Not Funny Not Clever

by Jo Verity

  Elizabeth pictured the shadowy figure in the blue car, braking to avoid her as the car swung around the corner. ‘Don’t worry about us. You carry on. We can amuse ourselves.’

  ‘Perhaps we should leave the back door unlocked in case Jordan changes his mind in the night and wants to come in,’ Diane said.

  They went to the window. The garden was in darkness apart from a faint glow coming from one end of the tent but beyond, over the hedge, every window in Dafydd Jones’s house was ablaze with light.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t spot that. He’ll be round there ordering them to switch the lights off,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘I think it’s sweet, the way he put me in my place yesterday,’ Diane said. ‘And it’s good that he feels strongly about environmental issues. His generation will be the one having to face the consequences of our actions.’

  ‘I suppose so. But he should learn to be a little more tactful with his pronouncements.’

  ‘He’s fifteen years old,’ Diane reminded her gently. ‘How would we have coped with spending a week with strangers in a strange house and a strange town?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have happened. My parents wouldn’t have buggered off to Scotland and dumped me on a stranger.’ She frowned. ‘Anyway, I’m not a stranger am I? Although heaven knows what I am.’

  11

  TUESDAY: 1.40AM

  Elizabeth woke with a start. When she’d put the light out, the night had been still but now the curtains were billowing at the open windows. Despite the breeze the air was sticky, the skin between her breasts and at the back of her neck was moist with perspiration. The street lamp cast enough light to pick out the details within the room – bookshelves, paintings, the mannequin in the corner, even her travelling clock on the bedside table. She checked the time – twenty to two. Pushing her hair back from her face, she plumped her pillow, flipping it over in the hope that the cool cotton might provide relief. As she was doing this, blue-white light illuminated the room for a fraction of a second. She waited. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Thunder cracked overhead.

  She went to the window, bunching the curtains and pulling them aside. It was starting to rain, intermittent drops visible in the halo of the street light. Swirling wind buffeted the shrubs in the surrounding gardens, tossing foliage in and out of the shadows. Leaning out, she inhaled the cooling air, relishing the scent of rainfall after a dry spell. She closed the windows and returned to bed. Another flash. One. Two. Three. Four. Closer this time. What was it that her father used to say? One mile for each second between flash and crack. Could that be true? It sounded far too convenient.

  Diane’s voice came from along the landing. ‘Lizzie? Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes. Come in. Put the light on.’

  Squinting against the light, her eyelids puffed with sleep, Diane peered around the door. ‘It’s raining quite heavily. Should we make sure that Jordan’s okay? I’ve checked his room and he hasn’t come in.’

  Elizabeth pushed herself up in the bed and leaned against the headboard. ‘The tent’s waterproof isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so. But he might be scared of thunder. Or the tent could get struck by lightning.’

  ‘Don’t get my hopes up.’ She yawned and sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  Pulling on her robe, she followed Diane downstairs and out through the back door. The grass was sodden and it felt like seaweed – clingy and disturbing – beneath her bare feet. She imagined vicious night creatures scurrying in the shadows and wished she’d taken the time to put on her sandals. A light still glowed inside the tent which was beginning to sag as fat raindrops splat, splatted on the nylon.

  ‘Jordan? It’s pouring. Maybe you should come inside.’

  Elizabeth fumbled for the zip and dragged it up and around to open the tent. The two women crawled in, repeating their exhortations.

  ‘Jordan? You should come in.’

  Elizabeth unzipped the inner compartment. The sleeping bag was set out straight and neat, rucksack at its foot. Alongside, on the inverted box that Carl had found to serve as a table, stood the camping light and a supply of food. But there was no sign of Jordan.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ Elizabeth felt both anxious and infuriated. ‘I knew letting him sleep out here was a mistake.’

  ‘Calm down. Let’s not panic. It’s not as if he’s a child.’

  Easy for Diane to say. She wasn’t responsible for the bloody, bloody boy.

  Diane sat back on her heels and surveyed the scene. ‘Nothing’s been disturbed. Wherever he is, he went of his own accord. Has he taken anything with him?’

  How was she supposed to know? Did Diane imagine she’d made an inventory of Jordan Fry’s possessions? She looked around, visualising the orderly bedroom that had surprised her earlier. Trainers. His trainers weren’t there. Neither was his iPod nor his hat, both of which he would surely have kept to hand.

  ‘I think you’re right. He’s gone wandering off somewhere. So what do we do now?’

  ‘Let’s go inside and have a team talk.’

  The near-tropical rain soaked them through as they scuttled back to the kitchen. There was no question of going back to bed so, while Carl, who had also been woken by the storm, made tea and toast, Elizabeth went upstairs to get dressed, doing her best not to picture a bedraggled boy sheltering beneath a tree as lightning licked its upper branches.

  ‘Your top’s inside out.’ Diane tugged the label at the back of her neck when she rejoined them in the kitchen. ‘We used to say it was lucky. Remember?’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘He’ll need more than luck when I get hold of him.’

  Carl proffered a digestive biscuit. ‘If there had been no thunderstorm, I suspect we would know nothing of Jordan’s midnight adventure. I bet we will find him safely back in the tent by breakfast time.’

  ‘That’s all well and good but there is a thunderstorm. We do know he’s not in the tent.’ A clap of thunder emphasised her concern. ‘Where’s he gone? He can’t be strolling around Cardiff in this weather.’

  Diane snapped her fingers.

  ‘Phone him. He probably won’t answer, but he’ll realise we’re on to him and he’ll surely come back.’

  Elizabeth sucked air through her clenched teeth. ‘Great idea, but I don’t have his number.’

  Agreeing that it was permissible under the circumstances, Carl collected Jordan’s rucksack from the tent.

  Elizabeth felt uncomfortable rummaging through his things but perhaps he had scrawled his mobile number in one of his books – If this book should dare to roam, box its ears and send it home to: Elizabeth Fielding, ‘Tresco’, Sotherby Avenue, Salisbury, Hampshire, England, the World, the Universe – or written it on the cases of his precious games. But she found nothing.

  ‘Maybe I should drive around. See if I can spot him,’ she said.

  Her friends’ faces confirmed that this was a pathetic suggestion.

  Carl tapped her hand reassuringly. ‘Here’s what I think. We do nothing until breakfast time. If he’s not back by seven o’clock, then we will think again.’

  Diane clicked her fingers. ‘Taking photos for his project. That’s what he’ll be doing. It was a dark and stormy night in old Cardiff.’

  Carl stood up. ‘I’m going back to bed. It is vital that I get my beauty sleep.’

  Diane turned to Elizabeth. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I shan’t be able to sleep. I’ll read or have a shot at the crossword. You go on up with Carl. I’ll give you a shout if…’ she shrugged.

  The storm moved away and the rain stopped as quickly as it had started. Unable to concentrate on anything, she went into the garden. Carl had switched off the lamp in the tent but, although it was two-thirty, lights still blazed in the Rain Man’s house. Tiptoeing across the grass, she stood on the decking in the narrow gap between the shed and the hedge. The privet grew sparsely here and, pushing aside the dripping branches, she looked at the house.

  At first, she
couldn’t make out much but voices, clear and distinct, carried from the open windows and across the shadowy garden to her hiding place. Girls’ laughter. A slow bass beat. A man asking, ‘Are you lot thinking of going to bed tonight?’ More laughter was followed by affectionate grumbling. ‘Daaad. We’re having a thunder party.’ ‘Don’t be a spoilsport.’ ‘Okay, okay. But don’t forget our bike ride. We’ll be leaving at nine sharp.’ ‘Do we have to?’ The complaining was good-humoured and loving. This father and his daughters were clearly the best of friends and everything was negotiable. Listening to them, she was submerged by a wave of melancholy.

  After Ben and Alex had left home and there was no longer anyone around to make a mess of the house or confound any plans she and Laurence had made, her life had become steadily and entirely predictable. She ran the school office and the Giles household with calm efficiency. Bills were paid by standing order and library books returned before they were overdue. Appointments were logged on the year planner in the kitchen, and again in her diary. There was always milk in the fridge and freshly laundered clothes in the designated place. Birthdays were never missed but, to be on the safe side, there were cards and stamps in the desk drawer. There was no reason for it to be otherwise. But could it be that her approach was a tad too clinical? Might a few flies in the ointment … no, no, no. What on earth was she thinking? Jordan Fry’s arrival – and current disappearance – should be enough to remind her how exhausting and exasperating free-form living could be.

  She could make out two figures, no three, gyrating in the dimly lit downstairs room. Two girls and a boy. The boy was wearing a woolly hat.

  Yanking the branches of the privet apart, she pushed through the hedge and stormed towards the window. ‘Jordan.’

  Although the window was wide open, her voice was drowned by the music and she stepped closer before shouting, ‘Hey.’

  Three faces turned towards her. One of the girls let out a scream, the other clamped a hand to her heart. Jordan scowled and muttered something to his companions.

  ‘What d’you want?’ His voice was barely audible above the music.

  To give you a good slap.

  ‘Come here.’ She beckoned him to the window. ‘What on earth d’you think you’re playing at? We were worried sick. We thought—’

  ‘What?’ he smirked. ‘I’d been abducted by aliens?’

  Recovered from the shock of seeing a stranger at the window, the girls, flushed and panting, turned down the music and came to join Jordan.

  They were probably seventeen or eighteen years old – each striking in her own way – and it was hard to tell which was the elder. Despite the ungodly hour, they looked fresh and full of vigour. The taller, more slender girl, had reddish hair caught up in a topknot while the other wore her shiny, brown hair loose around her shoulders. They were both wearing the skimpiest of T-shirts which came nowhere near meeting the tops of their scanty shorts.

  ‘Hiya,’ they chorused.

  ‘Hello. I’m sorry if I startled you but I was looking for—’

  ‘Me. Jay.’ Jordan glared at Elizabeth, defying her to correct him. ‘She’s looking for me.’

  ‘Yes. I was worried that … Jay … might be getting drenched in the storm.’

  ‘No. He’s fine. Dry as a bone.’ The taller girl grinned. ‘I’m Angel, by the way, and this is my baby sister, Mimi.’

  Had the parents been out of their minds?

  She considered offering her hand but it seemed too formal. ‘Hello again. I’m Elizabeth.’

  Standing at the sash window, she felt like a customer queuing at the counter in the NatWest Bank, three tellers ready to serve her. ‘It’s very late Jor … Jay.’

  This might be awkward. If she ordered him back to the house and he refused, what could she do?

  Suddenly and simultaneously the youngsters turned away from her as the door of the room opened and a man, clad only in boxer shorts, entered. Overcoming the urge to make for the gap in the hedge, she stood her ground as, smiling, he came towards her.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you lost? Or are you a prowler?’

  There had to be a pithy rejoinder to his question, but it eluded her. ‘I was looking for … Jay. He wasn’t in the tent.’

  The Rain Man – it had to be the Rain Man – was clearly unabashed by his semi-nakedness. He nodded. ‘That’s true. He’s at my daughters’ thunder party – which does appear to be sadly lacking in guests.’ His voice rippled with Welsh cadences. ‘We couldn’t twist your arm to make up the numbers?’

  ‘Well …’

  Jordan’s don’t-even-consider-it glare egged her on. ‘I’ve never actually been to a thunder party. Sounds fun.’

  ‘Aaah, well you don’t get ’em in London. Wrong sort of thunder.’

  A long-forgotten something tugged at her chest and caused her breathing to quicken. ‘On second thoughts, maybe I should leave the youngsters to their party.’

  ‘What about the oldsters? Look. How’s this for an idea? Why don’t you come inside and see what you think of it from in here.’

  Chhhyuurr – it sounded like the tide spilling across a pebbled shore.

  ‘You can come through the window, or, if you prefer, the back door.’ He smiled, indicating the path along to her right.

  He was flirting with her. What a nerve.

  He was good-looking in a craggy, openair way. His wiry hair, standing up in a crew-cut, was quite grey, but there was nothing old about his eyes or broad, smiling mouth. He had to be in his mid-forties but his body – and she could see a fair proportion of it – showed no sign of flab. His skin might smell of leather, his hair of wood smoke. It was easy to picture him on the summit of a Himalayan peak or wrestling with lashing sails in the Southern Ocean. She didn’t make a habit of eyeing up men but she understood how this Rain Man would persuade the Principality’s women-folk to take an interest in the weather.

  ‘It’s very kind of you but I don’t think so. I should get some sleep. It’s been rather a disrupted night.’

  ‘Of course. Very sensible,’ he nodded solemnly, making her feel like a Sunday school teacher.

  She remembered, then, that she hadn’t explained who she was or why she was loitering in his garden. ‘Sorry. I’m Elizabeth Giles. I’m staying with—’

  ‘You’re staying with Carl and Diane. I know. Jay told us all about you. And you’re all coming over for drinks tomorrow evening … this evening, actually.’ He held out his hand. ‘Dafydd Jones.’

  The youngsters had run out of steam. The girls had flopped onto the sofa in feigned sleep, one at either end, whilst Jordan, who had retreated to the opposite side of the room, squatted on the floor, arms around drawn-up legs, forehead resting on his knees.

  ‘He can stay here, if that’s easier,’ he said quietly, nodding towards Jordan. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

  She had been dreading the fuss that he would make if she ordered him back home, yet this reasonable proposal annoyed her.

  ‘I’d rather he came with me.’ It sounded petulant.

  He raised his hands. ‘You’re the boss.’

  Turning, he called to the hunched figure, ‘Chucking out time, Jay.’ Then he clapped his hands, ‘You two. Upstairs. Chop, chop.’

  Protesting, the girls slouched towards the door, telling Jordan, who had clambered out of the window, ‘Later…’

  Dafydd wished Elizabeth sound sleep and, in silence, she and Jordan headed towards the gap in the hedge.

  12

  TUESDAY: 3.05AM

  Jordan plonked his rucksack on the bed. ‘You’ve opened this.’

  How could he tell? She was sure she’d put everything back as it was. ‘Yes. I’m sorry but we were looking for your number.’

  He scowled. ‘That’s totally out of order.’

  ‘And disappearing isn’t? In fact you’d better give it to me now, while I think of it.’

  He took his phone from his pocket and began reeling off a string of numbers.

  �
��Give it here.’ She whipped the phone out of his hand, leaving him to stand sullenly by as she punched in her own number and sent herself a text. ‘I’ll reply then you’ll have mine.’

  He looked bewildered. ‘Why would I want yours?’

  ‘In case I go missing and you’re worried about me. I am your main source of income, after all.’

  She was surprised, and a little flattered, when a smile flickered across his lips.

  Carl had been right. Were it not for the storm, they wouldn’t have known that Jordan had left the garden. He was no fool. Come breakfast time, he would have been curled up in his sleeping bag. But he hadn’t been smart enough to twig that she would check he was okay or he would have scurried back to the tent after the first clap of thunder.

  ‘It’s three o’clock in the morning. I’m not discussing it now. Let’s get some sleep. Poor Carl has to be at a rehearsal by ten.’

  The storm had freshened the air. When she climbed into bed, she pulled the light-weight duvet up around her chin, adopted her customary sleeping position and closed her eyes.

  Sleep evaded her as the night’s events swirled lazily through her head.

  What had Dafydd Jones said? Jordan told us all about you. Odd. Carl had gone round there earlier with the puncture repair kit. He’d returned with an invitation for all of them to go for drinks. It would have made more sense if he’d said ‘Carl told us all about you’. What exactly had Jordan told them? That she was a mean-spirited, nagging control freak who had dragged him to Cardiff against his will? Were that the case, she’d certainly reinforced his portrayal by, firstly, refusing to join the party and then insisting that Jordan return with her. Dafydd Jones might even have been left with the impression that she didn’t trust him with the boy. Quite the contrary. Jordan – or Jay as he insisted on being called – was the untrustworthy one. She’d have to keep her wits about her.

  She turned over, pulling the duvet up until it covered her head, wishing she hadn’t allowed herself to get so steamed up. As Carl had said, there was a simple explanation for Jordan’s absence. He’d been perfectly safe – safer, in fact, than if he’d been lying in a tent whilst the storm raged. He’d been next door, in a rather swish house, dancing with a couple of girls. A responsible adult was on the spot to keep an eye on them. (That’s if a flirtatious man, wearing boxer shorts and hosting a ‘thunder party’ could be termed ‘responsible’.)