Not Funny Not Clever

by Jo Verity

  He pointed to the alcove and Laurence’s cherished sound system and (alphabeticised) collection of CDs. ‘Cool kit.’

  ‘It’s my husband’s.’

  ‘What’s he into?’

  ‘Mainly classical. Well, wholly classical. Mainly Bartok. And Mahler. What … are you into? Your mum’s stuff?’ she asked.

  ‘Jesus, no. I can’t stand that crap.’

  The disdainful blasphemy was meant to shock. And it did, addressed, as it was, directly to her, unlike the foul language she overheard on every street and which she could choose to ignore.

  Struggling to maintain a neutral expression, she asked, ‘So what do you like?’

  ‘Indie punk, mainly.’ He held up his iPod. ‘CookieWhys. The Weakerthans. Stuff the Goldfish. Going Going.’

  ‘They all sound … intriguing. Especially Stuffing Goldfish.’

  ‘Stuff the Goldfish,’ he corrected her, patiently. ‘D’you want to hear them? They’ll sound great on that.’ He nodded towards the hi-fi and held up a tangle of wires. ‘Jack or USB? I’ve got both.’

  ‘Not at the moment, thanks. I was getting myself … us some supper. It’ll be ready in five minutes. The bathroom’s upstairs on the right. And you can put your rucksack in the room next to it. Alex’s old room.’

  The desire to deflect his attention from Laurence’s Bang & Olufsen and a surge of relief that he hadn’t been recruited into the sex trade combined to settle the matter. For the time being, Jordan Fry had better stay.

  3

  SATURDAY: 7.05PM

  Elizabeth, accustomed to eating with adults who understood that silence at the supper table was not an option, kept up a witter of small-talk. In due course, exasperated by Jordan’s lack of response, she fired questions at him.

  ‘How old are you now, Jordan? Fifteen?’

  He glanced up. ‘Mmmm. Yeah.’

  She scooped more salad from the wooden bowl and watched as he extracted every particle of mushroom from his omelette, lining the slices up around the rim of his plate.

  ‘How’s school going?’

  ‘It’s the holidays.’

  ‘You and Charlie are at school together?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The fridge cut out, the absence of its murmur accentuating the hush between their staccato exchanges.

  ‘Which team d’you support? Spurs? Arsenal? Chelsea?’

  There had been a period when the boys talked of nothing but football, reciting lists of names and facts as if they were passages from the Bible. It was no wonder that some of it had stuck.

  ‘QPR? West Ham? Millwall? Crystal Palace? Fulham?’ She paused, looking for evidence of admiration.

  ‘Football’s for losers.’

  Okay. Fry, J. was a prisoner of war, determined to reveal nothing but name, rank and number.

  When they’d finished eating, she cleared the table and went outside. It had been another blistering day with a desiccating breeze. In places the lawn had turned brown and crispy, and several cracks had opened up in the parched soil. A cluster of glazed pots (she daren’t tot up what she’d spent on them and the plants they contained) stood next to the water butt, forming a miniature oasis. She filled the watering cans to the brim and, tipping each can slowly to allow the compost to absorb the water, she gave the pots a thorough dousing.

  Bees were still busy on the purple-headed Echinops and the rose that scrambled across the back wall. Closing her eyes she listened to their lazy drone, inhaling the fragrance of honeysuckle and Nicotiana. This very evening she could have been sitting on a French hillside, surrounded by fields of lavender and sunflowers. Laurence had pressed her to go with him but the dates of the cookery course hadn’t quite fitted with the school holidays.

  There had been other reasons for not going. She’d accompanied him the first time he’d signed up for this sort of thing, three – or maybe four – years ago. They’d gone to Mentana, a village in the hills to the north of Rome. The house where they’d stayed was picturesque, the surrounding landscape quite stunning. She had been the only non-cook in a group of twelve zealots and she was plainly, in their eyes, a possessive wife who refused to let her husband off the leash. Without a car (they talked about hiring one but, when it came to it, she was too nervous to tangle with Italian drivers) and an incomprehensible local transport system, she’d been trapped there for five miserable days. It was a long way to go to read three novels, put on half a stone and pay a thousand pounds for the pleasure of being marginalised, and she’d made up her mind not to repeat her mistake.

  Maggie came out and began gathering washing off the rotary clothesline.

  ‘All set?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s been … a hiccup.’

  Elizabeth told her what had happened.

  Maggie fanned herself with one of the children’s T-shirts. ‘Flippin’ kids.’

  Maggie must be wondering why she was making such a hoo-haa. In comparison to three boisterous youngsters, how onerous was it to keep an eye on one near-adult who was capable of taking himself to the lavatory, reading his own bedtime story and cutting up his own food? And, with the whole of August off, she had plenty of opportunity to visit Diane.

  ‘Well, if he’s stuck for something to do, he can babysit for us one evening. We’ll pay the going rate. Oh, shall I give you your keys back? You’ll need a set for him, I expect.’

  Jordan Fry, coming and going, treating the house like home? Not a happy thought. Fetid trainers and discarded pizza boxes, rap music, missed curfews and crumpled girlie magazines tugged her memory. She adored her sons but those teenage years hadn’t been easy.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Elizabeth said, ‘you hang on to them. I’ve got another set somewhere.’

  A crash followed by a howl spilled out of the Kaufmans’ open bathroom window.

  ‘Mum. Ouch.’

  ‘Muuum. Stop him.’

  Maggie raised her eyebrows and sighed. ‘What hope for the human race? I’d better go and sort that out. Catch you later.’

  Jordan had disappeared again but Elizabeth could hear footsteps overhead and guessed he was snooping around Alex’s room.

  She was filling the kettle with a view to making herself a cup of camomile tea when the phone rang. She snatched it up. ‘Alex?’

  ‘No, it’s me. Di. Any developments? Has Alex been in touch?’

  ‘No. He’s being very crafty and keeping his phone off.’

  ‘How frustrating. But never mind all that. I’ve got the solution. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it straight away.’

  ‘I did but murder’s a hanging offence.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re going to get in the car tomorrow and … bring him down here.’ Diane’s tone was triumphant.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘I’m not. We’ve got plenty of space. He can stay in his room all day if he likes. Watch telly. Read smutty magazines, or whatever boys of that age do. There’s bound to be something on in town, or at the pictures. We’ll hardly know he’s here. And, if he’s after female company, our neighbour has two daughters.’

  ‘Now you’re going too far. He’s the most antisocial boy I’ve ever met. No girl would put up with him. He can’t – or can’t be bothered to – string two words together. He’s wears a disgusting woolly hat and he smells of … boy. He’s certainly no—’ she fished around for a current teen idol.

  ‘David Cassidy?’ Diane suggested.

  ‘David Cassidy! I haven’t thought of him for years.’

  ‘What? Forgotten the man we were ready to offer our bodies to? Remember we wrote to him? “Dear David, if you’re ever in the Salisbury area—”’

  ‘“Drop by and ravish us some time.” Or words to that effect.’

  ‘We actually imagined he’d fancy us. God, I’m cringing with embarrassment.’

  ‘D’you think he’s still alive? I wonder what he looks like.’

  ‘I bet he wears a woolly hat and can’t string two words together,’ D
iane said.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Look. About tomorrow. Don’t decide now. Have a think. See what Jordan says. He might fancy a trip to Wales. Ring me in the morning.’

  ‘Stuff the Goldfish aren’t Welsh by any chance, are they?’ Elizabeth asked.

  During the evening, Elizabeth tried several more times to contact Alex, the prospect of being stuck with Jordan becoming more real with each failed attempt. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her son saying to Toby Broadbent, ‘Drop Jordan off with my Mum. It’ll be fine. She’s at a loose end all week.’ Alex knew she wouldn’t turn the boy away, especially as she’d (rather stupidly) left a message confirming that he was safe with her. He also knew that, if he remained incommunicado, there was nothing she could do.

  Jordan wasn’t a monster (Charlie’s parents had been prepared to take him on so he couldn’t be wholly insufferable), but he certainly was an inconvenience. She wondered how Laurence would react to this uninvited guest. Her husband left at seven every morning and didn’t get back until late which meant that he would only be in Jordan’s company for a couple of hours (and those would, in all probability, be spent in front of the television). On the other hand, the boy would be under her feet all day, requiring feeding and entertaining. But her husband’s imaginary opinion was irrelevant because, although Laurence was a generous, unflappable man, Alex wouldn’t have pulled the same trick had his father been at home.

  Her thoughts shifted to Diane’s crazy suggestion. Crazy, but increasingly seductive. Were she to take Jordan to Wales, the week might turn out to be, if not fun-filled, then at least considerably less stressful. Three adults to one adolescent would be a great improvement on the present ratio.

  Also by ‘kidnapping’ Jordan she might cause Alex and Vashti a little concern, a little disquiet – payback for the dirty trick they’d pulled on her. It was an immature but satisfying notion.

  The door to Alex’s room was shut. ‘Jordan?’ she called, knocking gently. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Okay.’

  He was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, surrounded once again by the contents of his rucksack. It occurred to her that he might be feeling if not homesick then certainly disorientated, and that having his possessions tumbled around him provided the solace a two year old gets from hugging a threadbare teddy.

  ‘I’m off to bed soon,’ she said. ‘Anything you need?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I haven’t managed to get through to Alex yet. I expect they’re in the middle of their set, or whatever they call it. I left a message, though, so they know you’re here.’

  He nodded.

  Was this the moment to divulge her plan? No. Who in their right mind gave a kidnap victim advanced warning of the plot? Tell him now and he would have the whole night to make his escape.

  ‘I’ll find you a towel. Have a shower if you feel like it.’

  He nodded again.

  ‘So, see you in the morning. Sleep well.’

  Distracted by the possibility of taking Jordan to Cardiff, she found it hard to concentrate on ordinary matters. Securing the house for the night, a familiar routine which had caused her no trouble yesterday, suddenly seemed extraordinarily involved. Having locked the back door she became convinced that it had already been locked and that she had unlocked it. (She hadn’t.) She finally got upstairs only to remember that after she’d watered the plants she’d gone into the shed for secateurs to dead-head the roses. Had she put them away again? If so, had she locked the shed? (She had, of course, but checking this involved a lot more fiddling with the back door.)

  She ran a bath, noting that the towel she’d put out for Jordan lay undisturbed on the bathroom stool. (Personal hygiene – his – threatened to be another battle to be fought in the days ahead.) Generally, she looked forward to her bedtime bath but tonight she was fidgety, unable to relax, and no sooner was she immersed in the scented water than she was itching to get out again. She dried herself and, mindful that she was no longer alone in the house, she chose a demure nightdress and pulled a cotton housecoat close around herself, securing it with a firmly tweaked bow.

  Switching off the landing light, she stood listening to the night noises. The cistern hissed and then fell silent. The pendulum clock ticked methodically in the hall below. A car door clunked shut in the street outside. There was no sound from Alex’s bedroom but a sliver of light shone from beneath the closed door. Jordan must be reading. Or perhaps he was afraid of the dark.

  Her bed was still covered with things waiting to be stowed in bags. Transferring everything carefully to the floor, she took off her housecoat and climbed into bed. It was getting on for eleven o’clock but she’d abandoned plans for an early start.

  Why was she even entertaining Di’s suggestion? It was a non-starter. She should stop behaving like a child – It’s not fair. I want to go. – and postpone her visit. There were dozens of things needing doing at home – sorting through the stuff in the loft, taking the winter duvets to the dry cleaners, painting the bathroom, transferring addresses to her new address book. But none of these were at all appealing, nor would they interest a teenager. Jordan Fry was too big to plonk in a playpen so, whilst she was crouching in the loft, filling bin bags with her sons’ discarded junk, he would be gallivanting all over London, in that stupid hat. And when – if – he turned up again she’d have to feed him and persuade him to wash.

  She checked her mobile. Nothing from Alex. Nothing from Laurence. Nothing from anyone.

  She switched off the light. Darkness seemed to add weight to the stifling air and she flipped the duvet across to Laurence’s side of the bed, hoping for a breeze from the open windows.

  Bloody Alex.

  Ben had been such an easy child. Eager to please, bright and uncomplicated, he’d done everything that was asked of him. He’d been a biddable toddler, a relatively straightforward teenager and was now a well-balanced, independent young man.

  Alex had been none of these. As bright – perhaps brighter – than his older brother, he’d focussed his efforts on non-compliance and non-conformity, incessantly getting into mischief, constantly needing rescuing from one scrape or another. If there were boundaries to push, he’d pushed them, counting on his charm – and he was undeniably charming – or, when that failed, his mother to rescue him when things went awry. It was as if he had inherited her quota of unorthodoxy and this, somehow, made her feel partly responsible for his conduct.

  Ben loved her, and she him, but he’d never needed her in the way that Alex did. And need forged a complex bond which was why, somewhere between supper and bedtime, she’d accepted the role of Jordan-sitter.

  4

  SUNDAY: 2.30AM

  Elizabeth was nudged out of sleep by the sound of a helicopter. At first no more than a murmur, it rose steadily to a throaty thwock-thwock-thwock, its blades slicing the night.

  She checked the time, then went to the window and leaned out, her eardrums flexing with the pressure of the sound waves. At first she was unable to see the helicopter, then it appeared from behind her, over the roof of the house, swinging in a lazy circle, a beam of white light projecting towards the ground, almost tangible where it cut through the darkness. She pressed her fingertips against her ears, muffling the painful noise but failing to stop the air from vibrating in her lungs.

  When they’d bought the house, security hadn’t figured on their list of considerations. They’d concentrated on open spaces, good state schools and proximity to the Tube. Over the years, reports of crime in the area had steadily increased, inducing a tinnitus of fear which had become persistent, its strength amplified by police sirens and yellow crime-scene notices. Most disturbing were the helicopters that patrolled overhead at night, directing searchlights into parks and along rows of back gardens. Their presence conjured up pictures of psychopaths in balaclavas scurrying from shadow to shadow as the hovering predator drove them towards the back door of a house. Their house.

 
; Wide awake, she went to the bathroom to get a drink of water and to mop her face with a cooling flannel. The chink of light was still showing beneath Jordan’s door and she hesitated, wondering whether to knock and reassure him that everything was okay. She decided against it (everyone in London was used to police helicopters) and returned to bed, oddly comforted that there was someone else in the house, albeit a fifteen year old who would be no match for gun-toting, drug-crazed rapists.

  It was gone eight when she woke, her neck stiff from sleeping awkwardly. Before doing anything else she tried Alex’s mobile. As usual it went straight to voicemail. She checked her mobile. Nothing from Alex, of course, but there was a text from Laurence, sent early that morning, wishing her a pleasant trip to Wales and telling her what a formidable time he was having and how well his boeuf en daube aux pruneaux had turned out.

  Bully for him.

  She clattered around the bathroom, dropping her deodorant into the empty bath, turning Sunday Worship up to maximum volume and flushing the lavatory several times. Then, as she passed Jordan’s door, she knocked and called, ‘Breakfast in ten minutes’.

  It was only when she went to get milk for her cereal that she remembered clearing the fridge. Damn. She coaxed a couple of slices from a frozen loaf and slotted them in the toaster, made herself a black coffee and dialled Diane’s number.

  Carl picked up the phone. ‘Diane said it would be you. I’m to tell you that we’re having a late lunch and that if you don’t come and bring this … this …’

  ‘Jordan,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘Isn’t that a river?’ Carl sounded puzzled.

  ‘You can’t take anything for granted these days, Carl.’

  ‘Too right. Anyway, if you don’t come Di says she’ll—’

  ‘Scrape your lunch into a Jiffy Bag and FedEx it to London.’ Diane’s distant but unmistakable voice fleshed out the threat.

  ‘Seriously, Elizabeth, we’re both looking forward to seeing you. And I’m sure we can find something to keep this Jordan amused.’