Trick or Treat (11 page)

She crept down behind a crease in the ground and unlaced her tight black boots and peeled off her stockings and then she jumped out. ‘Look at me!' she cried. ‘Look, Father, watch
me
, watch
me
!' and she leapt from one rock to another and another, getting faster and faster, and dazzling Father, she expected, with her agility, until she tripped and fell face-downwards into the water. She thought for a moment that she was dead, the silence that followed her splash was so complete. And then she thought that Father would scoop her up in his great soldier's arms and save her. But no. There was just Edwin prancing about and laughing and calling her a nincompoop. She had to struggle up herself to face a very cold look from Father and some talk of ladylike behaviour. And then there was the drive home with the wind, cold now, blowing in her face and her teeth chattering and the sopping muslin of her dress clinging to her and her ringlets all dropped out, and no one taking a bit of notice, except Edwin pulling faces and folding his lip up over his nose in a way that she could never manage. She was put to bed with a hot-water bottle when they got home, and the incident was never mentioned again.

Six

Wolfe stands beside Buffy at the kitchen table. They have the fireworks spread out before them. ‘This is
my
rocket,' says Wolfe.

‘Who said? It's the biggest and you're the smallest. You can have this one.' Buffy shoves an inferior rocket towards him.

‘Don't want that one.'

‘You can have the sparklers. Well most of the sparklers. You can have Vesuvius.'

Wolfe pauses, considering. He likes the cone shape of the volcano, with its blue touchpaper poking from the top, already like a little flame. ‘And Traffic Lights?' he bargains.

Petra comes into the kitchen in her nightdress. ‘We're all going to see all of them,' she points out, ‘so what does it matter?' Wolfe scowls at her. Grown-ups can be so stupid sometimes. It is fun to look at the fireworks and to say their names, and to know that some of them are yours. And
of course
they will all see all of them. That isn't the point.

‘The Catherine wheel's like an ammonite,' he says.

‘'Snot,' says Buffy.

‘Like that ammonite I used to have, remember Mum? At the Longhouse. I wish I'd brought it with me now.'

Petra slices bread and switches on the grill. ‘Clear those off the table,' she says. ‘I'm having breakfast. Anyone else want any toast?'

‘Fireworks are dangerous,' Wolfe says. ‘School says we should go to the park and watch the musical ones.'

‘Municipal,' corrects Buffy. ‘Bloody neurotic if you ask me.'

‘They're quite safe if you're careful,' Petra says. ‘Better say now if you want some toast.'

‘I'm slimming,' says Buffy.

‘I'm having Weetabix.' Wolfe packs the fireworks carefully back into their box. His hands feel greasy from the fine leaking of gunpowder. Tomorrow is the day. It almost seems a shame to set them off. Lovely things. But it is exciting. It will be exciting. A party, with Arthur and the old ladies and Tom. ‘I'm going out with Tom today, aren't I Mum?'

Petra winces. ‘Oh, I don't know.'

‘But he said,' Wolfe wails.

‘I know love, but you know what Tom is. Something came up and he had to go off last night to see someone in Leeds. He might be back but …' she trails off, dips the tip of her knife in the Marmite jar. Wolfe watches the neat way she spreads so that every speck of toast is covered.

‘Bloody liar he is,' he says.

‘Wolfe! Don't you start! He's not a liar, he's just forgetful. But he will take you. Another day. I promise. And what do you mean, you're slimming?' Petra switches her attention to Buffy.

Wolfe sighs. It's always the same. He doesn't know why he bothers to believe Tom. They always tell you Don't lie, don't make promises you can't keep, grown-ups do, but they do it themselves, Tom does specially but they all do it sometimes, even Petra.

Bobby comes down, scowling. ‘Did you hear that effing dog next door? Wants putting down.' He takes a mug off the draining board and slams it down.

‘Make me a cup of tea, love,' says Petra through a mouthful of toast.

‘I was having coffee … oh all right.'

‘We'd better go out fetching wood for the bonfire,' says Buffy.

‘There's more important things than that,' Bobby says.

‘Such as?'

‘Penny for the bleeding guy!'

‘Bobby, really! Do you have to swear every other word?' mutters Petra.

‘Then we can buy
more
fireworks, proper bangers and stuff, instead of these farty Snowflakes and Starbursts.'

‘Spoilt brat,' complains Petra. ‘When I was thirteen I was grateful for what I was given. I'd have had a clipped ear and been locked in my bedroom for a week if I'd gone on like you.'

‘Bring on the violins. Here's your tea.' Bobby puts a mug down in front of Petra.

‘Thanks. And I don't know about penny for the guy. Remember trick-or-treating? You all came back scared stiff.'

‘Did not. And we won't have Wolfe with us this time.' Wolfe sticks out his tongue but he doesn't care. He doesn't want to stand about all day. He'd rather get on with the fire. He'd rather have the box of fireworks all to himself to play with.

‘I don't like you begging,' Petra insists, but it is obvious that her heart isn't in it.

‘Go on, Mum. I've got to buy Nothing a litter tray. She did it all over my homework last night.'

‘Told you it was a load of crap,' says Bobby.

‘Told you you'd regret keeping it,' Petra adds.

‘Her, and I
don't
.'

‘Where is it anyway?'

‘There.' Buffy points to Tom's tennis shoe which lies in the middle of the floor. It is filled with a black shape, soft as a shadow.

‘That's the last place I'd choose to sleep!' Petra smiles wearily at them. ‘Oh all right then, but be sensible. And I expect you to spend any money you make on buying what you need for Nothing. Understand? And don't go hassling people.'

‘Come on Buff, let's get on with the guy,' Bobby says. ‘Got anything else we can dress it in, Mum?

‘Not really. Nothing I don't want. Haven't you got anything you don't want?'

‘We'll have a look.' Bobby and Buffy go off upstairs and Wolfe helps himself to some Weetabix.

‘Last day of the holiday,' he says miserably. ‘Only Saturday and Sunday and then school. I hate that school, Mum.'

‘Oh dear …'

‘I wish we could go home.'

‘This is …'

‘It's not, not to me. The Longhouse is home to me.'

Petra sighs. She puts her hand on the top of her belly. ‘Oooh,' she says. Wolfe looks and sees a little knobbly shape rising and falling, right through Petra's nightdress. It makes him feel funny. Fascinated and queasy at the same time.

‘Want to feel?' Petra asks. Wolfe doesn't really, but he puts out his hand and waits and almost takes his hand away for he can't feel anything, and then suddenly there is a slithery jab and he jumps back surprised.

‘What was that?'

‘A knee, I think,' she says. There is something horrible about it, a wet fishy baby thing crammed in there, something rude and scary. Petra puts her arm round him. ‘Don't look like that! What are you planning to do today?'

Wolfe shrugs. He looks over Petra's shoulder and he sees the top of a cloth cap outside the window. ‘It's Arthur!' he cries, as Arthur knocks on the door. Wolfe rushes to open it. ‘Hello Arthur,' he says. ‘Come in.'

‘I don't know …' says Arthur, putting his head round the door. He catches sight of Petra in her nightdress. ‘Sorry,' he says, retreating hastily.

‘It's all right,' calls Petra. ‘I'm quite decent, I think. Anyway I'm past caring.'

‘I'm just asking if lad wants to walk up allotment with me and dog.' Potkins yaps, and tries to pull Arthur in.

‘Yes please,' breathes Wolfe.

‘Fine. He's at a bit of a loose end, aren't you love?' Petra sips her tea. Wolfe wishes she was dressed. Her belly looks disgusting with her nightdress stretched so tight across it that her belly button shows, sticking out like a little knob. However, Arthur remains discreetly out of sight.

‘I'll just get my shoes on,' Wolfe says. Arthur beams at him. ‘Wait there.'

‘Better put your wellies on,' advises Petra.

‘I'll just shut door or dog'll be in,' Arthur says. He reaches his hand in and shuts himself out.

‘That's good, isn't it Wolfie?' Petra says. ‘I think I might take my cup of tea up to bed for half an hour. Don't be a nuisance, will you?' Wolfe, struggling into his boots, wobbles on one foot and frowns at her.

‘Course not,' he says.

Nell wakes with a start. It is light, and therefore late. She suspects she's been snoring, and she has certainly been dreaming. She tries to grasp the shreds of the dream but they will not be grasped. They dissolve into the light, and perhaps it is just as well. She does not think that it was a cheerful dream. She runs through her plans for the day: it's Friday so the paintwork wants doing. It's hard on her knees, Friday, for she has to go round all the skirtings with disinfectant and then there are the door- and window-frames. A hard day, but she likes to be spick and span for the weekend. Then there is the shopping, that must wait till after lunch. She's lucky if she gets her nap on Fridays. The filthy hat still sits on top of the wardrobe. Whatever was she thinking of, bringing it home? She'll get shot of it today, sling it across the gardens for them to find – that will puzzle them – or else bin it.

She smiles and stretches, prepares to get up – and then she hears a crash downstairs. She gasps, feels cold fear sweep over her like a wave. And then she remembers: Rodney is here. The bright prospect of a clean and busy day dims, and she groans. She notices Jim lying on his face and remembers the quarrel. You'd think death would put a stop to all that. She sits up and does a few of her breaths to steady her nerves and then she stands him up.

‘Don't start,' she warns.

‘No,' he says, ‘only remember, Nell. Our son. Be fair to him, for my sake.'

‘Saint Jim,' she scoffs. She goes to the bathroom to dress, uses the lavatory furtively. She likes privacy, does Nell. Downstairs, the kettle is whistling, and so is Rodney.

‘Morning,' he says. ‘Sleep well?'

‘Do I ever?' she answers, although in fact it is the best night's sleep she's had in years.

‘What's for breakfast? He's mashing tea.'

‘I always have All-Bran and a spot of toast,' says Nell. ‘I suppose I could do you an egg.'

‘With Marmite soldiers? He always loved Marmite soldiers.'

‘He – you – can cut your own soldiers, though really at your age … but a soft-boiled egg, yes. Perhaps I'll join you.' Nell fills a pan and puts it on to boil. The kitchen smells of Rodney. ‘You get your hands washed and get sat down,' she says.

‘He's sorry,' Rodney says, ‘about last night.'

Nell takes two stainless-steel egg-cups from the kitchen cupboard and gives them a wipe-round. ‘We'll say no more for now,' she replies. ‘But I want you to stop this “he” business. I find it unnerving. You are you.'

Rodney looks down. ‘You mean his language.'

‘No, I mean …' but Rodney looks at her blankly, stupidly, and she breaks off. The greasy sheen of his glasses reminds her for a split second of the eyes of the beast, germ eyes, and she looks away, swallows. ‘Never mind.'

She lowers two eggs carefully into the gently bubbling water and tips up the egg timer. It was a present from Jim, brought back from a business trip somewhere or other. Fine white sand flows through glass held between porcelain hands. Peculiar really. She feels a nervous creeping in her diaphragm. ‘We'll not go into details about your behaviour,' she says, watching the steam rise from the water; tiny bubbles appear on the shells, the eggs stir with the water's movement. ‘Suffice it to say that it will not do. If you want to stay here, Rodney, if you want to live here, you must behave. As you very well know. Behave.'

‘He will.'

‘Well make sure he does.' Nell flinches. ‘You do.'

Nell lays the table: plates, knives, spoons, cups and saucers, and as she arranges them she is whisked back to breakfast-times long ago, before the trouble, before the filth, when Rodney was her sweet schoolboy, important in his uniform. All his life ahead of him, and what hopes didn't she have for him? She struggles to think positive, as they recommend these days, in the magazines. He is not perfect, even the most doting mother in the world couldn't pretend that. He is very far from perfect. But he is
here
, and he isn't a bad son as sons go. He visits her, and that is fine, that is in her control. It is the thought of him living here that worries her.

She puts Rodney's egg in front of him and sits down opposite. He slices the top off his egg and dips a bread finger deep into the yolk and she watches the stream of sticky yellow overflow and run down the side of the shell and the egg-cup.

‘Perfect,' Rodney says. He chews for a moment and then smiles across at Nell. ‘You always gave him an egg for his breakfast, a proper start, you used to say. And here he is, back home again. Like the old days.'

‘Behaviour includes not speaking with your mouth full,' Nell snaps, and then feels sorry. ‘But we'll say no more for now. I don't expect they go in for proper behaviour, the sort of company you've been keeping. Just do your best.'

‘He'll fetch his stuff this morning.'

‘Hold your horses, Rodney. We can give it a week or two …'

‘But he's here now. He's slept here.'

Nell pours out the tea. ‘Yes, but,' but quick as she is she cannot think of a reason to put him off. Not a reason she can admit to Rodney.