‘Airing him or freeze-drying him, Mum?’
Though she had made her views clear on how she wanted her son treated, Clara knew that while her back was turned her mother did as she pleased, but so long as Ned thrived Clara couldn’t complain.
Anyway, she was glad to have parents prepared to help out. Without them, she wouldn’t have coped nearly so well.
When she had discovered she was pregnant there had been no dilemma over whether or not to keep the baby. She had loved her unborn child’s father, so it had seemed natural to want his baby.
Telling her parents that she was pregnant had been one of the hardest things she had ever done. She knew she had let them down.
‘Is there really no chance of the father taking on his responsibility?’
her mother had asked, stricken.
‘No, Mum. He’s already married.’
That had been the second shock they’d had to cope with: that their sensible, well-brought up daughter had been stupid enough to have an affair with a married man. Initially they had wanted to blame the despicable rotter for tricking her into a relationship with him when he should have known better, but she told them, ‘I knew all along that he was married. At the time, though, he was separated from his wife.’
They had seized on this glimmer of hope.
‘Is he divorced now?’ her father asked.
‘No. He and his wife are reconciled.’
Her father had picked up on the one aspect of the tale she had tried to gloss over. ‘Did you tell him you were pregnant?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘But, darling, why not? He’s the father, he should know,’ her mother remonstrated.
‘You only think that because you want to believe he’ll wave a magic wand over my pregnancy and make it nice and respectable.’
‘That’s a little hard on us,’ her father said.
‘But it’s true, isn’t it? Imagine this year’s Christmas cards: “Oh, and by the way, Clara’s expecting our first grandchild but we don’t know who the father is.”’
‘You haven’t told us his name,’ her mother said, pushing this uncomfortable home truth to one side.
‘There’s no need to. You won’t ever meet him.’
In the end, and once the shock had worn off, her parents made it clear that they would be standing right by her. ‘It’s your life,’ they told her, ‘and we’ll do all we can to help.’ Their love and solidarity was just what she needed. It still brought a lump to her throat when she thought of their support and devotion.
By the time Ned was due, they were ready to fend off the merest hint of criticism from anyone and drove her to the hospital when she went into labour. She had never seen her father drive as fast as he had that night, crashing through red lights, the horn blaring. In the back of the car, next to Clara, her mother was breathing so hard it was difficult to know which of them was about to give birth. Louise met them at the hospital. She had been co-opted into being Clara’s birthing partner, much to the rest of the gang’s relief. ‘You know I’m your biggest fan, Clarabelle,’ Guy had said, ‘but to see you flat on your back and screaming like a banshee would dispel the beautiful illusion I have of you.’
In the early hours of the morning, Ned made his appearance. He was the most amazing, tiny, wide-eyed, dark-haired bundle of wonder, Clara could have imagined. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. As she gazed into his little face she felt as if she had always known him. ‘So there you are,’ she almost said. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’ Even Louise, the world’s biggest child-hater, had been moved to tears when he had wrapped his tiny fingers around her thumb - though she claimed later that hunger and exhaustion had overwhelmed her.
Clara’s parents had been equally moved by their grandson. Her father had hidden his wet cheeks behind a brand new Pentax specially bought for the occasion - saying that somebody had to
capture the moment, but her mother had sniffed and gulped quite openly, holding Ned in her arms and posing proudly for the camera.
At visiting-time later that day the gang were in her ward, presenting her with flowers and champagne, chocolates, and a huge teddy bear.
‘It’ll scare the poor mite witless,’ Moira had said, taking a cautious but curious peek at Ned, who was asleep in Clara’s arms. ‘Was it as bad as Louise told us it was?’
Louise held up her hands. ‘Sorry, Clara, but yes, I’m guilty of giving the sordid details. Frankly, from where I was standing, it was bloody awful. You’ve done me an enormous favour in putting me off for life.’
Four years on, Louise said that the moment she ever felt her hormones creeping up on her, she only had to think of that night in hospital with Clara and they shrank back into line without another word.
Though none of her friends had ever wanted children, they loved Ned, and went out of their way to spoil him. He might not be in possession of a full deck of parents, but in all other respects, he was a lucky boy: devoted grandparents and a set of the most doting aunts and uncles a child could wish for.
Clara slipped out of bed and filled the kettle. As she set it on the gas ring, she made a mental note to top up the water barrel before leaving. It held enough for two days of showers, cooking and washing-up, but she hated the idea of running out, so she kept a sharp eye on it. And while she was about it, she’d check their gas supply.
After wiping away the condensation that had formed on the
window above the cooker, she opened one of the large vents in Winnie’s roof, just enough to freshen the air but not to let the rain in, by which time the kettle had boiled and the van had acquired what she called a comforting happy-camper smell of burning gas. She made a pot of tea, then, surprised that the whistling of the kettle hadn’t woken Ned, she stepped on to the first rung of the ladder and poked her head through the curtains.
Her heart leaped into her mouth.
Ned’s bed was empty.
It was every parent’s worst nightmare. Cold, debilitating fear consumed her, then sick panic took hold. She leaned across Ned’s rumpled bed and flung back the duvet as though he might be there after all. She threw aside his pillow, too, and rummaged through his collection of cuddly toys.
Next she stumbled down from the ladder and checked the rest of the van, spurring herself on with the faint hope that in the night, and without disturbing her, Ned might have used the toilet and fallen asleep in there. No sign of him.
She stood for a moment to gather her thoughts. Had someone sneaked into the van while she slept and abducted him? She recalled a harrowing case several years ago of a young girl who had been taken from a tent and murdered.
No. Ned must simply have gone for a walk. In the rain?
Without bothering to change out of the oversized T-shirt she had slept in, she pulled on a pair of jeans and pushed her feet into her trainers. She opened the door and stepped outside. The rain was coming down heavier now and splashed against her face as she scanned the courtyard. If she had thought Mermaid House gloomy yesterday, it was even more so in the pouring rain. Beneath a pewter sky, the walls seemed darker than ever and water was cascading from a broken section of guttering. She made a dash for the door and, not caring that she had promised Mr Liberty they wouldn’t cause any noise or trouble, she banged on it loudly. If she was going to find Ned, she needed his help. He would have some idea where a curious child might wander on his land.
Impatiently, she crashed her knuckles against the frosted-glass panel of the door again. ‘Come on, come on,’ she cried frantically.
Then, just as Ned had done yesterday, she bent down, pushed open the letterbox and peered inside. ‘Mr Liberty,’ she called, ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need your help. Please answer the door.’
Still no response.
Desperation set in, and with no shelter from the rain, she was now thoroughly wet and cold. Fear was making her nauseous, and conjuring up yet more disturbing images, of Ned lost in this unknown landscape, wandering across the fields and finding his way down to the river where they had paddled yesterday. The water hadn’t been deep there, but what if he had discovered a more dangerous section where … where a small boy could drown?
She hammered wildly on the door. At last, and almost in tears, she heard the familiar, but welcome sound of Mr Liberty cursing. ‘Hell’s teeth, what’s all the rumpus?’ he growled, throwing open the door and staring at her fiercely.
‘It’s Ned.’ She gulped. ‘He’s missing and I don’t know where to start looking for him. Will you help me? Please. I thought you might know—’ From behind him a head appeared, followed swiftly by the rest of Ned in his slippers, pyjamas and stripy dressing-gown whose belt was trailing on the ground. Clara went weak with relief. He was safe. She pushed past Mr Liberty, knelt on the stone-flagged floor and hugged Ned. But hot on the heels of relief came irrational anger and, to her shame, it was all she could do to stop herself shaking him.
‘You know you’re not supposed to leave the campervan on your own,’ she said, as calmly as she could. ‘I was so worried. I thought something terrible had happened to you.’
‘Please don’t be cross with me, Mummy,’ he said, tremulously. ‘Mr Liberty said it would be all right.’
If Clara had felt like shaking Ned, she now felt like punching Mr Liberty’s good eye right out of its socket. She got to her feet. ‘Let me get this straight. This was all your idea?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Saw the little lad peering out of his window and thought he might appreciate some company. Which he did. Isn’t that right, young man?’
His cavalier attitude pushed Clara’s anger to its zenith. ‘What gives you the right to think you can encourage my son to break a rule?
What did you think you were doing?’
‘Mummy—’
‘Ned, please, I’m talking.’
‘But, Mummy, Mr Liberty showed me a secret door and the tower.
He said there used to be a ghost up there. He told me that—’
‘Ahem, possibly not the time, young man,’ Mr Liberty murmured.
‘Maybe we both ought to be apologising to your mother. She’s looking a mite bothered to me.’
Clara flashed him a look of pure fury. ‘Bothered? I was out of my mind with worry. I thought—’ She stopped. She didn’t want to relive the horror of thinking Ned might have been kidnapped by some perverted beast, that he might be lying dead somewhere, that she might never see him again and never feel his little body crushed against hers. That she might never stroke his soft cheek and silky smooth hair. Her anger subsided, and the heart-thumping pain of relief returned. ‘I thought you didn’t go in for making apologies.’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘On this occasion I’m prepared to make an exception.’
‘So what are you waiting for?’
‘Miss Costello, I meant you and your boy no harm, and I’m very sorry that I caused you a moment’s concern.’
‘I’m sorry too, Mummy.’ Ned’s hand crept into hers. ‘Don’t be cross,’ he added, shooting down any remaining vestiges of anger with one of his heart-melting smiles.
Suddenly she couldn’t speak, but Mr Liberty filled in the silence.
‘Well, if we’re through with the sentiment, can you decide what you want to do next?’ Contrition dispensed with, he went on, ‘You can either stand here for the rest of the day letting in the rain and freezing to death or you can warm yourself by the fire in the kitchen while I make you some tea. A task I’ve proved myself more than capable of doing once before.’
Clara decided to accept, and she and Ned followed as Mr Liberty led the way. She was appalled at what she saw. Mess and clutter lay everywhere, piles of junk as far as the eye could see. The house smelt too. She had imagined a comforting old-fashioned kitchen with a massive fireplace where once upon a time a whole pig would have been roasted on a spit with a lowly scullery-maid to turn the handle.
This dingy, bone-chilling room, with its grimy walls and flaking paintwork - especially above the cooker, which was covered in a thick film of grease - was not what she had envisaged. Nor was the gas-fired contraption with which Mr Liberty was now fiddling. She wondered why on earth he used such a device when behind it stood an Aga the size of a small car.
‘It’s the very devil to get going sometimes,’ Mr Liberty complained, as he clicked away at a button on the side of the heater in an effort to ignite the flame. At last it caught and he straightened up triumphantly.
‘There! That showed it who’s boss.’ She could see from his face that the coaxing of the heater into life was a daily battle of wills.
‘Don’t stand on ceremony,’ he commanded. ‘Sit yourself down.’
He scraped one of the heavy chairs away from the long table and put it a few feet short of the heater. She crossed the room reluctantly, her shoes sticking to the scummy floor with each step, and sat in front of the meagre source of warmth. Mr Liberty threw a tea-towel at Ned.
‘Don’t stand there idly, young man,’ he said. ‘Help your mother to dry her hair. We don’t want her catching her death, do we?’
‘You wouldn’t be spoiling me with your best Irish linen, would you?’ she said, taking the grubby cloth from Ned.
He harrumphed loudly, turned away from her and set about the business of making tea.
A dubious brown crust on the tea-towel made her wonder if a mug of tea was such a good idea. Lord knows what she might catch. She tried to lose the tea-towel discreetly by folding it to slip it under some conveniently placed object, but Ned took it from her and tried helpfully to dab at her hair. She ducked out of his reach. ‘No, Ned,’
she whispered. ‘It’s dirty.’
‘Shall I ask Mr Liberty for a clean one?’ he whispered back. He might as well have placed a megaphone to his lips and relayed the message for the whole of the Peak District to hear.
Mr Liberty was rinsing mugs under the tap, and whipped round.
‘Complaining again, Miss Costello? And there was me on the verge of offering you something to eat.’
The very idea made Clara want to gag. But, to her horror, Ned said, ‘Breakfast would be nice.’ He smiled at Mr Liberty. ‘What have you got to eat? I’m very hungry.’
Clara stepped in fast. ‘Why don’t I cook us all a fry-up in the van?’