Grace-Mary remained in the doorway, arms folded.
‘I’m not going to touch a thing apart from the phone. Honest,’ I said. ‘So why don’t you go about your business – whatever that is. Just pretend I’m not here.’
My secretary grunted and left me alone. ‘Looks like Marty Sneddon did Deek a favour,’ I said, once I’d got through to Jake and told him the good news. ‘Better a scar on the face than a life in the jail, eh?’ Jake agreed, but wasn’t able to talk about transferring the title of the office to me because something very important involving a crane was happening down at the yard. Whether that was true or just his way of getting rid of me, one thing was certain: I wasn’t letting him out of our arrangement. When Deek officially walked, the office was mine. ‘Grace-Mary!’
My secretary came through at the third yell. ‘What’s all the shouting about? I’m busy.’
‘Are you going deaf or something?’
‘My hearing’s fine, thanks. So is my memory. You told me to pretend you weren’t here and that’s what I’m trying to do except you’re not making it easy.’
‘I’ve got big news.’
‘You don’t say?’
‘I want you to order up the land certificate for this place.’
‘What place?’
I waved my arms around. ‘This place. The office. Get the land certificate and knock up a disposition from Jake Turpie to me.’
Grace-Mary looked around. ‘You’re not actually thinking about buying this dump, are you? How much is that crook wanting?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What? No, wait, I don’t want to know. Just tell me the spurious reason I’m to put in for a consideration. The love, favour and affection that Jake Turpie has for you?’
I didn’t think there was any need for quite so much sarcasm. At that precise moment I had only warm feelings for my soon-to-be ex-landlord and was confident he also held me in similarly high esteem. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Put this down as a transfer of title based on certain good and onerous causes.’
23
Housework: a perfect example of the law on diminishing returns. Instead of having fun at the Fiscal’s, I could have easily spent the time spring-cleaning, dusting and getting right into the corners. As it was, transforming my small flat from disaster zone to quite tidy, even with Tina’s help after nursery, took only a couple of hours.
‘Sorry about the state of the place,’ I said at half past two on Wednesday afternoon, helping Vikki off with her coat. I glanced around a neater-than-ever living room, shaking my head in disgust. ‘It’s been all go and I’ve had no time for housework.’
‘I was hoovering,’ Tina said. ‘My dad said we had to make everything nice or—’
‘Why don’t you take Molly’s coat?’ I said to Tina, while draping Vikki’s coat over the folded camp bed that was propped against the wall under the window. In the daylight and momentarily seen through the eyes of a third party, it seemed more rusty and rickety than ever. I caught Vikki staring at it. ‘My temporary sleeping arrangement,’ I said. ‘Actually, it’s a lot less comfortable than it looks.’
‘What’s the long-term plan?’ she asked.
‘There isn’t one. There is a short-term plan, though.’ I’m going to buy a new place with at least two bedrooms.’
‘How far have you got?’
‘I’ve been surfing a few estate agent sites.’
‘Noted interest in anything? Made any offers?’
‘Not yet . . . ’
‘How many properties have you viewed so far?’
‘Not that many.’
‘How many?’
‘Well . . . ’
‘Less than one?’
‘Everything’s happened so quickly.’
‘Tina has been in Scotland for three months, the court case has been on the go for two. Did you not think that you might be a bit short of space?’
What could I say? For most of the time since discovering I was a father I’d been in a state of shock.
I allowed myself to be distracted by Tina who’d got in a tangle with her friend’s coat. Molly was clutching onto the toy animal that I remembered from that horrific day at Sunnybrae Farm and Tina was trying to pull Molly’s jacket sleeve over the top of the stuffed bird. As a result the disrobing was turning into a tug-of-war.
‘Let me take your birdie, for a moment,’ I said. I took the soft toy. What was it? A stork? No, more like a pelican. Whatever, it looked a lot cleaner and the loose wing was now firmly attached.
With a final almighty tug, Tina wrenched Molly’s coat off and laid it over Vikki’s on the camp bed.
‘La-La!’ Molly said. It was the first noise I’d heard her emit. She snatched the stuffed toy from my hand and clutched it tightly.
‘Laa-Laa?’ I said. ‘Like the Teletubbie?’ My dad had bought Tina an old Teletubbies DVD from a charity shop. I’d been forced to watch it several times before we returned it to the shop so that the other girls and boys could get a chance to see it. Up until then the only thing that had got me through those viewings was trying to work out in which order I’d kill the fat, annoying, multicoloured creatures and what my weapon of choice would be. If Laa-Laa was the red one, it was first for the chop with a blunt machete.
‘Let’s talk about something else,’ Vikki said. ‘Tina, how are you enjoying nursery?’
On the basis that Tina had mastered the art of saying what I least wanted her to say at precisely the time I didn’t want her to say it, I intervened before Vikki was told the story of Zack, his burst nose and the rudiments of combination-punching. ‘Tina loves nursery,’ I said.
‘Do you, Tina?’ Vikki asked.
‘She likes painting the best. Don’t you, Tina?’
Tina nodded enthusiastically in confirmation.
‘Yes, I can see that,’ Vikki said, taking in the series of crinkly masterpieces Blu-Tacked on and all around the kitchen door. ‘Molly likes drawing pictures too.’
I clapped my hands together. ‘Great! Then why don’t we get the paints out?’
Tina was all for it, Molly less so, but it was either that or play a game, and the last thing I wanted was Tina hustling us all at dominoes while recounting tales of her gramps, his special lemonade and the smelly shop where she’d first picked up the old ebony and ivories.
‘They get on well together, don’t they?’ Vikki said, as we watched them from the safety of the living room. I’d set up paints and paper on the kitchen table and the two of them were busy at work, Tina churning out works of art at a rate of knots, Molly much more careful, drawing everything first and then colouring it in with neat little brushstrokes. ‘They’ve got very different personalities, but one thing in common; they’ve both lost their mums. Molly, doubly so. First her real mum and then Daisy.’
‘What’s the story there?’ I asked, as Tina brought through the latest edition to her gallery. I told her how wonderful it was and balanced it on the windowsill to dry.
Vikki waited for Tina to scamper off and pick up her brush again. ‘Molly’s mums were very different people. Daisy lived quietly, kept herself to herself. Molly’s natural mum was quite a character, from what I hear. She was American. Her name was La-La—’
‘As in La-La the bird thing?’
‘I don’t know who gave it the name. Molly’s had that toy as long as I’ve known her. When she was first taken into care it was her only possession.’
There was a break in the story while I went off to clear up a water spill.
‘La-La was a drug addict,’ Vikki said on my return. ‘She died of a heroin overdose.’
Tina came through again. This time the picture consisted of just a few generous red brushstrokes in a sort of box shape and a squiggle beside it.
‘What’s that supposed to be?’ I asked.
‘It’s the dead doctor’s house and that’s a flower. Even though there wasn’t any flowers.’
We’d already had the flower debate on the way back from Professor Bradle
y’s. Apparently, I’d lost.
‘I think you’re rushing your painting,’ I told her. ‘You’ve only used one colour. Look at Molly. She’s taking her time and doing it properly.’
‘I am doing it propply!’ Tina grabbed the picture and stomped off through to the kitchen again.
Vikki picked up where she’d left off. Daisy had come from a good home, done well at school and looked all set for university. Then, during a gap year, she had hooked up with some older guy. Her parents hadn’t approved and she’d moved out. There was a lot of drink and little or no studying. Sounded a bit like my law degree. The worry had killed Daisy’s mother. ‘Fortunately, if that’s the right word to use, her father also died very recently, before . . . ’
Vikki tailed off as Tina returned to present me with the same picture, though now in an even soggier state, the red paint mostly obscured by black.
‘What have you done to it?’ I asked. ‘What’s with all the black swirls?’
‘It’s smoke,’ she said and dropped it in my lap.
Vikki grimaced. ‘Dead doctor? Smoke?’
‘Not as exciting as it sounds,’ I said. ‘We were at the zoo on Monday and on the way back I dropped in to see a friend of mine. He’s a doctor. He also smokes a pipe and because of that, Tina is fairly certain he’s about to peg out any moment now. After that we went to South Queensferry for fish and chips.’ I cupped my hands around my mouth and called through to the kitchen where my daughter was setting about another piece of paper, holding the brush like a dagger. ‘Why don’t you paint the Forth Bridge! That’ll take you a while and you’ll only need one colour!’
She didn’t look up. Just paused for a moment and shouted. ‘I’m not doing a bridge! I’m doing a squirrel!’
‘This dead-doctor thing. You don’t think she could have a death fixation, do you, after what happened to her mum?’ I asked.
Vikki shook her head. ‘Everyone thinks of death from time to time, even children. It just sounds to me like someone has rung home the message on the dangers of smoking, and that’s no bad thing.’
I made the girls juice and us a cup of coffee. Soon we were back onto the subject of Daisy Adams. Her parents had been right to disapprove of her choice of partner. A severe battering had knocked some sense into Daisy and she’d gone to the police. Her partner was jailed and by the time of his release Daisy had an interdict in place.
I offered a packet of BN biscuits to Vikki. ‘I hope you’re not a vegetarian,’ I said, after she’d taken a bite from one that was winking a jammy eye at her. She gave me a quizzical look.
‘Just a discussion I had with Tina about veggies not eating things that have faces.’
Vikki laughed. ‘She’s a bright girl. You’re going to have your work cut out for you there.’
‘If I get to keep her.’
Vikki wagged a finger at me before wiping a crumb from her lip. ‘This is a social visit, remember?’ I’d liked to have believed her. She continued with Molly’s history. ‘They found her one morning strapped into a pushchair, her mum half in, half out of bed and stone dead. Molly was just a baby. That’s when did Daisy came forward and asked to adopt her.’
‘Just like that?’
‘It wasn’t easy. La-La was living in a women’s shelter. She and Daisy were friends. Fortunately, the charity that ran the shelter insisted women with kids made out a will specifying who they wanted to be guardian if anything happened. I think the idea was to try and make things more difficult for the kids’ fathers, especially if they weren’t married, which was usually the case. If a single mum, with no father on her child’s birth certificate, names someone in her will as guardian, it gives that person automatic parental rights and responsibilities. It makes things a whole lot easier.’
I didn’t know that, but then, when it came to civil law, every day was a school day for me.
Vikki crunched the rest of the biscuit. ‘Daisy wasn’t a clean tattie and the social work department wasn’t keen, but Daisy wouldn’t take no for an answer.’ She chased the biscuit with a sip of coffee. ‘I was passed the file, met her a few times and was satisfied that she had turned the corner. She’d dabbled in drugs, it was true, but she’d been clean for a good while and seemed genuinely determined to make a go of things. More importantly, her bond with Molly was strong. Some people thought I was going out on a limb when I recommended her to the adoption panel. I suppose they were right.’
Tina interrupted again. This time the picture was mostly muddy-brown, with some green and red splodges here and there. Based on her earlier remarks I complimented her on what I guessed was a squirrel up a tree, though it looked more like roadkill. ‘And look, Vikki. Tina’s written her name. How clever is that?’
Vikki agreed with me that it was immensely clever. All signs of sulkiness gone, Tina hugged my neck, still holding the painting, imprinting squirrel on my clean shirt.
‘It’s all about seeking approval,’ Vikki said, as Tina ran off again to climb up and kneel on the chair next to Molly, peering over her shoulder. ‘Tina’s slapdash paintings just mean that she needs regular doses of praise. She wants to know that even when she doesn’t do her best, like the dead-doctor painting, that you’re still pleased with her. She’s seeking unequivocal approval. It’s the most important thing to a child, knowing that her parents are proud of her.’
I’d have felt a whole lot prouder if I didn’t have splodges of paint all over my best shirt.
‘Come on. I’ll give it a wipe with a cloth.’ Vikki stood up and pulled me to my feet. ‘If it’s poster paint, it’ll wash off.’
I followed her through to the kitchen where she wet the corner of a tea towel, put one hand inside the front of my shirt and pressed the towel against it, sandwiching the paint-smeared shirt. Her head was close to mine. I breathed in. Tina was right, she did smell like flowers.
‘You know how this is a purely social visit?’ I said.
Vikki took the tea towel away and examined what was now just a faint outline of brown. She pressed the towel against it again. ‘What about it?’
‘I was wondering if we could do it some other time.’
‘Don’t see why not.’ She ran the corner of the towel under the tap, wrung it out and applied it once more. ‘Molly’s at the Home waiting for foster placement. I could bring her out, let me see . . . How about next—’
‘I was thinking sooner than that.’
Vikki gave the almost-vanished mark a final brisk scrub. ‘There, that should just about do it.’
‘And with no kids. Just the two of us. Me and you,’ I clarified. I moved closer, just a fraction, just enough to make my intentions obvious. Vikki looked up at me. I put my hand on her waist. The gentlest of touches. I thought she moved closer. If I was wrong, things were about to become very awkward. It was worth the risk. I moved in slowly, giving her the chance to pull away. She didn’t. Her lips opened slightly, eyes began to close.
‘Dad!’ My daughter’s timing had to be admired, if not appreciated. She synchronised the yell with a tug at the tail of my shirt. ‘Look at Molly’s picture.’
Tina dragged me over to the table with Vikki following. ‘It’s really good, Dad, isn’t it?’
It really was. It wasn’t a child’s painting. It was the work of someone much older than Molly. I doubted if I could have produced such a neat, precise drawing. Vikki lifted it from the table and together we studied the artwork. In fact we found it hard to take our eyes off it, such was the use of colour and fine detail; right down to the fireplace, the dresser complete with white mugs and crockery and the figure lying on the big farmhouse table with an out of proportion knife sticking from its stomach and a bright-red puddle below.
‘Shit,’ Vikki said under her breath. She let go of the painting and let it float back to the table.
‘It’s really good, Molly,’ Tina said to her wee pal. ‘And it’s really scary too.’
Molly said nothing, just sat at the table swirling her brush in the water-filled jam
jar and humming to herself.
‘You’re right, Tina,’ Vikki said, regaining her composure. ‘It is scary. I think Molly must be getting ready for Halloween. That’s when her birthday is. Did you know that, Robbie?’ Vikki was obviously trying to divert attention away from the picture.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Will she be having a birthday party?’ Tina asked.
‘We could have a party for Molly here,’ I said.
‘Good idea.’ Vikki placed her hand on the offending image and inched it along the table towards me, making eyes as though to say, get rid of it.
Tina placed a hand on the painting just as I was about to discreetly whisk it away. ‘That one looks like a monster,’ she said, pointing to another character, a much larger one, standing beside the table, dressed in black and looking straight at us.
Vikki went over, put an arm around her ward and squeezed. ‘I think someone has been watching too many scary films on the telly.’ She forced a laugh. ‘What do you think, Robbie?’
Staring down at that monstrous figure, with the stripe of red running from its bald head, over one crazy white eye to a row of wide-spaced, crooked teeth, I could only agree. But only if those scary movies starred one Derek William Pudney.
24
Thursday morning and it was open doors and smiling faces all around as I was shown upstairs to Hugh Ogilvie’s office.
No need to blag my way in on this occasion. The PF had phoned personally, first thing, asking to speak to me. This was an event so rare that even Grace-Mary thought she should mention it to me when, Tina having embarked on another three hours of fun at the Little Ships, I called in to talk to Joanna about Deek Pudney’s upcoming, full committal hearing and why I thought it wouldn’t be going ahead.
‘I know what a stickler you are for the truth, Robbie,’ Ogilvie said, pulling out a chair and bidding me sit. ‘I also know the store you place on independent expert opinion, and so I have something here I’d like to show you.’ He opened a red folder that, apart from a penholder, stapler and paper-punch, was the only item on his desk. He took out a sheaf of paper and pushed it towards me. I feigned lack of interest, not wishing to give him the satisfaction.
Last Will Page 11