by Jenny Colgan
‘It’s nothing like enough,’ said Zoe in a serious voice.
‘And,’ said Murdo, ‘it wasn’t me anyway. Something pushed me across that loch . . .’
‘Stop it,’ said Zoe. ‘You’ve worked here looking for the monster for too long. It’s addled your brain.’
‘Aye, mebbe,’ said Murdo. ‘Mebbe not.’
Together they took the whisky to the boat.
‘Well now,’ said Murdo. ‘That is a nice thing. Are the two little ones all right?’
‘They are fine,’ said Zoe, not wanting to go down that road any further than she had to.
* * *
Kirsty came to join her over lunch with Agnieszka’s excellent cock-a-leekie soup and some rough-hewn bread and Zoe told her the whole story, or some of it, rather. Kirsty whistled through her teeth.
‘What’s the diagnosis?’
Actually Ramsay had . . . before he had . . . Well. They’d discussed it. The doctors were adamant that medication was required. A very low dose, just to steady her mood. Ramsay had been fiercely against any kind of drug. ‘A nine-year-old on medication?’ They’d both been outraged, and then even more surprised when the doctor had told them precisely how many nine-year-olds in Scotland were on medication. It was a lot. Then Zoe had simply asked, would other children be safe under the same roof as Mary if she was taking it and they had assured her that they would, and that was enough for Zoe. It wouldn’t be for ever. Just a calmer Mary. So they could get through to her; so they could help her. Zoe asked Kirsty about this; she agreed.
‘It’ll be okay,’ Kirsty said. ‘There’s absolutely loads of kids on it. Honestly. It changes lives.’
‘She nearly changed ours,’ said Zoe glumly. ‘I have to keep telling myself it’s not her fault.’
‘I genuinely think,’ said Kirsty, ‘you’re going to find the meds really help. And it means she’ll probably adapt a bit better to school.’
‘Yes. A lot less biting,’ said Zoe, smiling sadly. Then she said, ‘I was wondering . . . I was thinking . . . we need to thank the village for what they did. And the kids . . . they didn’t get a proper dress-up Halloween. They feel too unpopular and weird to go out.’
‘That’s a shame,’ said Kirsty, meaning it.
‘And I thought the Samhain party would make up for it but . . .’
Zoe blushed at the memory.
‘It turned out not to be remotely suitable. Well, anyway, I was thinking . . . I know it’s past but if we had a Halloween party, could we ask everyone? Then the kids could . . . kind of get back on board with everything? Or would that be mad?’
‘Everyone? That’s sixty children!’
‘I know.’
‘But,’ said Kirsty, ‘I can’t imagine any child hating having two Halloweens, no.’
‘Great,’ said Zoe. ‘Spread the word.’
Chapter Sixteen
It took her a lot of looking. She did it at night. Ramsay was away, and Zoe knew why. But at least she knew where he was.
She needed to find something. In the library. Something that would let them put on a party; something that could get the children ready. For school; for the normal life waiting out there for them.
She discarded books not in the almanac such as ancient encyclopaedias that didn’t know what atoms were made of and beautiful golden treasuries of the lives of the saints that only the most hideous sadist could ever have bought for a child. She needed something good. Something she could sell right away.
Up on the mezzanine level, beneath a pile of church hymnals, she finally found the kind of thing she was looking for. And whistled.
The pale grey cover of the rooftops of London; the two little boys scampering down the side of St Paul’s Cathedral. She checked the date on the inside cover. It was a second edition, not the first, but still worth an absolute fortune: an early edition of Up on the Rooftops.
She let the children see it, rather reluctantly, and explained that they were selling it.
‘But that’s the book we’re reading! And we haven’t finished it!’ groaned Patrick. ‘We don’t even know if Delphine is on the Queen of the Nethers’ galleon! The Corsairs took her!’
‘I have it,’ said Zoe. ‘I have it on my Kindle. Don’t worry. You can have lots of copies of one book.’
‘But! I do worry!’ said Patrick, blinking.
‘I know,’ said Zoe. ‘But trust me. It’s going to be worth it. We’re going to have a Halloween party!’
The boys gasped.
‘Are . . . can girls come?’ said Shackleton.
‘Everyone can come,’ said Zoe.
Mary looked at her. The meds made her sleepy, slow to respond to things.
‘What kind of party? Like the Samhain?’
‘No,’ said Zoe emphatically. That had got right out of hand, that one. ‘A children’s party. I thought we could do up the house nicely and get lots of spooky things and do bobbing for apples and so on.’
‘And have absolutely lots of sweets?’ said Patrick.
‘And absolutely ginger,’ added Hari.
‘Ginger what?’ said Zoe.
‘He means fizzy drinks,’ explained Patrick.
‘Oh. Okay,’ said Zoe. ‘Well. Yes. All of that. I thought we’d invite people you were going to go to school with.’
‘OOH!’ said Patrick.
‘They’re horrible,’ said Mary. Shackleton was watching now too from the fire.
‘Well,’ said Zoe confidingly. ‘I thought what we’d do is get you the most amazing costume and invite everyone and make the house look absolutely brilliant and have the best party ever and then everyone would realise you were super-cool and the girl who you bit . . .’
‘Stephanie,’ snarled Mary. ‘She said my mum was crazy.’
Zoe had been about to suggest conciliation. But now she decided to go the other way.
‘Stephanie. Well, we could snub her.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Mary, looking interested.
‘Well, obviously normally we try to be nice to everyone.’
‘Mary doesn’t,’ said Patrick. Mary was about to scowl, but let it pass as if it didn’t matter to her. This was lost on no one.
‘. . . but in this case I think we could be super-nice to everyone else, and then when she comes . . .’
‘She might not come,’ said Mary.
‘Everyone will want to come,’ said Zoe. ‘Trust me. So you are really pleased to see everyone, but then when she comes you can just be like, “Oh hey.” And I could be like, “Oh, you’re Stephanie,” but in, like, a really mean way.’ She did it again. ‘“Oh, so you’re Stephanie.” I mean, I know that is very nasty and horrible . . .’
‘She told me my mum was a loony.’
‘Exactly. Extenuating circumstances.’
‘And I could bite her!’ said Patrick.
‘No,’ said Zoe. ‘This is my point. We don’t bite anyone any more.’
‘Stenuating circumstances,’ said Patrick.
‘Still, no.’
‘What costume could I have?’ asked Mary shyly.
‘Whatever you like! Zombie princess? Terrifying witch?’
‘And we’re going to get money from a book?’ said Shackleton.
* * *
They gathered round as she took photographs and listed it on eBay. The bids came in thick and fast and it was extremely exciting to watch. By the time it was bedtime, there was enough for a very jolly party. By the time Ramsay got home, there was enough for . . .
‘Well, goodness,’ said Ramsay, staring at the screen. ‘Goodness me.’
‘Thank you,’ said Zoe, who had texted him earlier and asked if she could list it. ‘You’re good to let us spend it.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have known it was there if it wasn’t for you.’
Zoe stood up, standing shyly away from him. He was grimly aware she was doing this and frowned.
‘I’m . . . I’m sorry about the other evening,’ he muttered.
‘
No . . . I am,’ said Zoe before she could think about it. Then: ‘Sorry. I mean. That’s fine. Forget it.’
He nodded sadly.
‘Well?’ said Zoe gently. ‘How was tonight?’
He took a deep breath and they moved away from the children. This was new, being able to talk about it.
‘There’s some . . . Well. Good news, I suppose. Hard to know. I heard from the police. They let me lift the restraining order.’
He shook his head. ‘She’s . . . she’s no longer a threat apparently.’
‘Good,’ said Zoe. ‘Is that good?’
‘It means the children can . . .’
He shook his head, staring at the four heads laughing around the computer.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh. Those fucking drugs. The price she paid.’ He tried to stop himself crying. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m being ridiculous.’
‘You are not,’ snorted Zoe. ‘You could all have done with a bit more of this a long time ago.’
She handed him some kitchen roll and he thanked her.
‘Are you going to take them?’ she said.
Ramsay sighed.
‘Shackleton absolutely refuses. He . . . he remembers. He saw her at her absolute worst, and she let him down again and again. And Patrick doesn’t know her at all. He’s never had a mummy.’
‘Mary?’
‘Yes. Yes. Perhaps I’ll take Mary.’
He ran his hand through his hair.
‘It’ll be a big shock to her.’
Zoe thought of the placid woman with the long stare who had been quite happy to sit and stroke her hand.
‘You never know,’ said Zoe. ‘It might be enough . . . just to be near her.’
‘Do you think?’
‘No,’ said Zoe. ‘But I think in this life sometimes you have to take what you can get.’
Chapter Seventeen
The book sold for a figure beyond their wildest dreams, and Ramsay had smiled and said, fine, they could knock themselves out and Zoe had taken everyone on a special trip to the nearest Poundworld (two hours away) where they had bought as many discounted spooky cobwebs, pumpkins, bats and hanging skeletons as they could find, and looked forward to a joyous, tiring afternoon kitting the place out.
There would be hot cider for the grown-ups and hot apple juice for everyone else, and more mini Snickers and Bounty bars than the house had seen in its life. Zoe had kept the children on their honour to eat no more than four before the party. She wasn’t quite as good at keeping her end of the bargain though.
She had then taken them to a party shop stuffed full of Halloween costumes. They were totally bewildered. When, Zoe wondered, had they been bought anything? Hari and Patrick took ages to decide, then finally went for identical dinosaur costumes. Shackleton quietly wanted nothing other than a small pair of fangs and some red face paint; Zoe guessed he didn’t want to look too dressed up, in case girls. She mentioned this to him and he went bright red and whispered if she could possibly buy him a razor, which she immediately did, noting how pleased he was. They were becoming good friends, the two of them.
Mary examined everything with great seriousness, then eventually pulled up at one costume. It was marked ‘Fairy Girl’ and was of grey and shiny trailing rags, and soft grey wings at the back.
‘Ooh!’ said Zoe.
‘What?’ said Mary sleepily.
‘Nothing,’ said Zoe. ‘But that’s absolutely perfect for you. Perfect. We can put eyeliner on. And I can backcomb your hair!’
‘What’s that?’
‘Make it all wild, like thistledown hair.’
Mary smiled slowly.
‘Can I wear lipstick?’
‘Well, I really don’t see why not.’
‘Is everyone actually going to come?’
‘Of course they are,’ said Zoe, not adding how desperately nosy everyone in the village would be to have a look as to what was going on and peep inside the mysterious house, where they weren’t allowed, even at the Samhain festival, when they were confined to the gardens.
Mary’s tone grew reflective.
‘Some of the girls are quite nice,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’
‘Some people always are,’ said Zoe.
‘What are you wearing, Nanny Seven?’ demanded Patrick.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Zoe. ‘Maybe I’ll just paint on some bite marks.’
‘NO!’ Hari came up. ‘Och, get a witchy one!’
‘Yes! Yes! Or absolutely a BIG DINOSAUR.’
Mary brought out an adult’s version of her own costume – it was silvery, with a long trailing skirt and the same pale cobwebby wings.
‘You could . . . you could wear this,’ she said, her eyes looking huge and nervous.
Zoe was completely taken aback.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Yes. Okay. Um. I will.’
Chapter Eighteen
They had a hard day’s work decorating the house, but there was no doubting it did look magnificent. Even – wonder of wonders – Mrs MacGlone got stuck in, and helped to adorn the house with cobwebs and pumpkins and scary plastic skulls with tiny flickering lights inside them, and some of Mary’s old dollies, including several that were broken and quite horrifying. They put coloured paper over the lights and Mary was busy putting grapes into a bowl to act as eyeballs when Mrs MacGlone came in and looked around and folded her arms and then unfolded them and said, uncharacteristically pink in the cheeks:
‘Well now. Well.’
Zoe smiled at her. ‘Are you staying for the party?’ she said. ‘Have you got a costume?’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs MacGlone. Then she glanced away. ‘I didn’t think I was invited.’
Zoe went up to her.
‘Of course you’re invited!’ she said. ‘Mrs MacGlone you’re . . . you’re the bones of this place. It couldn’t run without you.’
Mrs MacGlone shook her head.
‘Och, that’s not true.’
‘Well, come, please,’ said Zoe. ‘And bring your husband.’
Mrs MacGlone looked pleased as she took down her coat.
‘Aye right then well. Maybe.’
Then a thought occurred to her.
‘You know. We havnae done this for a long time. Probably trip all the fuses in the place. But Wilby keeps it up to date . . . costs a fortune in electricity of course . . .’
‘What?’ said Zoe as Mrs MacGlone went into the kitchen and pulled open a cupboard that contained the fuse box and the boiler. She ran her hand down to a switch.
‘Well, here goes nothing,’ she said, and pressed it.
At first, Zoe couldn’t understand what the orange glow was coming through the windows. The children all leapt up, led by Shackleton, charged through the front hall and opened the front door, letting in a sharp blast of freezing air. Zoe followed them outside and gasped. The entire front of the house was illuminated, lit up to make it spectral and entrancingly beautiful.
‘Oh wow,’ she said.
‘Good old Wilby,’ said Mrs MacGlone happily.
* * *
Zoe had given up trying to keep the children calm, and had let them get dressed up and put on a Halloween compilation at high volume and, mindful of the time, had gone upstairs to get dressed.
Ramsay was standing at the library door.
‘Just locking up?’ said Zoe.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well. I suppose . . .’
He looked down at the keys in his hands.
‘I could lock it tonight and then . . .’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Well . . . the reason I keep the children out of there . . .’
‘Is because they get into everything and would destroy your stock? Because it destroys your concentration? Because you have to get away from them?’
He looked up, surprised.
‘Christ, no. Books are meant to be read. They want to be read. No. It’s not . . . It was never anything like that.’
He turned the key over in his hand.
‘No. God. It’s where I keep all my correspondence . . . all the news and information about Elspeth and social services and . . . you know. Everything. Everything they don’t know.’
‘So you’re thinking of opening it? Letting the light in?’
He shrugged. Zoe bit her lip and lowered her voice.
‘Do Mary and Patrick know . . . know everything?’
He looked alarmed suddenly.
‘But I am their dad.’
‘I know. But . . .’
He nodded.
‘I know what you mean. I just always figured . . . they have enough to bear already.’
Zoe sighed. It was wrong, but it was right too.
‘What about Shackleton? Doesn’t he know?’
Ramsay shook his head. ‘Of course not. It would just . . . it would feel so unfair.’
Zoe nodded. She understood.
‘He’s a good boy, you know,’ said Ramsay, pondering.
‘I do know!’ said Zoe. ‘I love all your children!’
It was meant, Zoe told herself later, it was meant to come out as light and breezy, like ‘I love grapefruit!’ or ‘I love Brooklyn Nine-Nine!’
But that was not how it sounded. That wasn’t how it sounded at all, and Ramsay stared at her, hunger in his eyes as if desperate to find someone – anyone – who felt for his children. And Zoe felt the terrible ties tighten once again – her dear wish to stay, and the fact that she couldn’t. She couldn’t.
‘I’m going to go get changed,’ she muttered. Then turned back.
‘Maybe lock your filing cabinet,’ she suggested.
He nodded.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
Chapter Nineteen
By five p.m., the lights of the cars had started to come up the drive, and it was almost fully dark. Zoe put the grey tulle dress on. The fairy wings were ridiculous but somehow rather fetching. Mary popped her head round the door and Zoe did her hair in the mirror and added pale white face make-up and dramatic black mascara.
‘I look awesome,’ said Mary.
‘You do,’ said Zoe.
There was a clamour of noise from downstairs.
‘Right,’ said Zoe. ‘You’re going to have to go be a hostess.’