by Jenny Oliver
Dolly focused on the cracked concrete tiles at her feet.
Marge moved her hand to smooth Dolly’s hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ‘Can you go just for me? So I feel like I’ve succeeded in some respect as a stand-in parent.’
Dolly snorted down at the floor. ‘I think that’s emotional blackmail.’
Marge nodded. ‘Yes, I think it is.’
Dolly looked up. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Marge gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘You do that, darling. Now let me say goodbye to that hunk indoors before I go.’ She brushed past Dolly to give Fox a proper farewell. ‘It’s been a delight to meet you,’ she said, clasping his hand tight in hers, to which Fox replied, ‘You too, Ms King.’ Marge grinned lasciviously, ‘I’ll see you soon, I hope.’
Once Dolly had safely removed her aunt from the vicinity, she walked into the flat, flicking her hair casually as if nothing of interest had occurred. Fox’s head inclined, eyes quietly assessing. When he looked at her like that she felt like a skinned rabbit.
‘Gold, eh?’ he said.
‘I highly doubt it,’ Dolly replied, staring straight at him, face shuttered, refusing to further indulge.
He said, ‘I’m assuming this Willoughby Park is somewhere far away.’
‘It’s in Cornwall,’ Dolly said flatly, trying not to picture their old cottage at Willoughby Park. Just doing so did something to her insides. Gave her the sensation of butterflies. She could smell it. She could hear the sound of the key in the front door lock and the sound of the waves out of the window that was so familiar it faded in and out of the air, appearing only when she really listened.
Fox said, ‘So are you going to go?’
‘Looks like I’m going to have to,’ she replied tartly, knowing in her heart that she couldn’t deny Aunt Marge, not after everything she’d done for Dolly. She’d just have to rock up, wow Ruben, not get riled by Olive, be completely detached and blonde and brilliant. Dolly blew out a breath, pumped. Then, catching Fox’s all-knowing eye, she moved to stand by her open front door, ushering him out by implication.
Fox took the hint, walking round the sofa to the coffee table to put his glass down. ‘Well, thanks for the water,’ he said, all polite smile. ‘I’d better be going.’
He hung his head slightly as he walked past her, the blood on his cheek dried in a thin felt-tip pen line. Lashes lowered. She would have felt victorious were it not for the vague twitch to his lips. She watched him pause on the bottom step, look up at the blue sky, lick his lips then turn and say, ‘Have a good time.’
‘I will.’ She did her best fake smile.
He nodded. ‘Good luck getting there, with your arm and everything.’
Dolly suddenly remembered her sling. The shocking pain in her shoulder when the painkillers wore off.
‘I take it you were thinking of driving,’ he added, now seemingly making himself comfortable on her doorstep, eyeing her geraniums with fascination, even leaning forward and deadheading one of her variegated pink ones.
She pictured Willoughby Park, the winding beach path down to the cottage, miles away from anyone, deep in the Cornish countryside. An oasis of lush green grass and trees so high they touched the clouds. Deer roaming the grounds. Cool winding streams and giant fallen trunks decaying into the land. This wasn’t somewhere you got to by train. Nor bus. She needed a car.
‘I mean …’ Fox was examining the jasmine she had trailing up to the railings. ‘This smells nice,’ he said of the plant before carrying on. ‘If you were looking for someone to give you a lift, I have nothing to do for the foreseeable future.’ He bent to give one of her freesias a sniff. ‘This is nice too.’ He inhaled again then stood up straight and turned to look at Dolly. ‘But I do get the impression you would be less than enamoured by my presence on your journey.’
Dolly was frantically running through every possible driving option in her head. She could get an Uber but that would cost a fortune down to Cornwall, if Uber even drove all that way. She could ask a friend but they were all working and had their own lives going on, she couldn’t ask someone to drop everything, especially as she’d been out of the loop for ages. She gave her arm a little test to see if she could hold a steering wheel and the shot of agony made the decision for her. She looked up to see Fox watching her. With a smile he said, ‘OK, well I’ll be going,’ and trotted off up the stairs, surprisingly agile for the size of him.
Damn you, she wanted to shout. Instead, she took a deep breath, steeled herself and said, ‘Wait.’
Fox paused. ‘Are you talking to me?’
Dolly sucked on her cheek. ‘You know I’m talking to you.’
Fox looked innocently down at her over the railing.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘I like a challenge.’
Dolly looked heavenward, up to the ice-blue sky, then back at Fox’s annoyingly condescending face. ‘This is all because Brogden said they thought you could sort me out, isn’t it? You want to prove that you can.’
Fox thought for a second, the muscles in his arms flexing as he did, like he couldn’t help himself. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Dolly raised one perfectly arched brow. ‘You’ve been feeding me all this altruistic rubbish.’
Fox frowned, put out. ‘No I haven’t.’
‘You said you wanted to help me.’
‘I do.’
‘But for your own ego.’
Fox looked straight at her, amusement flickering in the corners of his big brown eyes. ‘Does that make it easier for you to accept my help?’
Dolly scowled. She hated this. Fox was waiting, leaning all relaxed on the railing.
‘OK,’ she said.
He feigned misunderstanding. ‘OK, what?’
‘OK, you can drive me.’
Fox grinned. ‘Oh no, Dolly, you’re going to have to ask much nicer than that.’
Dolly felt her body get hot with annoyance. She swallowed. She took a deep calming breath. All the while, Fox hung over the railing, smiling down at her.
‘Please, Fox, could you drive me to where I need to go?’
Fox’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s more like it.’
Dolly glared at him.
He laughed this time, really guffawed at her expression. ‘Nothing, Dolly, would give me greater pleasure.’
Chapter Six
Ruben never got up early until Zadie had come to stay. ‘Morning!’ she hollered at his door, dressed in whatever bonkers outfit she’d picked for the day.
Last night, Ruben had sat up drinking whisky alone as Olive had slipped off to bed early claiming tiredness after her long journey – and no doubt Zadie’s non-stop questioning. ‘I like your hair, Olive. Have you read Harry Potter, Olive? Have you seen that Ruben’s hair is going grey at the side bits, Olive?’ Now though, he was determined to take charge. Get to know who Olive had become himself rather than be constantly interrupted by his child. Find out what had happened to her after all these years.
But as he rocked up to breakfast, praising himself for his early-bird timing, he was confronted by Olive and Zadie already up and dressed, pondering the clue.
‘Is it weird seeing your dad’s handwriting?’ Zadie was asking. ‘If he’s, you know, dead.’
Olive nodded. ‘Yes, it is. Very much so.’
Zadie frowned, staring at the clue in Olive’s hand. ‘I just think it would be really weird. Like if I saw Barry’s handwriting after he died.’ She shuddered. ‘Spooky.’
The mention of stepdad Barry in this context didn’t sit as comfortably as it should have with Ruben. What about his own handwriting? Would Zadie miss that? Did she even know what it looked like? Why did he care? ‘Toast, anyone?’ he asked, all chipper.
‘We’ve already had breakfast,’ Zadie said without looking up. She was studying Olive’s profile with more fascination than the clue, which had them all as stumped today as it did last night. Her hero-worship gr
owing by the second, as Olive read it out in a low concentrated voice: ‘Cold as ice, little mice. Dark as night, what a fright. In the corner? Getting warmer …’
Ruben had no idea what it meant. Instead, he followed Zadie’s lead and took the opportunity to study Olive, but a little more covertly than his daughter. She had the profile of a Roman statue. Serene. Poised. Hair tied perfectly. Clothes like a uniform. She was still stunning, but in a more muted, understated fashion. There was nothing, if you really studied her, that told you anything about her. Except the telltale bags under her eyes which suggested she hadn’t slept well. Was it still there though? he wondered. Underneath it all. The girl who had dazzled him so completely. Who wore slogan T-shirts and ra-ra skirts made out of her old Paddington Bear curtains? The person whose single-mindedness and courage had been the backbone to which he’d based so many decisions in his life. Just the idea in his mind of having Olive’s eyes watching and judging had led him to take paths in his life he never would have taken had he been left alone. Signposts towards ‘the easy route’ had been swerved simply because he’d wondered: what would Olive think?
Suddenly Olive sat up, eyes blazing with a familiar fire. ‘It’s the cellar at the cottage!’ she exclaimed. ‘We would dare each other to go down there. The mice are because they lived behind the coal chute, which is right in the corner. And it was always freezing because it was always flooding.’
Ruben grinned. ‘Yes! Well done.’
Olive beamed like she had forgotten her demure persona for a moment and allowed her face to be as wide and open as it once was.
Zadie clapped. ‘Let’s go!’
And just as quickly, Olive’s face closed. ‘What about Dolly?’
Ruben crossed his arms. ‘What about Dolly?’ They’d been through this already. No one had got through to Dolly. She didn’t answer any calls. Waiting for Dolly would be like waiting for the wind to change. ‘She’s probably working. Aren’t people in the police always working – married to the job and all that.’
‘Maybe she’s on a top-secret mission,’ Zadie chimed in. ‘My friend’s dad is one of the policemen at Buckingham Palace. He’s met the queen. Do you think Dolly’s met the queen? I’d love to meet the queen.’
As Zadie talked, Ruben mused over the idea of wild little Dolly as a member of the police, arresting people. The image was incongruous. When he’d last seen her she ran with her legs sticking out.
‘Come on,’ he said to Olive. ‘Unless you’re stalling.’
‘Why would I be stalling?’
‘Maybe worried I’ll find the clue first?’ If there was one thing Ruben knew about Olive King, it was that she could never resist a good challenge.
‘Oh please,’ Olive scoffed.
Ruben shrugged. ‘I was always the better clue finder.’
‘You were not!’ Olive laughed at the idea.
‘I think you’ll find I was.’
‘When?’
Ruben shrugged. ‘Always.’
‘That is just such rubbish. I found all the clues.’
It was Ruben’s turn to scoff at the audacity. ‘I think not, Ms King.’
‘Oh I think so, Mr de Lacy.’
He stood back. ‘After you, then.’
Zadie whooped.
They walked out into the sunshine, the black cat watching them from the steps as they crunched down the drive, Zadie running then walking slightly ahead. ‘Which way?’ she called.
Ruben pointed straight ahead to a path that ran through the manicured park to a copse of trees and eventually down to the beach.
‘It’s been well looked after,’ said Olive, surveying the grounds, her expression masked by sunglasses.
‘Terence has been here all along. Kept the gardens up – they were still open to the public until recently. And he made sure the house wasn’t falling to bits.’
Olive glanced over her shoulder at the big house behind them. ‘But no one’s lived here?’
Ruben shook his head. ‘Nope, no one’s lived here.’ No one had even visited as far as he knew. He was curious as to whether any of her family had been. ‘Have you ever been back to the cottage?’
Olive shook her head, ‘No, never.’ She really did look tired. More so than just a bad night’s sleep. He was itching to ask her more. Most of all, he wanted to know why she was single, but just up ahead Zadie had paused to wait for them.
‘Where do you live, Zadie?’ Olive asked as they caught up with her, which Ruben saw as a deliberate tactic to change the subject.
‘In Hove, down by the coast,’ Zadie replied.
Ruben frowned, ‘Do you?’
Olive looked at him perplexed, astounded that he didn’t know this simple information about his daughter.
‘I knew she lived by the coast, but I thought it was …’ Where had he thought it was? He hadn’t really thought about it. He had just transferred money if and when Penny asked for it and presumed they were getting on quite happily without him. Which they were, which was why Zadie would be upset if her stepdad died and she saw his handwriting rather than Ruben’s.
Zadie was saying, ‘Yeah, I love it. We have a little house by the beach and a sausage dog called Yap—’
‘Didn’t your parents used to have sausage dogs?’ Olive asked as if the vague memory was returning.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’ Ruben made a face. Sausage dogs were one of his pet hates. His parents had two that they’d treated like babies. They were the most loved things in the house. When they took them for walks their legs were so short they could never keep up, so his mum and dad would end up carrying one each, letting them lick their faces in adoration. He’d never seen his parents kiss each other in his life, and the only kiss they offered him was a peck on the cheek as they dropped him off at school for the term, but dog saliva they’d had no problem with.
‘Oh, don’t look like that. They’re lovely. You’d love Yap,’ Zadie declared.
Ruben relented with a ‘Maybe,’ mainly to win over Olive, who was clearly unimpressed at his lack of knowledge about Zadie’s home location and love of Dachshunds.
They kept walking. The sun warming their backs. Olive had to take off her sweater, and Ruben’s eyes were drawn to the strip of pale white skin revealed as she did. He looked away and saw Zadie watching, her expression both admonishing and intrigued.
The path forked at the base of the hill.
Ruben said, ‘Up there, isn’t it?’ trying to divert Zadie’s watchful attention.
Olive nodded.
Zadie kicked some leaves and mused, ‘So was this park like your garden? Did you hang out together?’ Ruben could sense she was fishing for information.
Olive said, ‘I wasn’t really allowed in here. We were never meant to go beyond our wall.’ She glanced at Ruben; it was hard to tell what she was thinking. She’d got much better at disguising her emotions.
‘Why?’ Zadie looked perplexed.
Olive turned the question over to Ruben, who said, ‘Because my dad didn’t want riff-raff on the estate.’
Olive shook her head, the frustration at his dad’s opinions still clearly cut sharp.
Ruben could hear with crystal clarity his father’s tirades having caught ‘The bloody King children’ trespassing. He’d had a habit of inspecting the grounds purely, it seemed, to exercise his authority were he to see anything amiss. He’d march down to the cottage to issue his reprimands to Olive’s father – ‘Fallen on damn deaf ears! He just bloody laughed. Let the children roam. The man’s an idiot. Roam! It’s my land!’ – that would then lead to an evening of rage and fury at the de Lacy house. But then as quickly as he’d leapt on a problem, Ruben’s dad would retreat again, distracted by a champagne reception or a trip to the House of Lords, and they were all free again. Much like his treatment of his son, complete disinterest until he sensed a problem.
As they strode in the direction of the cottage, Ruben pointed out the giant boughs of the old oaks. The grazing deer and the darkened depths of the w
oods where storm-fallen tree trunks became lurking crocodiles they used to climb on. When they went a bit further and he saw the ancient targets he built for his air rifle, he paused in surprise. ‘I can’t believe these are still here.’
Even Olive seemed momentarily taken aback. Wistfully surprised as her hand traced the bulls’-eyes she’d painted.
Ruben remembered the smell of her hair as he showed her how to aim. A way of getting close that he’d learnt from films. Wrapping his arms round her to line up the shot. Olive turning her head a fraction and whispering, ‘I know how to shoot, Ruben.’ The smile on his lips as he said, ‘I know you do.’ Dolly behind them, oblivious, waiting impatiently for her turn.
The thought of him, Olive and Dolly together, taking it in turns to fire at the crudely drawn targets felt like a whole other lifetime. The nostalgia intensified when he saw the bench by the old willow tree and added, ‘Oh wow, do you remember this? This is where I slept when I failed my GCSEs. My dad was so angry he locked me out of the house.’
Zadie looked shocked. ‘He did what?’
Olive said, ‘God, I remember that.’ She narrowed her eyes as it came back to her. ‘My dad found you and brought you to ours for breakfast. You were frozen and all wet from dew, do you remember?’
‘Was I?’ Ruben had obviously wiped that part from his memory.
‘That’s awful,’ muttered Zadie, pity in her eyes, which Ruben waved away.
‘Oh, it was fine. Nothing serious,’ he laughed. ‘He did it all the time after that. God knows where he thought I went because I wasn’t allowed at yours,’ he said to Olive, ‘but I did go to Olive’s,’ he clarified for Zadie. ‘Slept on the sofa with that terrifying dog.’
Olive looked wistful again, ‘Oh, Everest. He was lovely.’
‘Don’t Oh Everest me, he was a beast.’
Olive laughed. Ruben immediately remembered that he liked making her laugh.
Zadie had gone very quiet. ‘I think it’s just really sad. What you’re saying.’
Ruben’s brow creased, unable to fathom that she was upset about something that had happened to him. ‘Don’t worry about it, kid,’ he said, strangely warmed by her emotion. ‘I was all right.’