Thicker Than Water (20 page)

‘What are you doing?’ Jilly demanded sharply.

‘Playing.’ He scrambled out and stood looking fearfully up at them. There was a flimsy wooden construction behind him, forming, she presumed, some kind of den.

‘Well, this is our place,’ she said, ‘and it’s private. We need to talk, so if you must come to our garden, go and play somewhere else.’

The boy ran off, and Cal said admiringly, ‘That’s telling him!’

Jilly kicked scornfully at the wooden structure, which collapsed in a pile of twigs. She seated herself on one of the swings, rocking it slowly back and forth with the toe of her shoe.

‘So,’ she began, ‘for Abby’s benefit, the reason we’re here is to agree on a way of getting back at Harold for being such a toerag.’

Abby giggled. ‘How?’

‘That’s what we have to discuss. Cal and I have been thinking.’ She looked down at her brother, who, having flung himself to the ground, was propped up on one elbow, chewing a blade of grass. ‘What have you come up with?’

‘Nothing, really,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘I mean, he’s out at the office all day, and evenings and weekends he’s usually with Mum.’

‘Well, that’s not much help, is it?’

‘How about you, then?’ Cal retorted ‘What brilliant ideas have you had?’

‘I did suggest laxative in his tea.’

‘And how exactly do we manage that, when Mum always pours it? Distract them both, while we drop something in? Anyway, he’d be bound to taste it.’

‘Make him an apple-pie bed,’ Abby suggested, anxious to be part of the conspiracy.

‘Just on his side, you mean?’ Cal jeered, and she flushed.

‘Superglue in his briefcase?’ Jilly proposed.

‘That’s a thought. Don’t know if it would be worth it, though; there’d be a mega row.’

‘There will be, whatever we do. We have to accept that, if we’re to make Mum see how we hate him.’

‘Or,’ Cal suggested, ‘we could just remove something from his briefcase, so that when he goes into a meeting, he’ll find he hasn’t got what he needs, and look a prat.’

Jilly slid off the swing and smoothed down her skirt. ‘OK, we’ve got a few possibilities: laxative – if not in his tea, somewhere else – pinching his papers, and superglue. I suppose that’s a start, but we need more to choose from. Rack your brains, both of you, so when we meet at the same time tomorrow, we can form a plan. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ they echoed, and all three made their way back to the house. They’d not achieved as much as they’d hoped, but it was their first meeting, and, as Jilly said, they’d at least made a start.

Sometimes, when his mum worked the afternoon shift, Bryan Spencer let himself into his home with the key hidden under the flowerpot. He liked having the cottage to himself, and had argued forcibly against going back with one of the other kids till he could be collected, as his younger sister did.

More often, especially in summer, his dad, who was a gardener, picked him up at the school gates and took him along to wherever he was working, so he could be in the fresh air instead of watching TV.

Jack Spencer, who was claustrophobic, was, in fact, a great exponent of the outdoors, and though he couldn’t be regarded as a conversationalist, a bond had developed between father and son, forged among the plants and trees of the gardens of Scarthorpe. He taught the boy to identify birds and flowers, and if there was planting to be done, encouraged him to dig his hands in the soft, moist soil and hollow out space for tender stems.

Jack’s favourite among the gardens he tended was that at The Lodge, down Lake Road. In his opinion, it was what every garden should be – not too formal, lots of colour and scent, and a wild patch near the bottom, to encourage birds and insects. There was also a corner, screened by shrubs, containing a slide, a pair of swings and a seesaw, where the Poole children had played when they were younger. When Mr Simon was alive, he’d sometimes push young Bryan on the swing, and even sit at one end of the seesaw to bounce him up and down. If he was working from home, he’d wander down the garden for a chat with Jack, and as often as not fetch an extra spade from the shed and dig beside him. A rare one was Mr Simon. Not like him she had now, never missing a chance to criticize.

What made the garden so special to Jack, almost like his own, was that it had been left to him to choose what to plant, and the colour schemes for each season. He’d spent hours at the kitchen table, meticulously drawing plans and crayoning in colours, till he had just the effect he wanted. The Pooles had never failed to approve his choice, nor make a point of complimenting him.

Not so Mr Sheridan. From the first, he had queried the bills Jack submitted from the garden centre, maintaining he was being unduly extravagant.

‘It’s not even his garden!’ Jack had fumed to Molly. ‘He landed on his feet all right, that ’un, moving in with Mrs Beth. Gone to his head, like as not. Well, he’s not going to boss me about, and that’s flat!’

‘Don’t take on so, Jack,’ Molly had soothed. ‘He might have landed on his feet, but he still needs to find them, assert his authority. It can’t be easy for him, stepping into Mr Simon’s shoes. He’ll calm down, given time.’

Bryan, though he’d said nothing to his father, resented the sudden and unwelcome reappearance of the Pooles. They were all older than he was – Abby ten to his eight – and he couldn’t see why, all of a sudden, they’d returned to the play area, unless it was to keep him out. He said as much to his friend Pete in the playground.

‘It’s a great place to go, ’cos there are bushes all round, like, and no one can see you. But they told me to naff off, said they wanted to talk private.’

‘Why not spy on ’em?’ Pete suggested, scuffing the toe of his boot in the dust. ‘Get your own back, like.’

Bryan stared at him. ‘How?’

‘Well, if there are bushes all round, they wouldn’t see you, would they? So creep up close and listen. Pretend as how you’re 007,’ Pete continued, his imagination quickening, ‘and you catch ’em planning to blow up the Houses of Parliament, or summat.’

‘You reckon they are?’ Bryan asked, wide-eyed.

‘Course not!’ Pete scoffed. ‘Don’t be daft! They just don’t want you using their things, that’s all. But you’d be one up on ’em, even if they didn’t know it.’

It was a good idea, Bryan conceded. He’d never have thought of spying, but it would add a spice of danger to the game, ’cos he sure as eggs couldn’t risk being caught.

‘OK, I’ll have a go,’ he said, and as the bell went for the end of break, he made his way thoughtfully into the school building.

Harold watched his elder stepdaughter as, with a defiant glance in his direction, she went out of the room.

‘You won’t let her go, surely?’

Beth flushed. Jilly had just announced her intention of going to the dance hall in Scarthorpe on Saturday, and Beth had made no demur. Admittedly she’d been taken by surprise, but she resented Harold’s immediate interference.

When she didn’t reply, he continued, ‘She’s far too young. There’ll be drinking and God knows what else going on.’

‘She’ll be all right. There’s a crowd of them going, including Jane and Felicity—’

‘The child with pierced ears? That says it all. In any case, Pam and Stephen will be here; she can’t go waltzing off when we have visitors.’

‘Oh Harold, they’re our visitors rather than hers, and they’re here for the whole weekend. There’ll be plenty of time for them to see her. They certainly wouldn’t want her grounded on their account.’

‘Well, you know best, of course,’ he said, in a tone that implied she didn’t.

Beth bit her lip. Lately, they’d several times come perilously close to quarrelling, and it was always about the children. She and Simon had presented a united front when dealing with them, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain this with Harold, and to her distress, she often found herself wondering what Simon would have done.

Perhaps her anxiety reached him, because he suddenly rose and came over, bending down to kiss her. ‘My darling, I’m only trying to help, you know. It’s natural that they should try it on, but they must realize I’m here now to back you up and see that you’re not manipulated.’

She put up a hand to touch his face. ‘I know, Harold, but we have to give them a little leeway, not be continually putting the damper on, or they’ll just build up resentment.’

He straightened. ‘You mean let them have their own way?’

‘In moderation, that’s all.’

‘You’re spoiling them, Beth. Letting Abby ride so often, is a case in point. It’s an expensive pastime – she doesn’t seem to appreciate that. They should be taught the value of money, even if there’s no shortage of it.’

‘But it’s good for her, Harold; I loved it myself, when I was younger. We resisted her pleas for a pony till she’d old enough to look after it, but in the meantime, she’s out in the open air and having some exercise. The country round here is excellent for riding, and it’s a bonus that the stables are so near, with no roads to cross.’

We
. She was bracketing herself with Simon again. Harold wondered whether to revert to the subject of Jilly, but thought better of it. If she was determined to let her children run wild, he would just have to step back, and be ready in due course to pick up the pieces.

Pam Firbank tossed her handbag on to the bed and walked to the window, gazing over the sloping garden to the waters of the lake and the mountains beyond.

‘There can’t be many better views than this,’ she said.

Stephen smiled. ‘You’ve always loved this house, haven’t you?’

‘It’s my ideal, yes. Not just its position, but all of it – the high ceilings, the spaciousness, the décor.’

She turned, suddenly sober. ‘It’s still very much Simon’s, though. Lord knows how Beth can bear to stay on without him. I see him everywhere I look – at the dining table, playing croquet on the lawn, pouring drinks.’

Stephen slipped a sympathetic arm round her shoulders. ‘We had some great times together, the four of us.’

Pam nodded. ‘I don’t quite know what to make of Harold,’ she confessed in a low voice. ‘Admittedly the only time we met was at the wedding, which was fairly stressful all round, what with the children being bolshie and his old mother shouting the odds.’

Stephen grimaced. ‘A laugh a minute, wasn’t it?’

‘But he seems very – formal, doesn’t he?’

‘Probably because he doesn’t know us, either. No doubt we’ll all relax over the weekend.’

‘Beth was saying on the phone that things are still difficult with the children, that they wind him up.’

‘It can’t be easy for him, poor devil, stepping into Simon’s shoes.’ Stephen patted her behind. ‘Anyway, enough of that; it’s hardly etiquette to start analysing our hosts the minute we arrive.’ He loosened his tie. ‘Are you going to have a shower before dinner?’

‘Most definitely; I’m hot and sticky after the journey.’

‘You go first, then. We’ve half an hour before we all meet for drinks.’

Pam was still undecided about her brother-in-law the next day. During dinner the previous evening, though the conversation had flowed fairly freely, it had seemed to her heightened sensibilities to lack spontaneity, as if they were all thinking before they spoke. Beth, though she sparkled determinedly, looked a little pale, and it was noticeable that none of the children addressed themselves specifically to Harold. Even dear Liza, stalwart of many a past visit, seemed subdued.

And today’s lunch, even in the children’s absence, was proving little better. They had driven round the lake to the Green Man, a pub well known for its food, and from the terrace where they sat, had a clear view of The Lodge perched on its hill, with the school buildings spread out below it and the cluster of Scarthorpe close by. Nearer at hand, gulls floated high above the water like scraps of white paper thrown up in the air.

‘Why did I ever move south?’ Pam asked rhetorically, sipping her ice-cold wine.

‘To earn your living,’ Beth reminded her. ‘At the time, there was nothing sufficiently high-powered for you up here.’

‘And if you hadn’t, you’d never have met me,’ Stephen added. He glanced at Harold, who’d been sitting silently, staring into his glass. ‘You’re originally from southern parts too, I believe?’

Harold started at being addressed. ‘That’s right; I was born in the Surrey town where my mother still lives.’