The Son-in-Law (38 page)

‘They’ve built a new rope swing while we were out,’ she announced. ‘D’you want to come and see it? Do we have to go yet?’ She looked more closely at his face. ‘What’s up?’

‘Gramps was taken ill today,’ he said, and saw fear widen her eyes. Poor Scarlet. She seemed always to be shrinking from the next blow.

•

Late that evening, once the three children were in bed, he sat on the caravan steps beside Rosie.

‘What a way to go,’ he said heavily.

‘You like him very much, don’t you?’

‘A gentleman. Bloody clever. Bloody nice.’ Joseph blew out his cheeks, picturing the angular figure who’d greeted him with such courtesy at York Station a lifetime ago; the father who loved Zoe with a passion that never faltered. That man was changing. He was leaving. ‘He’s been the best thing in the children’s lives since their mother died. He’s wise and affectionate and . . . God knows how they’d manage without him.’

‘But there’s Grandma.’

‘She’s a snob. An intellectual snob, at least. My God, she can be cold!’ Joseph shuddered.

‘So Freddie’s the peacemaker?’

‘Yes. The peacemaker. Just by being there.’

‘It’s vile,’ said Rosie bitterly. ‘Death by a hundred strokes—I’d rather go under a bus.’

Bats zipped overhead as quick as thoughts, hunting insects in the moonlight. Inside the caravan, all was quiet. Joseph had left Theo and Ben sleeping with their faces pressed into the birds-of-paradise pillows that their mother chose, their fingers tight around the glow sticks she’d left in the drawer. Scarlet lay awake, staring at the ceiling, no doubt fretting about her grandfather.

Joseph began to plan for their future.

Thirty-three

Dear Mrs Whistler,

Your clients will be aware that Joseph Scott has recently
moved into Flawith Cottage, Back Lane, Helmsley, from
where he will continue to work for Miss Abigail Gilmour. He intends to rent this property in the long term and is in the
process of redecorating it. I am sure you will agree that he
has taken all possible steps to provide a stable home for the
children to visit.

I understand that Frederick Wilde suffered a further stroke
in August of this year, and Mr Scott asks me to extend his
deep concern and sympathy to both your clients. He is aware
that Mr Wilde spent two nights in hospital and that his speech
has deteriorated somewhat. Clearly this state of affairs must
be putting a great deal of strain on both grandparents.

Mr Scott is keen to acknowledge the excellent care the
Wildes have given the children. However, he suggests that
the time has now come for the children to live with him
permanently. Flawith Cottage has four bedrooms and a large
garden, and is close to excellent schools. Your clients are
welcome to visit, to assure themselves that it is an appropriate home. The September term is now underway, and Mr Scott
suggests that it might be easiest if all parties work towards
making this move during the Christmas school holidays. He
is more than happy for the children to visit their grandparents
regularly, and will actively facilitate such contact.

I look forward to hearing your clients’ response as soon
as possible.

•

Dear Mr O’Brien,

Thank you for your letter of 10
th
September.

I feel obliged to express my astonishment at your client’s
using a difficult event as an occasion to question the children’s
residence with their grandparents. I would remind you that
the Wildes have now been primary carers for over four years;
indeed, Ben has no memory whatsoever of living with any
other carer. Really, your client’s cavalier and opportunistic
attitude beggars belief.

The Wildes have facilitated contact between the children
and their father for the past eight months in an exemplary
fashion and will continue to do so. Yet at every step he
appears to want more, and they question whether he will ever
be satisfied.

Let me make it absolutely clear that there will be no agreed
change of residence for these children. Their needs are being
well met, and it cannot be in their best interests to change the
status quo. Please advise your client accordingly.

On another note, my clients understand that the house at
Back Lane is damp, and Theo complains that this exacerbates
his asthma. In addition, when Ben came home after the last
contact visit he was wearing the same clothes he had left in
the day before, and did not appear to have washed all weekend.
Please address these matters with your client.

•

Dear Mrs Whistler,

Thank you for your letter of 20
th
September.

Mr Scott’s suggestion was motivated entirely by concern
for his children. Frankly, I find your description of him as
‘cavalier’ and ‘opportunistic’ both unwarranted and unhelpful.
It is clear to Mr Scott that Frederick Wilde’s condition is worsening.
He is extremely saddened by this on a personal level, as he
had at one time a close relationship with Mr Wilde. He wishes
me to reiterate that he only wants what is best for the children.

Please reply by return. If your clients continue to be
intransigent, Mr Scott will have no option but to apply for a
residence order without further reference to you.

•

Scarlet

Mr Hardy met me and Theo after school, and we went for a walk beside the river. Autumn was in the air; stillness and smoke. There were rowers sliding along the water. Nine men above it, nine in the underwater world of their reflection. Eight oars moved in perfect unison, as though the boat was an eight-legged creature. That was more than could be said for my family.

‘I’m like a bad penny,’ said Mr Hardy. ‘I keep turning up.’

I smiled politely, wishing he didn’t.

‘Do you know why I’m here again?’ he asked.

‘Yep.’

‘Can you tell me, then?’

Theo pretended he wasn’t listening, and turned his back to watch the rowers. I felt like doing the same thing. The fact was that we didn’t want to answer any more questions about our future. We didn’t want to think about it. We didn’t want to have this conversation.

‘We walked up those steps,’ I said sadly, pointing to a bridge nearby. ‘Gramps and me. It was a few minutes before the Big Stroke.’

‘He’s not been so well, has he?’

‘Not so well. Mum died in one second—
bam!
My last memory of her alive is dancing and singing. But Gramps is changing slowly. I still love him as much as ever, perhaps even more in a way, but . . .’

‘But?’ prompted Mr Hardy.

‘But he used to be strong. Old, but strong. He drove me around and winked when Hannah was having an eppy, and told stories and . . . made everything all right. He was a good friend. I mean, he still is a good friend, but now I feel I have to care for him. Not the other way around.’

‘Hmm. That must be a big change.’

‘He can’t talk properly,’ Theo said angrily. He was looking a bit peaky, but then he often did nowadays.

‘It’s true,’ I agreed. ‘He can’t. Sometimes he can’t seem to think of any words, or the wrong words come out of his mouth. It’s like there are big crevasses and his words fall down them. So he tries to do all his talking with smiles. Some days he seems better, some days worse, and on the worse days I’m not sure he’s even thinking straight. Yesterday he got himself shut in the downstairs loo and he couldn’t get the door open.’

‘He was . . .’ Theo beat frantically at an imaginary door. ‘Bang bang bang! And yelling.’

‘Hannah nearly had a heart attack,’ I said. ‘She thought we’d have to get in a neighbour to break the door down—but you know what? It wasn’t even locked.’

Mr Hardy tutted. ‘Oh dear.’

‘It was sad,’ said Theo, and kicked a pebble with his foot.

It
was
sad. When we finally got Gramps out he tried to laugh at himself, but there were tears in his eyes. I think he’d been really frightened.

‘Have you talked to your father about this?’ asked Mr Hardy.

We both shook our heads. I felt like crying. ‘We never mention them to him. We never mention him to them, either. When I’m with them I feel ashamed for even seeing my dad.’

‘They don’t speak to each other at all, your father and your grandparents?’

‘Speak? Ha! They won’t even
look
at each other!’

‘That’s true,’ said Theo glumly. ‘Dad parks down the street and we have to walk to his car. It’s like being on both sides of a war at once.’

The path was wide in the place where we were walking. People on skateboards and bicycles were shooting past. A plump woman bustled along with three yappy little dogs on leads. She nodded at Mr Hardy.

‘Afternoon, Lester,’ she said. ‘There’s a nip in the air.’ Then she tappity-tapped off in her high heels, talking baby language to the dogs.

‘Do you know her?’ I asked.

Mr Hardy tilted his head to one side, as though trying to decide whether he’d ever clapped eyes on the woman. ‘Clerk, down at the court. I meet a lot of people in this job. What do you think of your dad’s new house?’

‘It’s lovely—isn’t it, Theo? Well, it will be once he’s finished painting it. We chose the colours. There’s more space than in the caravan. We’ve got our own bedrooms.’

Theo made a face. ‘Yeah, but it’s not so fun. I’ve got friends at the campsite, and there’s Abigail. And the animals. And Rosie.’

‘Rosie?’ asked Mr Hardy.

I rolled my eyes. ‘Dad’s
not
girlfriend. Dad’s
just-good-friend
.’

‘Oh?’

‘I really think she is a just-good-friend, but she and Dad are always laughing when they’re together. She lives in a van at Brandsmoor and does a bit of work for Abigail, cleaning the site kitchen and stuff. She looks like a gypsy.’

‘Wish we had some bread,’ said Theo. A duck was swimming alongside us, gabbling hopefully.

‘I should have thought to bring some,’ said Mr Hardy. He started asking me about schools and whether I knew anyone at Ryedale, the school I’d go to if we moved to Dad’s. I did, actually, because one of the girls I’d met at the campsite went there. Theo and I told him about the rope swing, and the dams we’d built, and our trip on the steam railway. I realised later that between us we’d done quite a lot of talking, but he never once asked us where we wanted to live. That was very sensible, because I think I’d have nutted him if he had.

We turned around after half an hour and strolled back along the river towards Mr Hardy’s car. There were some chestnut trees near the car park. The leaves were piled up, swishing dryly under our feet. They had that slightly rotting smell that makes you think of warm firesides and crumpets. Theo began to search for conkers beneath the trees. He ferreted out spiny pods and crushed them with his heel, to get at the conker inside. Some were a disappointment but one of them was as big as a mouse, shining red-brown in its perfectly smooth, perfectly white case. He showed it to us.

‘That’s a beauty,’ said Mr Hardy admiringly.

Theo stuffed it into his pocket—which was already bulging—and carried on with the treasure hunt.

‘If I was a genie, popping out of a bottle and offering to grant you one wish,’ Mr Hardy asked me quietly, ‘what would it be?’

‘To have Mum back. That’s a no-brainer.’

‘What about this dispute between your father and grandparents, though? What’s your top-of-the-list wish there?’

I watched Theo as he rootled around among the leaves. ‘I wish they’d just sort it out without getting their solicitors to write stupid letters all the time.’

Theo paused, with his foot raised over a conker case. ‘I wish they could be friends,’ he said. Then he smashed down his heel.

•

Joseph

‘There’s no point at all,’ said Joseph.

Lester Hardy’s office faced onto the Foss River. Joseph stood at the window, watching people fishing in those sluggish waters. They crouched under umbrellas and ate their sandwiches. There wasn’t a fish in sight.

‘Someone has to set the ball rolling,’ reasoned Lester.

‘There isn’t a ball, though, is there? Even if I agreed to see them, they wouldn’t turn up. There’s no
way
Hannah will ever speak to me, and they make every decision together. United they stand!’ Joseph took off his glasses and polished them perfunctorily on his shirtfront. ‘Boy, those two are nothing if not united—whether it’s concealing their daughter’s mental health problems or reviling their prodigal son-in-law. Actually, son-outlaw.’

‘It’s a long shot, I accept. But if you could extend the olive branch, it’s just possible they’d meet you halfway. Have you ever apologised to their faces?’

‘I’ve written letters,’ said Joseph, replacing his glasses and pushing them up his nose. ‘They’ve never bothered to reply. It doesn’t matter what I do—Hannah will always think of me as Old Nick himself. I’ve given up.’

‘But what have you got to lose?’

Joseph turned away from the window. ‘Look, they wouldn’t turn up. If by some miracle they did, there would be an unholy dogfight. Hannah and I almost got ourselves thrown out of York District Hospital when we found ourselves within shouting distance of one another.’

‘Yes, I heard about that from her. She took a dim view of your being there at all—and, to be fair, she’d just had news of Frederick’s major stroke. She was profoundly stressed.’

‘As was poor Scarlet!’ protested Joseph. ‘I’ve had a gutful of that woman. She’s never approved of me, never thought I was good enough for Zoe. She’s constantly needling: encouraging Ben to stay away, complaining the house is damp, fussing about Theo’s asthma—which, incidentally, appears to be non-existent. Give her the smallest excuse and she piles in. She’s a bloody nightmare!’