Whatever adventures she had envisaged for Ned during this time away from home, acquiring a second grandfather had not featured.
But that was exactly what had happened: Gabriel had won Ned’s devotion. Ned had played his part too: he had befriended an old man nobody else had wanted. But that was children for you: they saw things the way they wanted to see them. And now that Gabriel, like her, was feeling so much better, she felt the time had come for her to give him Val’s diaries: they contained the final truth he needed to confront and accept.
She knew that when the time came for them to leave, she and Ned would always stay in touch with him for a connection had been made between them.
Once again, she recalled what had led her to Mermaid House, and it all came down to Mermy. Who would have thought that when her parents gave her that little bit of nonsense, it would lead her and Ned to Gabriel?
It made her wonder if there really might be such a thing as fate.
And if there was, what did it have in store for Ned in the foreseeable future? Was Todd about to make his appearance in his son’s life? It seemed likely. From the moment she had received that email from Guy in Edinburgh she had known that events were
conspiring against her. Her conversation with Jonah had also flagged up what she had known already: that Todd had a right to know about Ned.
But this didn’t take away the fear: she was terrified of losing control of a situation at which she had worked so hard to stay on top. Despite what people thought of her, she did have moments of self-doubt - not often, and not over trivia, but with something as important as this, she needed to know she was doing the right thing, and for the right reasons. Which was why she had confided in Jonah.
To her disappointment, there had been no sign of Jonah for some days now. The last time she had seen him was when she had told him about Ned’s father. She missed his company, his thoughtfulness and quiet sense of humour. It had been nice having somebody of her own age to talk to.
She put down her tapestry and looked out of the window. Who did she think she was kidding? Her enjoyment of Jonah’s company went deeper than that. She had liked having an attractive man around - she hadn’t experienced that in quite a while.
And Jonah was, to use a Louise-ism, borderline gorgeous. He was patient and attentive with a sensitivity that one rarely came across in a man. Beneath it, though, she sensed a strong will and spirit. How else could he have survived his childhood and hung on to his sanity?
She thought of the entries she had read in Val’s diaries, the fight he had got into at school, and she didn’t doubt that, if sufficiently provoked, the mild-mannered Jonah Liberty would come out
fighting.
So why had he disappeared? It was so unfair, just as she was feeling better and looking less like a bag-lady, he was nowhere to be seen.
She tidied away her tapestry and reached for Wuthering Heights. Perhaps it was reading of such passion and unrequited love that was making her long for Jonah’s quiet, responsive company. With this in mind, she decided to test herself. It was a game she and Louise had played late at night, when they were more than a little mellow. You had to close your eyes, picture a man you knew and imagine kissing him. If the image made you cringe and squeal, you could safely assume that he had as much charm and sexual magnetism as a landfill site. But if…
Well, the ‘if was obvious.
She sat back in the armchair, closed her eyes, and conjured up the necessary scenario: a backdrop of rugged moorland against which she and Jonah were indulging in a slow, tentative kiss. However, before long it had developed into a wallopingly good, lip-smacking, heart-thumping, knee-buckling snog of monumental proportions.
She snapped her eyes open, faintly embarrassed by such an
enjoyably erotic image.
Archie let the door of the estate agent’s office close slowly behind him. He had agreed to sell his home or, more correctly, his and Stella’s home. It was practically a done deal, with no reason why contracts couldn’t be exchanged within two months.
It was all happening so fast:
The For Sale board had only gone up on Friday afternoon, but by Sunday three couples had viewed the house and the first - who were planning to get married in the autumn - had offered him the full asking price. They weren’t in a chain and, as the estate agent had just said, they were a safe bet, as eager to buy as he was to sell. Except he wasn’t eager to sell. It was his home and he was parting with it reluctantly.
He crossed the busy market square to go and view what might well become his new home, albeit a temporary one. It was a small, unfurnished flat above Joe Shelmerdine’s antiquarian bookshop, which he let on a strictly short-term basis. ‘Nothing worse than to be stuck with a bad tenant,’ he had told Archie yesterday afternoon.
Archie hadn’t been able to view the flat then, because the carpets were being cleaned, but Joe had told him to come back today. ‘It’s not very big,’ he warned Archie now, as he handed him the key, ‘and the carpets haven’t come up as clean as I’d hoped they would. It needs a lick of paint too.’
The entrance to the flat was via a gloomy alley at the side of the shop, and in the half-light, Archie stepped cautiously round a wheelie bin and an upturned rusting metal stool. He put the key in the lock and climbed the narrow stairs, determined to like what he found at the top.
A lick of paint was an optimistic understatement. The walls of the sitting room were covered in dirty marks, and there were holes where picture hooks had once been. Chunks of plaster had come away from one wall where there was clearly a damp problem, and the window that overlooked the square had two cracked panes.
However, he told himself, as he stood in the middle of the room, it wasn’t a bad size, and there was a working fireplace, which would make it nice and cosy in the winter. But the thought of winter depressed him. He saw himself celebrating Christmas alone here.
The floorboards creaked as he moved through to the tiny
kitchenette. It looked big enough to accommodate the cooker and fridge freezer he would bring with him. But there was no room for a table, or for all the crockery and glassware Stella had collected over the years and which they had hardly used. But that wasn’t a problem: she would probably take it. If she didn’t, he’d sell it.
The bedroom, like the kitchenette, overlooked what had been the backyard: Joe had turned it into an attractive courtyard. There were vines covering the white-painted brick walls, some raised beds with flowers growing in them, and a wooden bench and table. He
imagined Joe sitting there during a lull in the day, enjoying a glass of wine.
There was an ominous smell in the bathroom, but the modern suite and shower over the bath appeared new and clean. He located the smell to the stained cork tiles around the toilet and wondered if Joe would object to him replacing them.
It would do, he decided, returning to the sitting room and visualising it with his own furniture, until he had made some real decisions about what he was going to do permanently. Really, when all said and done, compared to others, he was a lucky man. What’s more, Shirley had offered to lend a hand with curtains and the like, stuff he was useless with. She had even offered the decorating services of her son, Robbie. ‘Not that I’m saying you can’t manage yourself,’
she’d said, ‘but it’s time, isn’t it? There’s never enough of it.’ And when he had a bit more time on his hands, he ought to do something about thanking her for all her kindness.
He stood at the window and stared down at the crowded market square; a car horn tooted, a door slammed. Over the weekend, the council had put up hanging baskets, as they did at this time every year, and the bright splashes of colour gave an added gaiety to the shop fronts. Everywhere he looked the place was buzzing with people, cars and tourist buses. Now that it was June, and visitors were pouring in, the place had a jolly, prosperous air, but by next month it would feel the strain of so many visitors: the roads would be clogged and tempers would fray as people fought over too few parking spaces. He watched a dusty old Land Rover reverse into a space that looked perilously small, but the driver seemed to know what he was doing. Having accomplished the impossible, he got out and walked stiffly to the nearest pay-and-display machine. Archie recognised the tall, slightly stooping figure: it was the Commandant from Mermaid House. He continued to watch the man as he
returned to his vehicle. He put the sticker on the dashboard, then went round to the passenger door to let someone out. It was young Ned, Clara Costello’s boy.
After taking one last look around the flat, he locked the door and returned the key. ‘I’ll have it, Joe,’ he said. ‘Okay if I come back later to tie up the loose ends?’
‘Any time you want. By the way, I forgot to mention the floor tiles in the bathroom. I’ll see to those for you.’
Out on the street, Archie saw the Commandant with Ned again.
They were crossing the road in the direction of the post office. Archie needed some stamps, so he decided to wander over and see if Ned remembered him. He caught up with them as the Commandant was lifting Ned so that he could slip some letters inside the postbox.
When Ned saw him, he said, ‘Look, Mr Liberty, it’s Archie.’
‘Archie who?’
Archie smiled to himself. Trust the Commandant not to remember him. ‘Hello there, Ned, what are you doing back here?’ With a tilt of his head, he added, ‘Archie Merryman, Mr Liberty, Miss Costello’s disreputable rag-and-bone man.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember you now. You came to the house a couple of times, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Mummy thinks we’re only here to post some letters and buy some bread,’ Ned said importantly, ‘but we’re going to have a cake and a milkshake in the cafe as well.’ He leaned in close to say this last bit, as though it was a big secret.
‘Well, aren’t you the scallywag? And how is your mother?’
‘She’s been very ill with flu and Mr Liberty has been looking after her. Do you want to come and have a cake with us?’
Archie laughed. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got to get back to the shop.
Will you give your mother my best wishes when you get home? Tell her I hope she’s soon feeling better.’
Ned nodded, then said, ‘Have you got any more jigsaws in your shop? Mummy gave me a pound to buy myself something. A jigsaw would be nice. I liked the last one you gave me.’
‘As a matter of fact I have got some more. Why don’t you come and have a look?’
‘Can we, Mr Liberty?’ He looked up eagerly at the Commandant, who had been silent throughout this exchange.
He said, ‘I should think that could be arranged.’
Ned swivelled his head back to Archie. ‘Do you have anything that Mummy might like? I wanted to buy her a present too.’
‘I’ll have to think about that. You go and see Shirley in the cafe, and I’ll have a fossick and see what I can find for you. How does that sound?’
Archie walked back to Second Best wondering what Clara might like. She had far too much taste and class to want anything from his tatty old shop. But then he remembered the teapot Samson had nearly smashed yesterday morning when he was emptying a box from a house clearance. It was a novelty teapot, with a pair of stumpy legs, an arm for a handle and another for the spout. He could easily get more than a pound for it, but Ned’s pennies were good enough for him. Quickening his pace, he hoped no one had bought it while he’d been out.
As he let himself into the shop and saw Samson with his feet up, reading the paper, his mood was lighter than it had been when he’d gone out. He had been miserable at having to go to the estate agent and accept the young couple’s offer on his house. Now things didn’t seem so bad: he’d found himself a decent flat that was cheap and conveniently handy. Okay, it wasn’t anything special, but it would tide him over until he’d sorted himself out. If there was one thing he’d learned recently, it was that you never knew what was around the corner.
Half an hour later the irony of those words was brought home to him when the hospital rang to say that his Mother had just died.
With the house still empty, and confident that she would be alone for some time yet, Clara decided to be brave.
Well, brave-ish.
Although she’d had her mobile phone with her since Saturday, and had intended to ring her friends while she was housebound, she had not got around to doing so, for the simple reason that she had lacked the courage to set in motion the sequence of events she knew would unfold once she spoke to Louise.
But now she was determined to grasp the nettle.
To seize the bull by the horns.
To seize—
Oh, get on with it! she reprimanded herself.
She tapped in Louise’s work number, muttering that there was to be no more yellow-bellied prevaricating. It was time to see what Louise knew about the latest goings-on at Phoenix - specifically if the corporate wonder-boys were over from the States yet. It made more sense to speak to one of the boys, but she was in the mood for a good old girlie gossip with Louise. But Louise’s voice-mail informed her that she was out of the office for the next two days. Clara mentally tossed a coin: Guy or David. Guy won. She tapped in his number and waited for him to pick up.
‘Clarabelle!’ he said, when he heard her voice, ‘How’s it going?’
She pictured him leaning back in his chair with his feet up on his desk. ‘I’m fine. Well, not that fine, I’m recovering from a nuclear attack of flu.’
‘Poor you - but that explains why your voice is husky and sounds so dead sexy. So where are you now? Outer Mongolia?’
‘We’re back in the Peak District. It’s a long story, but do you remember we stayed with an eccentric man in a place called Mermaid House?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, we’re with him again. He’s been fantastic and taken care of Ned while I’ve been flat on my back with—’
‘Clarabelle, please, you’re shocking me. I’ve told you before, your private life is your own.’
‘Guy Morrell, the only thing that would shock your delicate ears is if Moira told you she was pregnant.’