‘You’d seen him on one of your day trips,’ I guessed.
‘No, earlier, in London. Just around, here and there. I didn’t know him.’
‘But you rang him.’
She nodded. ‘Only to thank him for helping, not expecting to see him again. So when he invited me to dinner at a little restaurant he knew above the harbour, I thought twice about it. But then I said yes.’
‘Did you think about Dad?’
‘Of course. I always do.’ Mum flushed. ‘But let’s get this straight. There’s nothing for me to be ashamed of and no reason for you to worry. It’s just that sometimes when we’re sad, Ben, like we’ve been sad about your father, we need company – someone to listen. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘OK, Mum.’
‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I had a feeling he was sad about something too, but he never spoke about it and I never spoke about Dad. We had a great evening, and by the end I felt, well . . . better. Loads better. Ellie saw it in me as soon as I came in. Of course, I had to tell her everything.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She said, “Hon, you deserve some happiness. You’ve had enough hard times.”’
‘So you saw him again after that, I bet.’
She managed a smile. ‘Every day.’
She brought holiday snaps to show me, shots of the geysers in the volcanic desert, a picture postcard view from her veranda, Ellie looking sleepy and overfed at a harbour-side restaurant table. At the bottom of the pile were three night-time photos of a smart young couple standing together on a harbour, the sunset behind them, looking as happy as any couple could. The man had a rugged handsome face, slicked-back dark hair and a confident smile. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and his arm was draped round the woman’s shoulders. The woman, in profile, looked up at him with doting eyes and her hair glowed in the evening sun. The pose was similar in all three snapshots, but in the last the woman looked straight at the camera.
I almost didn’t recognise her. In this man’s arms, in these photos, Mum was transformed, almost a stranger.
‘His name’s Tom Sutherland,’ she said. ‘I know this is difficult for you, Ben. I understand how you feel. But no one can ever take your dad’s place, you know that.’
‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘No one ever will.’
She went quiet then and put the prints away.
‘Anyway, you might feel more forgiving when you see him for yourself,’ Mum said. ‘I’ve invited him to dinner tomorrow night. He’s so looking forward to meeting you.’
Monday. Not the best of school mornings. Miss Neal ill-tempered again, the class unusually quiet, and at the back of the room Simon Decker muttering to himself, seemingly invisible to all except the two of us.
Kelly from the gang of five, who’d claimed a seat at his desk, glared at me as if she were his bodyguard when I looked their way, and when I turned to face the front Miss Neal glared at me too.
‘Pay attention, Harvester,’ Miss Neal said. ‘You know what’ll happen if you don’t. Have you ever noticed how nicely attention rhymes with detention?’
‘Sorry, Miss.’
‘You will be. And the same goes for you too, Miss Sanborne.’
I could’ve pointed out that Becky hadn’t raised an eyebrow or made a sound all through the lesson, but speaking up would only make things worse for both of us.
‘It can’t go on like this,’ Becky said later, over coffee and bacon rolls at the crypt. ‘I’d rather bunk off school. I’d rather be in that shoebox flat of my aunt’s than here.’
A trio of sirens screamed above us on the street. The police had stepped up their presence all over town since the bombing. They were everywhere now, at rail and underground stations, on every other street corner. There were even two plain-clothed officers on Middleton Road this morning when I left for school, or perhaps they were the same undercover agents in disguise.
‘Any news from your mum?’ Becky said after the sirens faded. ‘When’s she due back from her hols?’
‘She got back last night. She’s looking really well.’
‘Oh good. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately. She went through so much that night at headquarters, I thought she’d never get over it.’
‘She doesn’t remember a lot,’ I said. ‘It’s funny, because when I first told her about the Ministry she wasn’t happy, she didn’t want me involved, but in those last few days before her holiday she hardly mentioned it, and now she doesn’t remember seeing Dad that last time. She knows he’s gone, she wouldn’t have paid for that park bench if she didn’t, but she doesn’t know how she knows. I can’t explain it.’
Becky looked up, struck by a thought. ‘Wait, I’m not sure . . . but maybe I can explain. Something happened that night, during the siege. . .’
‘A lot happened that night,’ I said.
‘I mean while I was looking after your mum, after you’d filed your dad’s card. A woman came in the waiting room, very striking, dazzling green eyes. She wore a coat with a houndstooth pattern. She smiled and took your mum’s hand and looked into her eyes a moment but she didn’t speak. Your mum said, “Thank you,” and relaxed, very peaceful, like a weight had left her, and after that the woman went out. Dead strange, really. So I don’t know, but I wonder if that woman did something to help your mum forget.’
‘That is strange,’ I said. ‘Any idea who she was?’
‘She gave her name but for the life of me I can’t remember it. She’s obviously part of the set-up there – I’ve passed her on the floor a few times – but I don’t know what she does. Anyway, it’s good to know your mum’s doing so well.’
‘Yeah, and she came home with big news too.’
‘Oh? What news?’
Becky listened, fascinated, while I explained. The chatter of coffee morning pensioners reverberated off the walls like ghostly voices.
‘Well, personally I don’t think it’s so bad,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘What are you worried about?’
‘Dunno. I just am.’
‘But you do remember what your dad said, the last thing he ever said to your mum.’
‘He said it was time to let go and move on.’
‘Maybe that’s all she’s trying to do. Even if she’s forgotten everything else, it could be she remembered that one thing. It’s what he wanted.’
‘It’s just so soon.’
‘And if she met someone a year from now you’d still say the same.’
Who knew how I’d feel a year from now? But I said, ‘Yeah, probably.’
‘Then aren’t you the one who needs to let go?’ Becky said. ‘It won’t be easy. It won’t be easy for your mum, either. But now she needs a friend to help her move on. Trust me, I know. Mr October says I’m a sensitive, highly compassionate, and he’s never wrong.’
‘But the bloke’s coming to dinner,’ I said, almost shouted, drawing stares from nearby tables. ‘She expects me to be there. I’ll miss my shift.’
‘We’ll survive without you for one night.’
‘Suppose I don’t like him? Suppose he doesn’t like me?’
‘Give it a chance,’ Becky said. ‘It may not be as bad as you expect. And don’t be so selfish, you.’
‘Selfish? Me?’
‘Think of your mum. You want her to be happy and well, don’t you? Why should her being happy make you so miserable?’
I stirred my coffee, watching the money bubbles.
‘Let’s talk about something else,’ I said.
Five minutes later, we were back in school, caught in the crush on the corridor. As we passed the cold spot, someone in the crowd stuck out a leg, sending Becky flying.
Her hands and knees smacked the floor and her face creased in pain. Raymond Blight, the most likely suspect, stood smirking by the lockers as Becky picked herself up and dusted off her hands. The fall had re-opened the wounds to her knees, and red roses bloomed through both bandages.
I stepped towards Raymond. ‘Yo
u did that on purpose.’
‘Did what, fish?’ He puffed out his cheeks, making a fish face, and waggled his hands at his jaw like fins. This was more or less Raymond’s level.
‘Don’t get involved,’ Becky said, retrieving her bag from the floor. ‘He’s not worth it.’
‘He really isn’t,’ I said, but the red mist was gathering. I’d had enough of all the bad air coming our way, enough of Raymond Blight. I took another pace forward. The school bell sounded, running through me like a toothache, and the anger Mum had seen in me was here again, focusing on Raymond Blight.
‘You’ll not push her around anymore,’ I told him. ‘Her or anyone else.’
‘You don’t scare me.’
‘What did she ever do to you?’
‘She doesn’t have to do anything,’ Raymond said.
I would have gone for him, given him something to be truly scared of, if the others hadn’t stepped in then, two from each side blocking my way.
Among their number were Ryan and Matthew, Becky’s old mates, and two others not even in our class. None of them moved or said anything, but all seemed to be of the same mind.
You shall not pass.
They stood there shoulder to shoulder, forming a wall, staring me down with vacant eyes. Huddled safely behind them against the lockers, Raymond Blight leered, and next to Raymond, Simon Decker stared off down the corridor, almost imperceptibly moving his lips.
12
THE MAN WHO CAME TO DINNER
um had spent the whole day cleaning. I came home to a hum of air freshener, a gleaming kitchen and a spotless bathroom. She’d even been in my room, which now didn’t resemble my room at all. Surfaces were uncluttered and shelves neatly stacked, everything in its place. I wasn’t used to this kind of order. I’d never find anything now.
‘Since you’re home early you can help move the living room furniture,’ Mum said, more energised than weary from work. ‘There’s only so much I can do one-handed.’
‘He’s coming to eat, not inspect the place. Why move the furniture?’
‘Tonight we’ll dine properly. Not off our knees in front of the telly and not in the kitchen. We’ll move everything back and pull out the nice table we never use. Do we have enough chairs?’ she asked herself. ‘Ah yes, there’s a spare in my room. Be a love and fetch it.’
‘Shouldn’t it be just the two of you?’ I said, carting the chair downstairs. ‘Just you and him?’
‘Don’t be silly. This is your evening too. Did I say how much he was looking forward to meeting you?’
‘Several times.’
‘It won’t kill you to have a night in, will it?’
‘Suppose not.’
‘Now set that down and help me with this,’ she said as we entered the living room.
‘No, I’ll do it. You have a rest.’
She perched on the spare dining chair while I pushed the heavy sofa tight against the window and the two armchairs to each side of the room. Earlier, unable to move them by herself, Mum had cleaned around them, and dusty grey outlines remained where they’d stood.
‘I’ll see to that,’ she said, on her feet again. ‘Then we’ll set up the table.’
I stood back while she vacuumed up the dust bunnies. The maisonette hadn’t been this clean since we moved in. Everything sparkled as if a veil had been lifted. With the table in position she brought polish and place mats, the best silver cutlery and candles.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Now I’ll check the roast, then get myself showered and smartened up. He’s due in an hour.’
Taking a last look around the room, I sensed a difference, not in the re-arrangement of furniture and shiny surfaces but something else – something missing, or new, or out of place. It was probably only a detail, nothing important. The previously wonky art prints on the wall were now straightened and the keepsakes and ornaments stood where they always had.
But then I had a slow sinking feeling. On a shelf above the TV was a framed photograph, a holiday snap of Mum and Tom Sutherland on the harbour at sunset. What I was missing was the photo of Dad it had replaced – Dad wearing a Superman T-shirt and blowing a kiss to the camera in the garden in Swanley, looking happy and content before his troubles began. His photo was nowhere in sight. She’d swept it away.
‘Something wrong?’ Mum said.
‘No, nothing. You did a good job, that’s all.’
‘Ah, thanks, hon.’
It was only a small thing, but to me the missing photo was significant. If she’d hidden it because seeing it made her sad, I would gladly keep it in my room. I’d ask her about it sooner or later but I wouldn’t say anything tonight in front of our guest.
But I was restless now, my nerves on springs. Upstairs in my room, I thumbed a couple of DC comics without reading them, then put them aside and crossed to the window to check the street.
The wall across the way stood in darkness, its graffiti messages invisible. I was glad about that, but not so glad to see the two figures standing in front of the wall, their long shadows stretching across the road towards our block.
They were probably the same two from yesterday, still on duty, still keeping watch. From this distance they appeared to grow from the darkness itself, creeping out in human shape. When they both looked straight up at my window I swung aside and fell back against the wall, holding my breath.
When I dared to look again a car’s headlights were turning in from Lansdowne Drive. The two watchers had moved on, but they could be in hiding anywhere now. The bedroom door flew open behind me and I nearly screamed.
‘So what do you think? Will I pass?’ Mum said, fussing her hair, wiggling her hips in a smart black dress. She sucked in her tummy and looked at me as if everything depended on my opinion, but I was still preoccupied with the watchers outside.
‘You look amazing,’ I said. ‘I hardly recognise you.’
‘Well, thanks a lot.’
‘That came out all wrong. What I meant—’
‘Never mind. Are you ready? Is that what you’re wearing?’ A host of anxious questions hung about her lips.
‘You think I should wear something else?’ I said. I hadn’t thought of changing.
‘No, you’ll do. He’ll probably find the school uniform charming. Oh good grief. . .’ she gasped as the intercom buzzed. ‘On your best behaviour now. No backchat.’
‘It’s my evening too,’ I reminded her.
Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Smart mouth.’
She hurried to answer the door.
My initial thought, seeing him for the first time, was that he looked nothing like Dad. Tom was as handsome as his photograph and wore a smart, charcoal suit jacket and pale chinos. He was handing Mum a bouquet of flowers when he heard me on the stairs and looked up.
‘Well, hello. You must be Ben. Glad to meet you, sonny.’
‘I’ll put these in water,’ Mum said.
I came down and shook his hand, and I tried to smile but I didn’t speak. Until Mum returned from the kitchen I felt stranded. A large brown paper bag Tom was holding rustled at his side.
‘Aperitif?’ Mum said, ushering us to the living room. I’d never actually heard her use that word before, and I wondered if she needed to try so hard. ‘Shall we go through? Excuse the mess.’
‘What mess?’ I said, and her look said that was quite enough, thank you.
‘Very nice,’ Tom said, scanning the room. If he noticed the new photograph he didn’t comment. ‘Did I mention I grew up not far from here? It was a different area then, though. Quite trendy now, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I suppose,’ Mum said, bringing two sherries and a tumbler of lemonade on a tray. ‘We were lucky to find something so close to the park.’
She placed the tray on the table and Tom turned to me, smiling, showing me the bag.
‘For you.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Mum said. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘What’s in it?’ I said warily.
�
��Let’s see, shall we?’ He winked at me and reached inside the bag. ‘Careful how you handle this. It bites.’
He took out a miniature cactus, unusual but quite beautiful, no more than six centimetres tall with red and gold markings and pale silvery bristles as fine as baby hair. Delicate, creamy-white flowers grew from its prickly pear-like stems. A protective cylinder of plastic surrounded the plant.
‘You’ll want to remove this to let it breathe,’ Tom said. ‘I’m no expert on cacti, but this is one of the most striking I’ve seen. Just a token from a farm on the island. Do you like it?’
I nodded.
‘Say thank you, Ben,’ Mum said, and to Tom she said, ‘Never has much to say. It’s that age, you know.’
‘Thank you.’ Frowning at her, I lifted the container for a closer look. A faint sweetish scent drifted from it. ‘It has a funny smell,’ I said.
Tom nodded. ‘I noticed that too. Like ripe bananas. A pleasant enough smell, though, unless you can’t stand bananas. You might like to draw it sometime. Your mum tells me you’re a keen artist.’
I wondered what else she’d told him, but the shapes and contours of the plant were irresistible. I would’ve wanted to draw it even if he hadn’t suggested it.
‘So I brought you these too,’ he said, this time lifting from the carrier a large Moleskine sketchbook and an elegant varnished wooden pencil case with hand-carved swirling patterns on its lid.
‘It’s made to order,’ he said. ‘Crafted by a friend of mine. If you look closely you’ll see it’s personalised – made just for you.’
I set the cactus down and took the box from his hands, running a thumb across its textured surface. At first I didn’t see what he meant, but then I found the two words hidden among the delicate swirls: Ben Harvester.
‘Amazing,’ I said, flipping the lid. A set of twelve yellow-bodied pencils nestled inside, every weight of black from faintest to heaviest. ‘This is the best. These are the best. I always wanted a Moleskine too, but they’re dead expensive. Thanks.’
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