She walks on, past the staircase where Nessa sits, halfway down, in her vest and pants, freshly awoken, red-cheeked, bemused, sucking on her half-filled baby beaker.
Valentine holds out her hand and the child bumps her way down to join her. The base of the stairs is covered in broken pot and soil. The aspidistra has been divided into two large chunks and lies, roots up, tangled with the wire of the black Bakelite phone. The ringing sound comes from Valentine’s mobile which lies half-hidden under a pile of compost. She picks it up, blows away the worst of the dirt, pulls off her niqab and answers.
‘Hello?’
Her cheeks are streaked with mascara. She listens for a second, frowning.
‘It is me – it’s Valentine.’
She looks confused.
‘Sorry … When?’
She shakes her head, then glances down at the child (now clinging on to her leg) and distractedly tousles her hair.
‘Fine. But I’ll need someone to look after Mum and Nessa. Noel’s not around.’
Brief pause.
‘You’ll drive me?’
Vague look of hope.
‘Okay …’ She nods, then frowns, then looks confused again. ‘Thanks.’
She hangs up, sighs, and slowly walks back to the kitchen where she gently places Nessa on to the rocking chair, grabs a nearby cat and plops it on to her lap.
‘Stroke him,’ she says. ‘Love him. Make him feel happy again.’
She then ties back her hair, turns on the tap, leans forward and scrubs her face in the sink – violently, fastidiously – for several minutes, dries it on a tea towel, pulls on her apron and starts cleaning up the mess.
* * *
‘What did she say?’ Toby walks up beside him. ‘Will she do it?’
‘Yeah’ – Gene nods, his cheeks slightly flushed – ‘but she needs someone to baby-sit her mother and her niece.’
‘Got anyone in mind?’
Gene blinks a couple of times. He seems to be finding it difficult to focus.
‘What about the brother?’
‘Uh … He’s not very reliable.’
‘How about – you know?’
Toby tips his head towards Jen who currently sits, alongside Israel, in the back of the Hummer waiting for a lift back into town.
Gene grimaces. ‘I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea.’
‘What isn’t?’
Jen pops her head through the open door on the passenger side.
‘Are you rostered on at work tonight?’ Gene asks, hoping to avoid the issue.
‘Why?’ Jen demands.
‘The tattooist needs someone to baby-sit,’ Toby helpfully interjects.
‘Oh. Sure.’ Jen shrugs. ‘Fine. What time?’
Gene scowls. ‘I thought you were dead set against the whole tattoo thing,’ he mutters.
‘You did?’ Jen looks surprised. ‘Whatever gave you that impression?’
‘Maybe the fact that you tried everything within your power to dissuade him.’
‘I was using reverse psychology.’ Jen grins.
‘So you do want him to get the tattoo?’ Gene’s perplexed, almost impatient.
‘Of course I do, you numbskull!’ Jen snorts. ‘I’m the Harbinger of Chaos, remember?’
‘Is that your official title?’ Toby wonders.
‘Yup.’ Jen nods. ‘I’ve got little tags sewed inside all my clothes.’
‘Must be very small tags,’ Israel avers, from the back seat.
‘Nano,’ Jen affirms.
‘I thought you were the Angel of Peace,’ Gene grumbles.
‘Exactly.’ Jen nods again (apparently quite content with the contradiction). ‘Are we ready to head off yet? Bubs here was due back at the hotel over an hour ago.’
Israel snorts at Jen’s impudent use of the word ‘bubs’.
Gene checks his watch. ‘I can only take you as far as Crawley Green Road …’
‘Right-o.’
‘D’you mind if I tag along too?’ Toby wonders. ‘I need to find myself a B&B in town. And I was hoping to pop in and see Esther at the hospital.’
‘Fine. Climb in.’
Gene walks around to the driver’s side, jumps on board, throws off his hat, belts up and starts the engine. When he unexpectedly catches a brief glimpse of his own reflection in the side mirror, he notices a worn, almost beleaguered set to his face.
The next quarter of an hour is spent gradually adjusting to the considerable bump and roll of the antique vehicle, not to mention the earth-shattering volume of engine noise. Jen and Israel soon cut their losses during a small build-up of traffic by the Windmill Trading Estate and jump ship, opting to head back to the Arndale on foot, via St Mary’s Road.
Gene waits – idling in neutral – for several minutes, then finally concedes defeat and turns the engine off. He checks his watch then peers over at Toby who still appears happily ensconced.
‘If you’re thinking of heading to the hospital,’ he suggests, ‘then you could do worse than follow them into the town centre and get a bus. The X31 should get you there, or the 7 or the 8 –’
‘D’you mind if I ask you something?’ Toby interrupts.
‘Nope.’ Gene shrugs.
‘You’ve seen Ransom and I working together – in pretty close proximity – over the last couple of days or so …’
Gene nods.
‘And from what you’ve observed, d’you think …’ He pauses, losing confidence.
‘Think what?’ Gene prompts.
‘D’you think he respects me at all?’
‘Respects you?’ Gene repeats, surprised.
‘Esther says – I mean she seems to think – that he doesn’t. That he doesn’t respect me.’
Gene considers his response for a second. ‘Well, he sacked Esther,’ he finally offers, ‘and he hasn’t sacked you yet.’
‘Maybe he only sacks the people he actually respects,’ Toby suggests, ‘the people who offer some kind of a direct challenge to his authority or his blinkered world-view. I’m the first to admit that I’ve never really done that …’ He smiles, somewhat sheepishly. ‘Wouldn’t really dare.’
‘You’re not confrontational by nature,’ Gene observes, ‘nor am I. But that’s often a useful quality in business – and an invaluable quality in life, for that matter. So long as you respect yourself – know what your perimeters are – I can’t really see a problem with the softly-softly approach.’
He pauses for a second. ‘Instead of wondering whether Ransom respects you, why not spend a little more time considering whether you respect him – whether you share the same goals, whether you like him as a person, as a boss, even.’
‘I had this great opportunity come my way recently.’ Toby frowns. ‘Esther thought –’
‘You’re kind of like a family,’ Gene interrupts, ‘everyone playing different roles.’
‘That’s exactly what Esther said.’ Toby grins.
‘Really? What did she think your role was?’ Gene can’t resist asking.
‘Idiot child.’
‘Oh.’ Gene digests this for a second. ‘That seems a little harsh, perhaps.’
‘I did an engineering degree at university – specialized in biochemistry.’ Toby fiddles, uneasily, with the top button on his collar. ‘Esther thinks my talents are being wasted where I am.’
‘Not much of a fan of nine-hole, eh?’ Gene chuckles, tiredly.
‘She’s quite a traditionalist at heart.’
‘You seem to care an awful lot about what Esther thinks,’ Gene notes.
‘I like Esther,’ Toby confesses, almost shame-faced. ‘I respect her enormously. I just wish …’
‘I hardly know Esther,’ Gene admits, ‘but she strikes me as being pretty …’– he clears his throat, keen not to offend – ‘… hard-nosed,’ he eventually finishes off.
‘We have a mutual interest in engineering.’ Toby cheerfully sidesteps the ‘hard-nosed’ comment. ‘She’s very practical. We both
have this weird kind of, I dunno, “spatial” side. We’re very different people, but we see stuff in exactly the same way – process information in the same way. I mean she doesn’t have that many opportunities to showcase those skills in her current line of work …’
‘So you think Esther’s talents are being wasted, too.’ Gene cranes his neck to try and see if the traffic is moving at the roundabout. It isn’t.
‘Absolutely.’ Toby nods. ‘I’ve been banging on about it for a while, now – not that she ever listens to anything I say.’
‘Well that’s something else you have in common, I guess,’ Gene states the obvious. ‘You each want the other to break free from Ransom, but you still don’t seem quite able to make that same transition yourselves.’
‘She appears strong – almost invulnerable. Aggressive. Hard-nosed,’ Toby concedes, ‘but there’s a fragile core. It’s all just a big front with Esther. She’s one of those “bark worse than their bite”, people. When you spend a bit of time with her, once her guard finally comes down – you know, late at night, after a quiet meal and a couple of drinks …’
‘When she finally allows herself to relax.’
‘Exactly. When she finally “allows” herself,’ Toby repeats, ‘because she so rarely allows herself anything. And even if she does happen to let you weasel your way inside that prickly, barbed-wire fence she surrounds her heart with, if she does let you inside then you’ll definitely pay a price for it afterwards. She can be really ruthless. Makes all these catty comments. Ignores you. Undermines you in groups. But the way I see it she’s just running scared. Doesn’t want to show weakness – doesn’t dare to.’
‘In case the whole edifice collapses.’ Gene nods.
‘She’s just so bound up in what Ransom wants, what Ransom needs.’
‘Have you ever considered that maybe she sees another side to Ransom? A side that you don’t actually get to see?’ Gene suggests. ‘A more human, more vulnerable side?’
‘She feels sorry for him.’
‘That’s not exactly what I meant.’ Gene frowns.
‘Yeah …’ Toby doesn’t seem especially keen to consider this idea in any depth.
‘Like I say,’ he runs on, ‘I had this opportunity to move into a completely different sphere, and Esther was all for it. But then I thought …’
‘Have you ever considered the possibility that Esther might be rivalrous with you at some level?’ Gene suddenly volunteers (too tired to bother tip-toeing around the issue any longer). ‘That she might perceive you as some kind of a threat, even? She certainly warned me off pretty ferociously the other night.’
‘She’s territorial.’ Toby nods, mournfully.
‘She’s been with him for an awfully long time,’ Gene observes. ‘The bond between them must be very powerful.’
‘How d’you mean?’ Toby scowls.
‘They’re a real partnership.’ Gene shrugs. ‘She must’ve given up an awful lot to be with him – family, home-life, her financial security. It can’t have been easy all these years.’
‘She has two kids living with her mum in Jamaica,’ Toby affirms. ‘She hardly ever gets to see them.’
‘Which naturally leads one to think that her feelings might be a little bit more … dunno … more complicated than those that are habitual between a manager and a client.’
Toby looks alarmed. ‘You think she’s in love with him?’
‘Well you said yourself that you thought it was “one of the great sporting romances”.’
‘Did I?’ Toby now seems shocked by his earlier pronouncement.
‘She’s made sacrifices’ – Gene shrugs – ‘and people don’t generally do that for no good reason.’
‘Unless they’re in some kind of a rut,’ Toby avers.
‘Or lack confidence,’ Gene hypothesizes.
‘Can’t envisage any alternative,’ Toby adds.
‘Or maybe if they think they’ve burned all their bridges …’
‘I’m gonna be completely honest with you, here …’
For the first time during their conversation, Toby half-turns to face him. ‘I don’t respect Ransom any more, Gene,’ he confesses. ‘In fact I’m not sure I ever did. And I know it’s shocking – disloyal, even – but I just really need to get it out there, in the open.’
‘Everybody needs to let off a little steam sometimes,’ Gene murmurs, uneasy.
‘I think I was just blinded by the big spiel, by all the hoopla and the celebrity,’ Toby runs on, emboldened. ‘The truth is that I think he’s just a bully and a sneak. And a fat-head – incredibly selfish. And that he uses people –’
‘People use him, too,’ Gene interrupts.
‘It’s the culture,’ Toby concedes.
‘He’s a performer.’ Gene makes a feeble attempt to defend the golfer. ‘It’s all swagger for the most part – just a front.’
‘A front for what, though?’ Toby smiles, somewhat cynical.
‘Who knows? Feelings of inadequacy – impotence – humiliation – loneliness – wounded pride …’
‘I really want out of the whole thing,’ Toby mutters, ‘I just wish I had some kind of …’ – he shakes his head, frustrated – ‘an incentive – some kind of … of encouragement – a sign …’
‘I thought you said there was this other opportunity,’ Gene reminds him. ‘Maybe it’s time you looked into that in more detail.’
‘I’m just racked by uncertainty, Gene!’ Toby slaps his hands on to his thighs, frustrated. ‘I’m a mess. I lack the confidence. I just need …’
He shakes his head again.
Long silence.
‘D’you want me to look at your palm?’ Gene finally asks, exhausted.
‘No!’ Toby exclaims, almost offended. ‘I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that!’
He stares straight ahead of him, stiff with desire, silently counting the dead flies on the windscreen.
‘Just a very quick look,’ Gene sighs, ‘while we’re stuck in …’
Quick as a flash Toby is holding out his left palm, then his right, unsure which of them Gene will want to inspect. Gene straightens up in his seat, pushes back his shoulders, smiles the most keen, most professional, palmist’s smile he can possibly muster, then reaches out his own hands and gently takes them both.
Chapter 11
Vicki Wilson is transporting bulging bagfuls of baby provisions from the boot of her hire car to a temporary berth by the reception desk when Israel and Jen turn up, sweating heavily and slightly out of breath. She peers down at her watch.
‘You’re over an hour late,’ she grumbles. ‘What happened?’
‘We’re so sorry, Mrs Wilson,’ Jen gushes. ‘The class overran. There was an impromptu performance at the end. Some of the parents came along. Israel didn’t want to back out – let the other kids down … I swear.’ She gazes over at him, beaming. ‘Your son was quite the star of the show!’
‘Congratulations.’ Vicki delivers him a wan smile. ‘You took to the drumming, then? Or were you dancing?’
‘Drumming,’ Israel responds.
‘Dancing,’ Jen also responds, at exactly the same time.
‘Both,’ Jen then rapidly elucidates (as Israel gazes down, fixedly, at the floor). ‘It was wild. Unstructured. Totally free-form. We all tried a bit of everything – myself included …’
She performs a winsome little twirl.
‘Wonderful.’ Vicki smiles, indulgently. ‘Now here’s the thing,’ she continues, ‘I spent all my spare cash at Mothercare in the Arndale so I’ll need to run upstairs and get a few extra notes to pay you, but I left the hire car unlocked in the multi-storey …’ She proffers Jen the keys. ‘It’s a red Kia, second floor, just next to the lift. You can’t miss it. Would you mind heading up there and keeping an eye on it for a couple of minutes?’
‘Second floor?’
Jen takes the keys.
‘That’d really help me out.’ Vicki nods. ‘The girl’s a Godsend!’ she t
urns and informs the receptionist behind the desk who hands them their room key as Jen happily scampers off.
‘Will ya help wid these baby ting here, Israel?’ Vicki drops the posh accent, points to the pile of bags, takes his briefcase by way of exchange, then goes to call the lift. Israel does as he’s asked – slightly nervous – and once they’re both inside and comfortably ensconced, she turns to inspect her reflection in the mirrored back wall, checking her nostrils and pushing back her hair. ‘Now you want tell me where you really been all day?’ she asks, her manner easy, her voice still casual.
‘Wha’?’ Israel instantly looks panicked.
‘I was early an’ I drove myself down to the class. You not there. Man say you not been there all day.’ She turns to face him. ‘So where was you exactly, son? Eh?’
‘Me not want dance,’ Israel starts off, terrified.
‘Where?’ his mother repeats.
‘Nowhere. We just hung out at a golf course all day.’
His mother freezes.
‘You never tell me Aunt Esther haemorrhage,’ he adds, indignant (possibly hoping to gain some kind of moral advantage).
‘What happen there?’ she demands, her voice low now, and ominous.
‘Nothing happen! I just read my book is all! There was some kids playin’ a tournament …’
The lift arrives at the correct floor and the doors automatically open. Israel steps out. His mother places his briefcase in the hallway beside him but stays put herself.
‘What else?’ she asks.
‘Nothing.’ He shrugs. ‘It was boring. I read my book.’
‘What else?’ she persists.
‘There was a golfer – being photograph. Jen help him with his make-up.’
‘You speak with him at all?’ his mother demands.
‘No.’
Israel shakes his head.
‘He speak with you?’
‘No.’
His mother lifts one, profoundly suspicious brow.
‘No!’ he insists.
‘You got anything else you need to tell me?’ she asks.
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