Something Good (19 page)

“A
ren't you getting ready, Mum?” Jane asked.

“Things aren't quite as simple as that,” Nancy said. She was scrubbing her walking boots with a wire brush, sending out a shower of mud particles.

“What do you mean? The doctor says Hannah's fine to travel. It looks like the eleven o'clock ferry's running on time. We should get something to eat before—”

“Jane, I'm not coming. I'm staying here.” Nancy looked up from the boots.

A shudder ran through Jane's body.
I hope you will consider my proposal,
Archie had written. “Mum,” she said faintly, “what's going on?”

“I have the wall to finish. Brian needs help to prepare for the next course, there's a lot of repair work to be done on the estate after the storm, and Archie—”

“Is something going on with you and him?” Her voice wavered.

Nancy jutted out her chin. “The man's a shambles, Jane, but thankfully he's seen sense. I'll be taking over the organizational side of his business.”

“You'll be
working
here?”

Nancy frowned. “Why shouldn't I?”

“There's…there's your house, your life, your library, all your stuff….”

“They're only
things,
Jane.” Her expression softened. “People move, don't they? They take stock of their lives and move on. They're not frightened to make changes.”

Jane's head flooded with an image of Nancy's home: dark, grimy corners, the cooker with its temperature markings worn off. A house that had withered without anyone noticing. No wonder she didn't want to go home. “You can visit me,” she added. “You and Hannah—you can come anytime. It's not that far. It's not—”

“I know, Mum. It's not Madagascar. So, this was Archie's idea, was it?”

“Initially, yes. First sensible thing he's come out with all week.” She cleared her throat. “Conor's been looking for you, by the way. I told him you'd been keeping an eye on Hannah. Didn't think you'd want to be disturbed.”

Jane nodded. Mrs. McFarlane, too, had told her that Conor had dropped by. She hadn't been able to face him. What had seemed wonderfully reckless now felt foolish, something she planned to erase from her mind. Hannah was communicating in cool, curt sentences, and who could blame her when her own mother had disappeared for an entire night? A fine example she'd set her. “Mum,” Jane said, touching Nancy's arm, “are you absolutely sure about this?”

Nancy nodded firmly. “It's obvious that I'm needed here.”

“What about your house?” Jane asked.
We need you, too.

“Could you keep an eye on it, if it's not too much trouble? Drop by every so often? I might sell it or rent it out. Maybe you and Hannah could live there….”

It would make sense, Jane thought. No more rent and double the space. She tried to imagine returning to the house in which she'd lived as a child. “Thanks,” she said, “but I'd like to stay where we are. It's close to school and work….”

“Well, it's yours if you want it.”

Jane glanced at her watch. She should make sure the girls were ready to leave, check that Zoë's ceramic irons were cool enough to be packed. “Mum,” she added, “it is just a business thing, isn't it—you and Archie?”

Nancy laughed raucously. “Of course it is. Gosh, what were you thinking? Filthy old sod had other ideas of course, but I've laid down strict rules, just like you do with a small child. I'll be having none of his nonsense. He's promised to give up drinking—at least, drinking before seven o'clock. If we're going to develop a proper program of events, he'll have to sort himself out.”

“And where are you going to live?” Jane asked, awash with relief.

“Right here, of course.”

Jane looked out at the hills that swooped down to the bay. The sun had come out, giving everything a feeling of newness. She thought of Conor, and how she'd barely left her room in case she should run in to him or Lewis. It would be a relief to get back to London and be normal again. “So,” Nancy said, cutting into her thoughts, “aren't you going to say goodbye to Conor?” Her eyes flashed mischievously.

“There's no time,” she replied.

She felt her mother peering at her as if trying to focus on something behind her eyes, something unreachable. “Okay,” Nancy said, “but before you go, I've got something to show you. I hope you have time for that.”

 

It was a ramshackle sculpture: stones of every color from darkest gunmetal through rust and yellowy golds. Spaces between the larger stones had been filled with delicate slivers of rock. “You made this?” Jane asked, astounded.

Nancy nodded, her eyes gleaming as if to say,
of course, what kind of townie idiot do you take me for?

“Where did they come from?” Jane asked, touching a rust-colored stone that matched the dilapidated church.

“It's a quirk of the area,” Nancy explained. “There are far too many types to be indigenous. Brian thinks that some of them might have been the ballast of ships that were wrecked and washed up on the beach.”

Jane ran a hand along a top stone's rough edge, deciding that she wouldn't ask about her feelings toward Brian. “Well,” she said, “it looks like it belongs here.”

When she turned back to her mother she saw that her eyes were gleaming. “Like me,” was all Nancy said.

 

They left in the bright morning sunshine. A cling-film-wrapped packet of sandwiches, which Nancy had insisted they take, sat on the passenger seat. Jane glanced into the rearview mirror and gave her mother a final wave.

Hannah and Zoë were curled up sleepily in the back of the car. “Feeling okay, Han?” Jane asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“What d'you think about Gran?”

A pause, then Hannah said, “Good for her. Not like she has anything to stay in London for.”

At least she's speaking to me, Jane thought. That's a start. “What if I'd done that?” she asked.

“Done what?”

“Decided to stay. To start a new life and all that.” Jane laughed to convey the ridiculousness of the idea.

“That'd be different,” Hannah said.

“Why?”

“'Cause you've got your job and me. You've got
responsibilities
.” There was a bitter tinge to her voice.

“I know,” Jane said briskly, “but say I didn't, and you didn't have school…. Anyway, there's a school on the island, and we could live—” She cut herself short. She had reached the end of the driveway. Instead of taking the right-hand turn, which would lead to the pier, she stopped the car and turned off the engine.

“What are you doing?” Zoë asked.

Jane scrabbled for an acceptable answer. She was gripped by envy, not because she wanted to
be
her mother, and definitely not be Archie's whatever-it-was, but because she knew she would never be half as courageous. Nancy's spirit was nothing to do with having no responsibilities. “Have we broken down?” Hannah demanded.

“No, love.” Jane started up the car, turning left instead of right.

“Aren't you going the wrong—”

“It's okay, Han. We won't be a minute.”

“We'll miss the ferry!” Zoë protested.

“We might,” Jane said airily.

“But Mum—”

“I told you, there's plenty of time.”

“It leaves in twenty minutes,” Zoë muttered. “Mum'll go mental if I'm not back tomorrow. I can't
believe
this.” She raked her hair distractedly.

Jane smiled to herself. She had pulled up a short distance from Conor's house. It didn't look as if anyone was home; no smoke drifted from the chimney, and Conor's car wasn't in sight. “Won't be a minute,” she said, stepping out of the car and shutting the driver's door as quietly as she could. Sidestepping puddles, she opened the trunk and lifted out her stained glass panel. Even through layers of bubble-wrap and cardboard, she could see its swirling blues and greens: the colors of temperamental seas and skies. It was as if the shapes and shades had imprinted themselves on her brain.

Jane carried the panel to the side of Conor's cottage where there was no window, and therefore no chance of being seen. She propped it against the whitewashed wall, hurried back to the car and started the engine. “What was that?” Hannah asked.

“Just…something I had to drop off,” Jane replied.

“But what—” she protested.

“Just something that belongs here, that's all.” Jane started the engine, turned the car on the graveled area and headed back toward the main road.

“Was that your panel?” Hannah asked quietly.

“Yes, it was.”

“I thought it was meant to be for Dad?”

Jane felt light—so light that she rose above the gusts of disapproval that were filling the car. “It wasn't right,” she said. “Not the colors he'd chosen for that back room. I'll make him something else.”

“Can't believe you just gave it away,” Hannah muttered. “What will
he
do with it?”

“Just drop it, Hannah,” Jane said.

The island seemed so still as the road snaked upward toward the Fang. The sky was a watered-down blue now, smudged with chimney smoke and pale, wispy clouds. Jane could see the ferry approaching, cutting through a cobalt sea, as the road dipped down toward it. A small collection of cars were already lined up and waiting to board.

A streak of smoke drifted from the ferry's funnel. It seemed to approach so fast, like a child's remote-controlled toy. Jane glanced back at the Fang's ragged outline and the silver-white crescent of the bay. She saw a rabbit, or maybe a hare, dive for cover into an overgrown edge. She thought of Sally and how she'd try to photograph it, but of course it was too fast, just a blur of gray.

She glimpsed a faint orangey spot on the hill. The church, with those windows crying out for repair. And she thought of a man and a boy finding the parcel propped against their house and carefully unwrapping it.
Dad, Dad, what's this?
They would open it together, and Conor would say,
It's a gift.

Jane swallowed hard as she indicated right, and turned down the single-track road that led to the pier.

O
llie's block looked even sadder than Hannah had remembered. Since coming home, she'd been sharply conscious of the
city-ness
of everything: her vast, faceless school with its gloomy gray corridors, bordered on all sides by uneven concrete—yet more gray—and teachers who, for the most part, nearly looked as desperate as she for the bell to ring.

A group of boys were booting a football against the wall of the flats. An elderly woman—Hannah could make out a small, angry face and puff of white hair at a window—rapped on the glass. The boys laughed and carried on kicking. No one had behaved like that on the island. In the village she'd seen clusters of teenagers hanging out by a drinking fountain. They'd been smoking and stuff, but it hadn't been like this—aggressive. The woman shouted something, but her words were swallowed by the boy's jeers. “Want a photo?” one of them yelled.

Hannah snapped back to the present and realized the boy was addressing her. She pulled herself tall and, fixing her gaze on the entrance to the flats, marched toward it. “Live here, do you?” the boy called.

She turned to look at him. He had pasty skin and closely cropped straw-colored hair. The other two boys were sniggering.

“No,” Hannah said as she reached the block's entrance, “I don't.”

“Visiting someone?”

“Yes.” The straw-haired boy had rested one foot on the ball. Despite his jeering eyes, he no longer looked remotely threatening. Balancing a foot on the ball was making his entire leg wobble. Hannah felt a smirk coming but trapped it.

“Who?” he asked, seeming genuinely interested now.

“You won't know him.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

She sighed, realizing that she'd allowed herself to be drawn into conversation. “Ollie,” she said. “Ollie Tibbs.”

A cackling laugh rattled out of him. She stared at his yellowy teeth. “'Course I know him. Everyone does.” The other boys were acknowledging the fact that everyone knew Ollie. Hannah felt her cheeks burning. It was if there was some huge joke going on, and everyone knew the punchline except her. “Our friend Ollie,” the boy added. “Don't tell me you're his girlfriend, pretty thing like you.”

Hannah shook her head firmly. God knows what she was to him. In the four days since she'd been back, she'd heard not a peep from him. Now she was sick of waiting; it was all she ever seemed to do. “Nice girl like you,” the boy added, “shouldn't be hanging around with the likes of him.” He kicked the ball across the yard.

Hannah shrank back into the doorway.
The likes of him:
it was something Granny Nancy would say. She felt the coldness of the glass through her blazer and shirt. The boy was coming too close; she could smell cheap, chemical aftershave. She glanced down at her school uniform: white shirt, blue-and-gray diagonally striped tie, black skirt and blazer. She hadn't bothered changing, because she'd come to tell him that it—whatever “it” was—was over. She just wanted to see him one last time, be mature about it, as they'd still run into each other at theater workshop and she didn't want any awkwardness. She'd felt pleasingly grown-up as she'd formulated her plan.

The boy was just a couple of feet away now, blocking the afternoon sun. “You're too pretty for him,” he murmured. He looked embarrassed, as if the words had fallen out before he could stop them. Behind him his mates were making gurgling and choking sounds, like central heating pipes going wrong.

A flicker of concern crossed the boy's face. “Hey,” he said, “you really don't know?”

“Know
what?
”

The boy shrugged. “He's a dealer, love. Knocks out hash for the whole estate.”

She nodded, taking in the words.

“Nothing else, though. No crack or anything. Been doing it for years from his flat up there—” he indicated the top of the building “—but not anymore 'cause the dumb fucker got busted last week. Looks like he's up for community service.”

“Oh,” Hannah said softly.

The boy grinned. “Asking for it, flash bastard. Reckoned he was doing it to support himself and that loony mother what's been in and out of mental asylums….”

She looked into the boy's eyes, which were blank and pale. She turned to push the door open and ran up the stairs, not wanting to hear any more.

Through the door to Ollie's flat she could hear faint music and the hum of a Hoover. A woman was singing. She had a clear, sweet voice. Hannah hovered, daring herself to press the bell.

The woman sounded happy, not like someone who was carted off to hospitals. The Hoover stopped and the music was turned up a notch. It felt wrong, bursting in on her when Ollie had been busted and all kinds of stuff had been going on.

Hannah jumped as the door opened. “Oh, gosh, don't do that to me!” the woman exclaimed.

“Sorry,” Hannah stuttered, “I was…I've come to see Ollie, I—”

“Come in,” the woman interrupted, “I was popping out to the shops but it's not important. I'm Celia, Ollie's mum. Have a cup of tea with me, tell me how you've been feeling.”

Hannah frowned as she followed her into the flat. How she'd been
feeling?
Perhaps Ollie had told his mother about her. As Celia bustled around in the kitchen, Hannah sat gingerly on the sofa where Ollie had held and kissed her. “Here you go, sweetheart,” Celia said, handing her a mug of weak tea.

“Thanks.” Hannah glanced from the clip-framed photos to the real Celia, who'd arranged herself cross-legged on the floor. The two women weren't terribly different. The skin around her eyes was more crinkled now, and her shoulder-length curly hair was flecked with gray, but she had a sweet, dainty face with vibrant green eyes, which had barely aged at all. “I'm not sure when he'll be back,” Celia said. “You know how hard he is to pin down.”

Hannah dropped her gaze. What would it matter if she came straight out with it? Maybe the boy outside had been making stuff up just to keep her talking. Perhaps he, not Celia, was the mad one. “I was talking to a boy outside,” she began. “He said Ollie's been…in some trouble.” She met Celia's gaze.

“Yes, darling, but it's all being sorted out. It'll blow over.” Her smile wavered. “He's a good boy,” she added. “Works ever so hard. Pays the rent on this place, has done since we moved in. But then, you'll know all about that….”

Hannah nodded, as if she knew the first thing about Ollie and his financial arrangements. “I just hope he's okay.” She really meant it. As she arranged the facts in her mind, she decided that it didn't make him a bad person.

“People get up to far worse around here.”

“I know they do,” Hannah murmured. The tea was too hot to drink, but she sipped it anyway, scalding her lip. The room seemed less disturbing now. In fact, it felt almost cosy. Would she and her own mum ever be friends and equals, Hannah wondered, as Celia and Ollie clearly were? Imagine being cool about him being busted for dealing. Hannah remembered her mother's grief-stricken face at the police station.

“That's a pretty necklace,” Celia added.

“Thanks. Ollie gave it to me for Christmas.”

Celia chuckled and reached out to touch the silver chain. Hannah flinched as her cool fingertips brushed against her neck. “Naughty, isn't he, buying you something so expensive? Especially with the two of you saving up for a deposit on a flat….”

Hannah shrank away from Celia's touch. “It's okay,” Celia added, “he told me about your plans. I'll be okay by myself. Doing much better these days, got a job and everything.” She directed her gaze to Hannah's stomach. “I'm pleased for you,” she added warmly, “though I do feel a bit young to be granny.”

Hannah placed her mug on the floor, allowing her hair to fall forward. She couldn't let this woman see her face. She didn't know what to think or how to make sense of what Celia was saying. Was it a joke, she thought desperately, or had Ollie been making up all kinds of wild stories? She felt dizzy and stifled with the red walls around her. “You'll be okay,” Celia continued. “I was young, too, when I had Ollie. Barely seventeen, just started college. Turned out he was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Hannah's eyes filled with tears as she stood up. “I've got to go,” she managed. “There's stuff I have to do.”

“Darling,” Celia cried, leaping up from the floor, “you're all upset! Have I said something?”

“No, I—”

“You'll be fine, you know that? You've found a wonderful young man. You're adorable, you really are, just like Ollie said. And look at you—five months and not even showing! I was massive when I was carrying him, had to wear these gigantic dungarees from the army-and-navy shop…Thought of any names, sweetheart?”

Hannah blundered toward the door, not knowing or caring who Celia thought she was. “Hazel,” Celia called after her, “don't feel you have to rush off, I can call Ollie on his mobile if you—”

She didn't hear any more as she clattered down the steps, wanting to be as far away as possible from Celia and her red living room with all those staring clip-framed pictures. “Hey!” the straw-haired boy yelled as she hurried away from the block, “looking for your boyfriend? Come back, come and talk to us….”

Hannah kept running until she reached the canal. She tripped down the steps, stopping to catch her breath beneath the curve of the bridge. She thought about Celia's words:
People get up to far worse around here.
She wondered who Hazel might be, and how she felt to be pregnant at, what, fifteen or sixteen years old? A girl in the year above Hannah had had a baby last year. “He's gorgeous,” everyone had cooed, clustering round the old-fashioned pram with massive chrome wheels at the school gate. Ginny, the new mum, had tried to look pleased. Hannah had caught a look in her eyes, the look of someone who was trying to be brave when she desperately wanted to be young and free like everyone else. As they'd exchanged a glance, Hannah had realized she'd never met anyone who looked desperate to be
in
school.

A narrowboat chugging past along the canal. An elderly couple waved at her.
Look at them,
Hannah thought, waving back,
they don't have any worries. Life's so much simpler when you're old.
When they'd gone, she touched her pink crystal necklace, feeling the chain's silky coldness against her skin. Without undoing the clasp, she pulled it from her neck and flung it into the canal, where it barely made a splash, as if it had been nothing at all.