by Jenny Colgan
‘And you know Einstein . . .’
‘I don’t think he’s Einstein,’ said Zoe gently but firmly.
‘Has something happened to him to relieve his anxiety?’
Zoe would have thought rather the opposite, even as she heard him giggling next door at a cartoon.
Could Hari ever tell her? Ever explain the strange quiet world he had trapped himself in, the walls closing in around him every day, until something had breached them – the shock, perhaps? The bracing chill of knowing how close you came to losing everything, and how important it was to use everything you had? Hari, when questioned, simply and cheerfully said that it was the monster, and Zoe assumed he was talking in metaphor or had got confused in the wet and the noise when you couldn’t see two feet in front your face.
‘Are you pleased?’ said the doctor, as Zoe started to cry again, but she nodded a lot through her tears.
* * *
The drive home was slow and would have been quiet were it not for Hari, who said, ‘Tree!’ ‘Stones!’ ‘Birdie!’ every time he spotted something, wonderingly, and Zoe had to fight back tears every single time. She had decided not to tell Jaz; to surprise him.
She hadn’t told Hari they were leaving. She didn’t know how. As he got out of the car, he dashed towards Patrick, shouting ‘PATRICK! I KEN TALKING!’ And Patrick jumped up and down and then stopped, a frown on his little serious face, and said, ‘Yes, Hari, but absolutely you must let me talk the most,’ and Ramsay turned to Zoe, his face aching and said, ‘Is there no way you could . . . ?’ and she felt herself choking up again.
The CAHMs nurse said Mary was going to start with sessions with a psychiatrist straightaway but if things didn’t improve, they may have to consider medication. Ramsay had told this to Zoe as if this might work in his favour, might mitigate things. And in other circumstances, it might have done. But there was no way – absolutely no way when Jaz found out just what exactly had happened – that she could stay here with his boy.
Zoe had avoided seeing Nina at the hospital, which made her feel horribly guilty, but she was about to have to do something awful and leave her in the lurch and she already had too much to worry about.
But here, back home – back at The Beeches, rather, of course – it was a perfect autumn day; all the colours brightened up the sombre look of the house, the oranges and yellows and bright reds of the leaves covering the lawns, the wind picking them up and whirling them around. Wilby had started raking them up, and Patrick and Hari had wasted very little time in running into the pile of leaves and bouncing full length in to it. Eventually Shackleton had come out to see what they were doing and decided to join in, totally underestimating his own size and girth, and had completely demolished the pile, so Zoe had sent them to find rakes (there were a jumble in the ancient hut) and help Wilby clear the leaves up properly which resulted in a perpetual motion of leaves being swept up and jumped into.
It was unseemingly mild and was warm enough, just about, if you were wearing a cardigan, to sit outside, and Mary was doing just that in her new fox jumper. She was nervous around Zoe, who had decided that whatever happened now, she had to get over it. She was the adult; Mary was the child, and an unwell and markedly unlucky child at that. So she went straight up to her and sat down.
‘Whatcha reading?’
Mary held up The Magician’s Nephew.
‘Splendid!’ said Zoe. ‘Oh, you lucky thing. I wish I was reading it for the first time.’
‘Nobody,’ said Mary thoughtfully. ‘None of the books you give me have mothers.’
Zoe blinked and thought about it. Narnia, Katy, Alice, Anne with an E. Mary Lennox. Mary was right. None of them did.
‘I think that’s just what makes stories,’ she said. ‘If a child is to go off and have adventures, that’s how it’s done.’
‘I think I’ve had enough adventures,’ said Mary.
‘I do too,’ said Zoe, and they sat near each other watching the boys charging about like happy deer in a bright red field.
* * *
Ramsay stood by the car watching them all and realised the horrible truth with a lurch: he wanted her to stay. So much. Not for the children – although yes, for that. For her. For everything about her: the way her hair fell across her face; her pealing laugh; the music she played in the kitchen; her fierce love for her son; her way of getting on with things, which had, he knew, been his terrible failing as he had been drifting along, hoping on some level that Elspeth would come back, or things would change.
He had, he realised, been waiting to be saved like a princess in a fairy tale. And she was the handsome prince.
And how he wanted her. But now it was too late, for even as he thought this, a familiar small red hire car was rattling up the drive.
Chapter Twelve
Surprisingly, three people got out of the little rental car: Jaz; a very pretty girl Zoe realised must be Shanti, and one more.
Surinder walked towards Zoe and the girls hugged.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Surinder. ‘I . . . I really hoped this would be a good thing.’
‘It was,’ said Zoe, swallowing hard.
Hari came rushing up, his hair everywhere, panting and out of breath.
‘Hiya, Auntie!’ he said casually.
‘What?’ said Jaz. Zoe couldn’t help grinning as she saw his face. ‘WHAT?’
‘Och! Hiya, Daddy!’ said Hari turning around.
‘WHAT?!’
Jaz was so surprised he looked like a cartoon.
‘You’re talking!’
‘Aye,’ said Hari.
Jaz stared at Hari then back at Zoe and then at Hari again. Surinder burst out laughing.
‘I absolutely taught him,’ said Patrick.
‘He’s my brother,’ said Hari.
‘Yes, we met . . . Hi, bro,’ said Jaz rather awkwardly.
Patrick looked at him severely.
‘Thank you for coming to visit. But Hari and I have very important things to do with leaves. BYE!’
He turned round and went back to the garden, Hari in his wake. Jaz stood, dumbfounded.
‘Why don’t I make us all some tea?’ said Zoe. She came down and shook Shanti’s hand. She was, as Jaz had said, extremely beautiful.
‘Hello. Sorry. I’m Zoe. I realise it’s a lot to take in.’
Shanti was staring up at the house, absolutely hypnotised.
‘Wow, what a place!’
Surinder was taking pictures of the boys darting about in the low sun.
Shanti followed Zoe into the house. The polished wood smell of beeswax hung in the air; Mrs MacGlone had obviously been busy. The sun streamed through the windows onto the grain.
‘Oh my God,’ she said. She peeked into the drawing room, which had the sun shining in and was currently filled with a huge construction of an aeroplane that Shackleton and Patrick were working on. Pieces of balsa wood and old cut-up sheets were laid on the large table.
‘Look at this place,’ she said. The children’s voices could be heard on the air, laughing and chattering.
She followed Zoe through into the kitchen, and Zoe put on the kettle.
‘Or we’ve got coffee,’ said Zoe, remembering that night. When all she had wanted was to feel his hand on her . . . she shook the memory away.
‘Nice machine,’ said Shanti. ‘Cor. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.’
She turned to Zoe.
‘I’m . . . I’m really . . . I hope it didn’t seem weird that Jaz started going out with me.’
Zoe was about to bat it away and say no, not at all, but she decided she might as well be honest.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘You’re the first woman I’ve known about since . . . me, but we’ve been broken up for a long time, really.’
‘But you’re the mum of his . . .’
‘Yes, all of that.’
‘He looks like an amazing boy.’
‘I don’t know about amazing,’ sa
id Zoe, then she reflected. ‘Well. Yes. He is.’
Shanti nodded.
‘Thank you,’ said Zoe, ‘for making Jaz step up to his responsibilities.’
Shanti rolled her eyes. ‘I grew up without a dad,’ she said. ‘I threatened to kill him if he didn’t get his shit together.’
‘Well . . . thanks . . . So did I. I should have threatened him with that.’
Shanti grimaced.
‘I wouldn’t thank us just yet. He’s been to look at some flats . . .’
Zoe let that hang there in the air and busied herself with finding enough mugs and whether or not there was any shortbread to be had, which fortunately there was.
Chapter Thirteen
Ramsay looked like he was about to disappear into his library – he couldn’t bear to sit and listen to this man discuss how to take Zoe away, stick her in some awful hole in London somewhere, how he’d never see her again.
But Zoe gave him a look that said, more or less, ‘Manners!’ and he came and joined them on the wrought iron chairs she’d made Shackleton drag out and wipe down – when, Ramsay thought, had she even found the time to find out about those? And when did his grunting, incommunicative pre-teenager turn into such a smart, willing boy?
Once they’d all settled down, no one was quite sure how to start, until Jaz, sitting with his legs splayed out, one foot on the other knee, which Zoe knew he did when he was nervous and trying not to look it, asked how on earth Hari was talking – and what on earth did he sound like?
Ramsay shot Zoe a look but she didn’t return it. Instead she blinked and said, ‘Well. Mary and Hari got themselves into a bit of a scrape on the loch. Where they are absolutely forbidden to go.’
Shanti turned her head.
‘Where is it?’
‘Just at the bottom of the garden,’ said Zoe.
‘Oh my God . . . you really have everything here,’ she said, eyes wide.
‘Anyway. Hari got a fright and . . . the doctor says something seems to have broken through.’
Jaz shook his head.
‘I thought I was coming up here to look after my traumatised little boy. Instead he’s listening to Proclaimers records and eating haggis pies.’
Nobody said anything after that.
Jaz kicked at the ground. Then he stood up.
‘I’m going to get him. He can show me the lake.’
‘Loch,’ said Zoe automatically.
‘Christ’s sake, Zo, not you as well.’
He walked away, his attitude sullen, and Shanti winced. Surinder watched the entire thing shaking her head.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘You’re worse than Nina. Speaking of whom . . .’
She glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll need to go if I’m going to make visiting hours.’
Zoe jumped up too.
‘Hang on, I’ve got some books in the van for her.’
Surinder walked up to it happily.
‘Oh look, there she is,’ she said, patting it happily. ‘Oh, we had some good times in this old thing.’
She grinned. ‘Now there are a few people I need to look up while I’m here . . . Boys mostly.’
‘How long are you staying?’
‘It depends when Nina pops,’ said Surinder. ‘They owed me some time off. And Lennox will be busy with his hands up sheep’s arses or something.’
‘I don’t think it’s their arse,’ said Zoe.
‘Oh thanks, James Herriot . . .’
Surinder climbed up the steps of the book van and turned the handle.
‘Oooh,’ she said in surprise. ‘You’ve changed it!’
‘Um . . . I don’t think so . . .’
‘What are all these Loch Ness monster books? And stuffed toys?’
‘People seem to like them,’ muttered Zoe.
‘Cor. Colouring books! And these touristy things – does Nina know you’re selling all these?’ Surinder narrowed her eyes. ‘I mean, it’s just not what she normally does, that’s all.’
Zoe winced. ‘You mean I’ve gone downmarket.’
‘Noooo . . .’
‘Look,’ said Zoe. ‘I couldn’t sell enough of the other stuff. I’m not Nina – she’s a bookselling genius. But there’s a huge market here – absolutely massive, full of people interested in the history of Scotland and the area – so we’ve been selling loads of atlases, and they’re beautiful. And the monster books are just something for the kids to colour in when they’re on a long bus tour, that’s all.’
Surinder blinked. ‘Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Nina isn’t much use with the figures.’
She picked up one or two of the beautiful big map books, which had large price tags.
‘Wow! You’re selling these?’
‘Yeah . . . from Ramsay’s collection. Stuff that doesn’t get a lot of traction in London.’
Surinder nodded.
‘I feel like I’m being inspected,’ said Zoe awkwardly.
‘Ha,’ said Surinder. ‘So do I.’
Zoe smiled.
‘Jaz seems a lot . . . calmer.’
Surinder nodded. ‘Shanti is good for him. Definitely. Although you know Jaz – always has lots of good intentions. May not necessarily stick with them in the long run.’
The girls popped their heads out of the van. Shanti had gone over to join Jaz and Hari by the lochside.
‘Looks like she’s quite taken with this place,’ said Surinder. She sighed and looked around. ‘Me too. I forget in Brum that there are places like this. It’s just . . . it’s just so free up here . . .’
As if to back her up, a flock of wild geese passed low on their journey south, flicking their white wings into the slowly setting sun, the deep autumnal light.
‘Yeah, yeah, all right,’ said Surinder. She narrowed her eyes.
‘I wonder if Lennox has still got those tenants in . . . Right. Better go and see Nina.’
‘Don’t tell her about the colouring books,’ said Zoe quickly.
‘Yeah, okay.’
Surinder regarded her.
‘Coming back home then?’
‘Mmm,’ said Zoe.
Chapter Fourteen
Some decisions happen for you. Some creep up. But some you can pinpoint.
That evening, as the sun went down, Ramsay marched down to the cellar where he rarely touched the dusty old bottles his father had stocked there and grabbed two with the oldest-looking names. Then he came upstairs and, finally getting the transfixed boys to stand well back, lit the pile of old wood and bracken they’d all gathered from the forest along with some of the leaves from the garden. Zoe wrapped potatoes in silver foil and popped them in at the base, and brought out long forks for the adults to cook the sausages, the fat popping in the heat. Jaz found some music on his phone and they kept warm, the children running around laughing, the old wine slipping down from mugs and tin cups gathered from the kitchen. Surinder returned from the hospital saying Nina had reread the entire Val McDermid back catalogue and now thought everyone was a potential murderer but was otherwise perfectly well, and Jaz and Ramsay had to sit near each other as the boys wanted each to sit on their knees – Hari just loved having his dad there to show off – and Zoe watched as Ramsay caressed Patrick’s head, answered his obscure questions about fireflies and satellites, and the huge clear weight of his love for the boy, who was someone else’s boy, came crashing in.
It was in stark contrast with Jaz’s carelessly leaving his own boy behind. If it hadn’t been for her, she realised, and Surinder and Shanti, Hari could be fatherless right now. Jaz caught her eye and as if he knew what she was thinking, winced slightly.
But otherwise it was, given the awkwardness of it, an exceptionally pleasant evening, and when they set off, Shanti driving, for the hotel, everyone stood at the end of the long gravel drive and waved them all the way down.
‘I like it when Daddy comes to visit,’ said Hari thoughtfully. ‘It’s braw.’
Zoe smiled and took his and Patrick’s hands to take them u
pstairs.
‘Wait,’ said Hari. And he scampered over to where Ramsay was stretching his too long legs out towards the fire, clambered up his leg and gave the very surprised man a hug.
‘Night!’
Zoe and Ramsay looked at each other in amazement and Zoe led him off to bed – with her, nowhere near Mary, and no more staying over with Patrick – pondering the situation.
Was she making things worse for Hari by letting him getting so attached to everyone here? On the other hand, what did she want – him to be miserable?
She was still deep in thought as she went to pick up the glasses and forks from outside. Ramsay hadn’t moved and was still staring into the fire, the glass in his hand, his big navy fisherman’s jumper on the side, still with leaves caught in it.
‘Here,’ she said, plucking one and handing it to him. ‘You can keep it as a memory of a happy day.’
He turned to her then and his face was so full of longing she couldn’t bear it, and he gently encircled her tiny wrist with his huge hand.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please. Stay.’
Chapter Fifteen
The book bus was incredibly busy by the loch the next day. The whole site was bobbing with half-term families spotting seals and eating soup, and Agnieszka was delighted. Murdo came in and Zoe hailed him.
‘We have – Ramsay and I – I mean – not us – not together, ha! Nothing like that!’
She blushed deeply remembering the night before when she had stuttered and made her excuses and run to bed, deeply confused, deeply frightened, and lain awake all night imagining, just imagining what it would be like if he had picked her up in those huge strong arms of his, if he had grabbed her, hauled her into the house . . . or worse, the woods . . . and what it would do to the household, and how impossible it was.
‘Anyway . . . I’m babbling. I just wanted to say. We owe you everything. Ramsay wanted to give you . . . I realise it’s not much . . .’
She hauled out the great crate of ancient whisky the cellar had revealed.
‘Oh my,’ said Murdo. ‘Oh goodness. I wasn’t . . . I mean anyone would have done it. Anyone did do it – it was like Dunkirk out there.’ He smiled. ‘Och, look at this. It’s too much.’