could, possibly even more than was required. So let's get down to this memorial service and your role in it. I think I know what Nat was getting at about
Through the Looking-Glass.
I have the lines following the one starting out
The time had come . . .
memorized and think we can make a small alteration that will put a smile on Feathers' beak, while we wipe the smirks off those two idiotically named boys' faces. Do you have a notepad and something to write with handy?'

‘Right here.' Oliver reached toward the bedside table. ‘Ready.'

When Brian returned to the bedroom his best friend was off the phone and looking much better.

‘Big help?'

‘The best, but that's Evan. After helping me out with the service for Feathers, he told me that he'd just spoken to Sarah and she'd agreed not to head home from Portland tonight if the weather gets too bad. I'm glad because I'd be worried too. Even good drivers have accidents when it gets ugly. He said he also hopes to get here in the morning. And he told me something else to keep me going till then. Twyla's found a lawyer to help protect Grandpa's rights in planning my future. Nothing was going to be said to me until it's settled, but he said,' Oliver's face brightened still further, ‘he thought the time had come. Sorry, Bri, but you'll have to wait to find out why I'm no longer worried about
those two
, watching me turn to jelly when I speak about Feathers . . . Hey, it's six twenty. I'd just as soon not have to go downstairs a minute sooner than necessary, but I'm suddenly starving, which means searching the kitchen for something to eat.'

‘No need for that, matey,' said Brian in his best Captain B. Curdle voice. ‘I told Mom that if you don't want to half starve in this house you have to get your own food much of the time, so she sent along packets of sandwiches, peanut butter cookies and cartons of juice. All in my backpack on the window seat.' He looked toward it. ‘Wish Nat would join us,' he added wistfully.

Mandy Armitage had indeed provided quite a feast. When they'd finished everything but crumbs, they disposed of the wrappings in the waste bin – the cartons were not yet empty – and got down to discussing how long to wait after Elizabeth and Gerard came up to bed before going down to the cellar. Oliver suggested an hour, but Brian wisely thought two would be safer. He'd taken two flashlights out of the backpack along with the food and now received the congratulations from Walker Plank on his forethought.

‘Evan was right; it would be stupid to go down without them. I should have asked Mrs Poll where I could find some.' At that moment they heard the distant sound of the doorbell and both got off the bed. ‘Guess the time has come, Bri.'

‘You do keep saying that!' Brian attempted to flatten his dark hair, only to send it springing back up. ‘But if you will have your little mysteries what can I do? Push you overboard?'

‘If you mean down the stairs, I'd sooner you didn't.' Oliver gave him a poke of the finger. ‘I'm not a good bouncer.' They headed downstairs with more cheer than is usually the case with people about to attend a memorial service. There was no one in the hall; the arrivals had to be in the living room. Oliver's optimism wavered as they went in. Elizabeth, it wouldn't have been Gerard, had lighted candles on the mantelpiece and tables. Perhaps this was to be prepared in case the lights went out in the storm, which was now hammering the windows, or to make the place look like a church. Their pale yellow gleam added more shadows to the gloom, making the room look unholy rather than the other way round. Emjagger and Rolling Stone were on one sofa without an inch between them, their parents on the other. All four fixed in place like people in one of those very old photographs. Whatever the mom and dad had in the glasses they were holding was of that same brownish-yellow shade. Elizabeth was standing in front of the fireplace. She alone saw Oliver and Brian come in. No other heads had turned in their direction.

‘There you boys are,' she said brightly. Too brightly. The false cheer emphasized her color-stripped face and the haunted look in her eyes. ‘Brian, you don't know our guests, do you?' She made the introductions, bringing only a nod from the dad, but the mom said in a thrilled sort of voice how nice it was to meet Brian and see Oliver again. Her enthusiasm did not cause her to shift position other than to lean further back on the sofa.

‘Nice to meet you all.' Brian stepped forward into the distorting candlelight with Oliver alongside him.

‘And yet the circumstances! So bitterly sad! As I said to Elizabeth when she phoned, our boys Emjagger and Rolling Stone were devastated by the sweet little birdie's death. They so adore animals. You see how it is with them now; they can't bring themselves to say anything. They truly had to force themselves to come, because it was the right thing to do. They both adore Oliver and wish they could see more of him, though being so understanding they accept that he has other friends.'

Oliver hadn't looked at Elizabeth when the phone call was mentioned – that she was the one who had made it. Had she noticed she'd been given away? He didn't think so; her face was increasingly blank, as if she had left the room leaving only her outline behind. ‘Shall we get started?' he asked her.

‘What? Oh, yes . . . yes, we should. So sorry,' she pressed a candlelight glossed hand to her forehead, ‘I'm afraid I feel one of my wretched headaches coming on.' Her gaze shifted in what seemed like slow motion to the four people on the sofas. ‘So, although I hate to seem inhospitable, we'd best keep this short.'

‘It'll be from the shock, Mrs Cully.' Emjagger broke his grief stricken silence to simper consolingly. ‘Finding Feathers dead and stiff and all in its cage.' He turned to his equally pasty-skinned, greasy-haired, ferret-eyed brother. ‘We sobbed our eyes out when we heard, didn't we, bro?'

‘Couldn't stop.' Rolling Stone sagged against him. ‘Poor Oliver, we kept saying, he has to be heartbroken – we've pictured him so often snuggled up in bed with his feathery friend, stroking its soft little head, singing a goodnight lullaby.'

Brian started to say something but the father cut in. ‘Don't be more stupid than you can help, boy. Elizabeth's right. Let's move matters along. Get me a refill.' He shoved his glass at his wife who, far from looking put out, got up eagerly, went to the table with the bottles and poured herself a sizeable splash too. The moment she was reseated Elizabeth beckoned to Oliver and when he stood with his back to the fireplace, dropped into a chair, fingers instantly plucking at its already snagged fabric arms.