The Mother And The Millionaire

by Alison Fraser

  ‘Cool,’ Harry approved, Japan being the Mecca of all things high-tech. ‘Did he say when he’s coming back?’

  ‘No.’ Esme lied again, but for some reason felt compelled to admit, ‘He wanted me to tell you goodbye and that “it gets better”...if you know what he means.’

  ‘Life, I suppose,’ concluded Harry, quite the little philos­opher. ‘He was bullied at school. Jack...Mr Doyle, I mean. He understands.’

  And she didn’t? Esme bit back the retort. This wasn’t about the war between Jack and her.

  ‘I heard you talking,’ Esme admitted. ‘How bad is it re­ally?’

  Harry pulled a face. ‘When they call me posh geek and boff and stuff like that I try to ignore them, like you said, but that only seems to make them madder.’

  ‘Are they hitting you?’

  ‘Sometimes. Kicking, mostly. Or body-punching in the dinner line when the supervisors are looking away.’

  ‘Oh, Harry, we have to tell someone!’ Esme had had no idea things had deteriorated to this point.

  ‘I’ve tried—’ Harry’s face suffused with temper, not against her but the injustice of the world ‘—but the moment I put my hand up they either thump me in the back or they put their hands up, too, and shout out that I’ve kicked them and then I get into trouble.’

  Oh, God. What to do? Esme’s first inclination was to take Harry out of the school forthwith, but where did he go then? And what guarantee was there that it wouldn’t happen again?

  ‘I’ll have to go in and speak to your teacher, darling.’ Esme caught the look of consternation on his face. ‘I know you don’t want me to, but what else can we do?’

  Harry shook his head adamantly before quoting, ‘Jack says it’ll get better.’

  ‘Not the bullying, he didn’t.’ Esme was sure of that. ‘What he actually said was, they’re not going to stop until someone stops them. And it’s been going on a while, hasn’t it?’

  Harry didn’t deny it, but implored instead, ‘Please, Mum, don’t go in. It’ll be the holidays in a few weeks and most of the bullies will leave for high school.’

  Esme found herself wavering. He clearly hated the idea of her fighting his battles for him.

  ‘Please, Mum.’ Solemn grey eyes held hers in entreaty.

  How familiar were those eyes now! All those years de­nying someone else had helped make this child and here she was, confronted with the truth of it.

  ‘OK, but—’ she began to lay down conditions.

  Harry, however, drowned her out with a heartfelt, ‘Thanks, Mum, you’re the best,’ and gave her one of his hard hugs.

  She returned the hug but her unease remained, a premo­nition of events to come.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The week passed uneventfully. Harry claimed the bullies had lost interest in him. It seemed too good to be true.

  She supposed she believed him because she wanted to. She had other things to worry about, such as money. She’d finally found a half-decent flat on the edges of Southbury but she needed a deposit. She’d resolved to ask her clients for some money on account at their next meeting on Monday.

  Meanwhile she decided to say nothing to Harry until it became definite.

  And Jack Doyle? Though he intruded into her thoughts, he did not materialise in person. She assumed he was still abroad until Harry pulled a disappearing act while out walk­ing in the woods. She didn’t take long to find him.

  Instinct led her to the big house and there he was, in the stable yard, playing makeshift cricket with a plank of old wood and a tennis ball.

  He wasn’t on his own, of course. Cricket was hardly a one-man sport.

  She could have barged in and demanded he come home. Instead she stood at the end of the stable block, her heart heavy as lead as she watched the two together, Jack Doyle calling out advice before bowling the ball, shouting ‘good shot’ on the occasions Harry hit it.

  Another man, smaller and stockier in build, was fielding. She heard his American accent and guessed he might be Jack’s partner.

  Her eyes switched back to Jack and Harry, laughing at some joke, their heads held at exactly the same angle. How could kinship go unrecognised when she could see it so clearly?

  She marvelled at it, even as she wanted to run from any acceptance of it. Ten years she’d spent denying Harry a father in his life, all that time convinced she could be everything to him.

  So when had she played cricket with him? Any sport, for that matter? Or even made him laugh so loudly?

  Stop it! she told herself, before madness made her do something they’d all regret.

  Harry was playing with Jack Doyle because it was Sunday morning and he had nothing better to do. It was a makeshift game of cricket, that was all. Not some mysterious, sacred bonding rite between father and son.

  Just imagine if she did go wading in with true confessions. This is your father, Harry. She could visualise Harry’s shock giving way to hope and expectation. But Jack’s reaction? A man who had reached his thirties, avoiding attachments on the way? Somehow she didn’t think he’d get beyond shock.

  She retraced her steps to the cottage and was sitting at the kitchen table, thinking of everything and nothing, when Harry eventually reappeared.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ He made an effort to sound contrite but his face was flushed with pleasure.

  ‘That’s all right.’ She went to the fridge to fetch their salad lunch.

  Harry squinted her a look as he sat down to eat. He lasted a couple of minutes before conscience got the better of him.

  ‘I wandered up the road to see if they’ve finished laying the Tarmac,’ he continued carefully.

  ‘And have they?’ Esme enquired, though they both knew the road to the West Gate had been complete for more than a week.

  ‘Pretty much,’ he confirmed, and finally volunteered, ‘Mr Doyle was in the yard. He’s back from Japan.’

  ‘Is he?’ She managed to keep her voice level.

  Harry nodded. ‘He was with a friend of his called Sam, who’s got a son about my age. We played a little cricket because the boy doesn’t know how to play. He’s American.’

  ‘I didn’t—’ Esme caught herself up from saying she hadn’t seen any other boy. Presumably he’d been in the house when she’d been spying—no, not that—watching.

  ‘You didn’t what, Mum?’ Harry waited for her to finish. ‘Nothing.’ She forced a smile, dismissing its importance. ‘You don’t mind, do you. Mum?’ he asked next. Esme could have said. Yes, she did mind. For all sorts of reasons it hurt. But she couldn’t bring herself to be a killjoy. ‘No, not really,’ she lied.

  ‘Good.’ Her son brightened. ‘Because Jack says I have to ask you if I want to go back after lunch to see Eliot... That’s the American boy.’

  She supposed she had to give Jack credit. He was playing by some sort of rules. But did he know how hard it would be for her to refuse?

  ‘You can go if you like,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Cool.’ Harry awarded her the ultimate accolade and, fin­ishing his chicken salad in record time, was gone before she could even offer dessert.

  She could have spent the Sunday afternoon sitting around feeling sorry for herself. It was tempting. Instead she checked over the portfolio she was to present the following afternoon. The Claremonts hadn’t been the easiest of clients, often un­able to agree between themselves what they wanted, but Esme was quite proud of the work she’d done.

  Satisfied, she spent the rest of the time sorting through the tiny spare bedroom next to hers. They used it for storage and over the years everything that had been deemed useful but not currently in use had been thrown in there. Now she had to get ruthless or they would never fit their possessions in a smaller flat.

  She’d created a pile of things to be discarded when Harry reappeared. He asked her what she was doing. She claimed spring cleaning but he clearly didn’t believe her.

  His eyes clouded over. ‘Are we still moving?’

&nbs
p; She opted for a vague, ‘Perhaps,’ rather than initiate an argument, and he didn’t pursue it.

  When they sat down for tea she decided not to quiz him about his afternoon. Knowing he was spending time with Jack Doyle was one thing. Hearing about it was some­thing else.

  Unfortunately Harry didn’t share her reticence. He’d clearly had a great time up at the hall, spent mainly with Eliot, the American boy, although there was enough Jack this and Jack that to set her teeth on edge.

  ‘He hasn’t moved in properly,’ Harry relayed, ‘because most of the rooms have no furniture or curtains or stuff. He says he’s still looking for an interior designer to do it. Sam, Eliot’s dad, reckons it would just be easier if he found a wife first, because if he does it up, then goes off and gets married, she’s only going to change it all... I suggested you,’ Harry finished innocently.

  ‘As a designer. I hope.’ she replied drily.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  She shook her head.

  But Harry caught on.

  ‘As his wife, you mean.’ He contemplated the idea for a moment or two before giving it his approval. ‘Why not? He could fancy you. You’re not that old, Mum, and sometimes you look quite pretty. If you were nicer to him—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Esme cut into these backhanded compli­ments, ‘but I think I’d prefer to arrange my own love-life, if it’s all the same to you.’

  Harry pulled a face. ‘Just trying to help... He’s very rich, you know.’

  ‘Oh, well, that makes all the difference.’ She arched her eyebrows, ‘I’d better grab him quick before another gold-digger gets in first.’

  ‘Very funny.’ Harry pouted. ‘He’s better than that Charles. Talk about boring.’

  ‘Harry!’ she reproved, then wondered aloud, ‘You haven’t been talking about him to Ja—Mr Doyle, have you?’

  A pause followed in which Harry’s cheeks reddened, even as he said, ‘Why would I do that...? Must go and do my spellings.’

  Esme was tempted to call him back and give him a grilling. But what was the point? Even if he gave her a blow-by-blow account of what had been said, she couldn’t unsay it. And was it Jack Doyle’s fault if Harry had suddenly developed a talkative streak?

  Still, it worried her what else Harry might tell him. Simple stuff, like being ten, not nine. Big stuff like the fact he’d never met his dad, didn’t even know his name. What might Jack make of that?

  She realised that for peace of mind she would have to forbid Hairy to go up to the house.

  She waited until his bedtime, creating an opening while she tucked him in. ‘Harry, about Mr Doyle—’

  ‘Jack,’ he corrected. ‘That’s what he says I should call him, Mum.’

  ‘OK. Jack.’ She tried again, ‘I know you like him—’

  ‘Yeah, who wouldn’t?’ Fortunately the question was rhe­torical. ‘It isn’t just his cool car and stuff. Mum. He’s really funny. And he’s mega-clever—’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Esme was in no mood to listen to Jack Doyle’s virtues being extolled. ‘But perhaps it’s best if you don’t go up to the main house again.’

  ‘Why?’

  Why? Esme didn’t have a ready answer.

  Harry supplied his own. ‘Just because you don’t like him.’

  ‘I...I...no.’ Esme wished it were that simple, it’s not a question of that. It’s more...a matter of privacy. You have to respect his.’

  ‘But it’s all right if he invites me?’ Harry came back quick as a flash.

  ‘I...I...yes, I suppose.’ She couldn’t bring herself to forbid all contact.

  Even when Jack himself phoned later, she couldn’t quite do it.

  He got to the point after a bare exchange of greetings, ‘I thought I should check with you. Harry did have your per­mission to be here?’

  ‘Yes.’ She supposed he had. ‘But if he’s any trouble—’

  ‘No trouble at all,’ he reassured her. ‘It was great for Eliot—Rebecca and Sam Wiseman’s boy—to have another kid around. Tell him to come up whenever he likes.’

  Esme groaned inwardly.

  ‘That’s good of you,’ she hid behind politeness, ‘but we will, of course, be moving soon.’

  ‘You’ve found somewhere?’

  Did he really care? ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, if you need any help moving...’

  Was that an offer? Sounded like it. Perhaps he couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

  ‘I’ll call a removal firm,’ she countered rather ungra­ciously.

  It drew a brief laugh in response. ‘You do like life difficult, don’t you, Esme?’

  Life is difficult,’ she replied heavily and precluded com­ment by putting the phone down.

  She should have felt satisfied. She wanted him to know she could do without him and his philanthropy. But did she have to be so rude about it?

  Yes, she decided, if Jack Thick-Skinned Doyle was to get the message. But she still felt churlish and .ungrateful.

  She woke on the Monday in not much better a mood but psyched herself up to be positive for her afternoon meeting with her clients.

  As things transpired, she could have spared herself the ef­fort. She turned up at the appointed time, only to wait almost an hour for Edward Claremont to appear in his top-of-the-range saloon.

  He was unapologetic and showed scant interest in the fin­ished drawings. Esme began to get a bad feeling, but she pressed ahead with a request for the part-payment. It was then that Edward Clarement dropped his bombshell. There would be no refurbishment because he had decided to sell the house. And no, he didn’t feel any obligation to pay her for time already spent. She had been hired by his wife and his wife had run off with someone else.

  Scarcely Esme’s fault, she tried to reason with Edward Claremont and found herself cursorily dismissed without so much as a thank-you.

  She drove home in a semi-daze, thinking of all the money she’d just lost and wondering if her luck could get any worse.

  It could and did, two miles from home, when her car sud­denly coughed and died on her. She realised almost imme­diately what was wrong. Petrol. She’d meant to refill on the journey home but being sacked had driven all thought of it out of her head.

  She had three choices: call the rescue services, hitch a lift, or walk. She consulted her watch and realised none would have her home in time for Harry. Thank God for the mobile phone.

  She switched it on and called the school. Surely they could keep him there till she turned up.

  Never the friendliest of ladies, the school secretary sounded more sniffy than usual, and insisted on putting the headteacher on the line, who informed her that her friend had already collected Harry.

  What friend?

  A man they’d presumed to be her boyfriend.

  ‘What was his name?’ Esme tried to quell panic.

  ‘I—I’m not exactly sure,’ Mrs Leadbetter admitted. ‘He didn’t really introduce himself.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Esme asked before more time was wasted.

  ‘Well, let’s see. Tall, dark-haired.’ The headteacher paused before adding, ‘Rather good-looking... Your son definitely knew him, Mrs Hamilton, and he came in response to our call.’

  ‘Your call?’

  ‘Yes, there was some trouble at school today,’ the head­teacher revealed, ‘and we felt it better that Harry go home early.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘A fight between Harry and another boy.’

  ‘Is Harry hurt?’

  ‘Not badly,’ the head stated, ‘and your son did initiate the conflict, Ms Hamilton. As he refused to take blame or return to his classroom, we had no real choice but to send him home.’

  Esme refused, in turn, to believe this story. ‘Harry’s never been in a fight before. You are aware he’s being bullied?’

  ‘Yes, well...’ The headteacher was clearly choosing her words. ‘We are aware the situation is somewhat more com­plex than w
e originally thought. If you could come in to­morrow to discuss the matter...?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Esme wanted to talk to Harry before she agreed to anything, ‘I have to go,’ she added, and rang off.

  Then she checked her message service on the mobile and found two. The first was an appeal from the school to tele­phone them. The other was from Jack Doyle, simple and to the point:

  ‘Harry’s school called. Harry’s fine but there’s been some discipline problem. I’m going to collect him. He’ll be at the house. Don’t panic’

  Don’t panic! She scowled at the handset even as she fol­lowed the advice and took a couple of deep breaths before assessing the situation.

  Harry was all right. That was the main thing. Any trouble with the school could be sorted. She just had to get home.

  She tried the car again, more in hope than expectation, before calling the rescue service. They promised to be there before dark. As it was six hours before nightfall, she decided not to wait.

  She started along the verge, planning to walk all the way, but, barely a hundred yards on, a car drew up beside her.

  It was an elderly couple. They had seen her abandoned car and were concerned about her walking alone. Would she like a lift?

  Accepting a ride from total strangers was not usually the wisest thing to do but this elderly couple couldn’t have looked more innocuous, and they were probably right. She would be safer inside their car than wandering along the side of the road.

  She climbed into the back and, after a polite exchange of names and destinations, she was driven at a surprisingly brisk pace right to the West Gate. Her good Samaritans waited while she operated her remote—fortunately she’d remem­bered to slip it into her handbag—before driving off with a wave.

  Their kindness helped offset some of the bad things that had happened that day, but by the time she’d walked the length of the drive she was wound-up again.

  She had to pick her way through dismantled scaffolding, rubble and various other building-site paraphernalia before she could even reach the back door, wide open to the world.

  The kitchen was a hive of activity, with men hammering, plastering, tiling. Otherwise it was empty. No units, sink, cooker. Just a void waiting to be filled. Momentarily dis­tracted, she wondered what would replace the ancient Aga and equally ancient cabinets.