The Gifted Child

by Penny Kline

  The house was on the edge of an estate, opposite a small industrial park. Some of the houses – the ones with modern front doors and replacement windows – looked owner-occupied, others still belonged to the council.

  ‘Number fifty-seven,’ Shannon said, ‘you can stop anywhere along here.’

  A child was peering through a downstairs window. She saw Shannon and waved wildly, and a moment later the front door came open and a large, bearded man, with a paintbrush in his hand, appeared.

  ‘This is my teacher, Dad.’ Shannon jumped from the car and ran towards him. ‘She gave me a lift.’

  ‘Good of you.’ Mr Wilkins held out his free hand. ‘Which would you be then, Brigid or Kristen? I’m afraid Shannon never tells us your surnames.’

  ‘Kristen. I’ve only been teaching at the college for a couple of weeks. I came to fill in when Sarah Pearson had to go into hospital.’

  ‘So you’re the one who’s showing them how to think straight. Hang on, I’ll fetch my wife. Take your teacher in the front, Shannon.’ He turned to his youngest daughter, who was dancing about and holding an ice lolly. ‘And watch out, Danielle, there’s drips going all over.’

  Danielle pulled a face. ‘My teacher’s called Mrs Dixon,’ she said, following Kristen into the front room and sitting down next to her. ‘We did a collage last term. It was a supermarket.’

  ‘That sounds fun. Which part did you paint?’

  ‘Not painting.’ Danielle looked as if she thought Kristen should have known better. ‘It was cutting out and sticking. I did the fish counter, prawns and a lobster, only they’ve got whiskers and some of them broke.’

  The room was small, with a pink fitted carpet, a large television, a maroon four-piece suite and a glass-topped coffee table with an African violet in a green pot and a copy of the TV Times.

  Danielle was still talking about her collage, and how a boy called Sam had been sent to the head teacher for spoiling Ruby’s oranges and bananas and being rude to Mrs Dixon, when the poodle ran in and jumped onto Kristen’s lap.

  ‘It’s all right. I like dogs. Benji – is that right?’

  ‘Benji with an “i” at the end,’ Danielle said, ‘and it’s not short for Benjamin. I thought of his name. I did, didn’t I, Shannon?’

  Shannon gave her sister a look. ‘She’s nearly as bad as Hugo, talking all the time I mean, only Hugo hasn’t got any brothers and sisters so I expect he’s spoilt.’

  Kristen gave her a non-committal smile. She was thinking about Theo and wondering if Alex had been right about Ros being unable to have more children.

  ‘What’s spoilt?’ Danielle had finished her lolly but still had the stick in her mouth. ‘Jackie talks more than me.’ She jumped up, ran to the door, and shouted up the stairs. ‘Jackie! Shannon’s teacher’s come, d’you want to see her?’

  There was no reply, but a moment later Mr and Mrs Wilkins entered the room together with Shannon’s older sister. Mrs Wilkins had the same dark colouring as Shannon but Jackie took after her father. On a man, his features looked rather nondescript but on Jackie they were extremely attractive. Shannon was a pleasant-looking girl but Jackie was going to be stunning. She was dressed in shorts and an emerald green top that brought out the unusual colour of her eyes, and she had her mother’s curly brown hair.

  ‘You see,’ Shannon said, grinning, ‘I’ve got the brains but Jackie’s got the beauty.’

  Mrs Wilkins turned to Kristen. ‘She once heard her uncle say it and it’s stuck in her head. You’re both beautiful and you’ve both got brains so let’s hear no more of that nonsense.’

  ‘What have I got?’ said Danielle, pressing up close to Kristen. ‘Shannon says you make them do drawings. I can draw horses, would you like to see?’ She jumped up and ran out of the door and as soon as she left the atmosphere seemed to change.

  ‘How are you?’ Mrs Wilkins took one of Kristen’s hands in both of her own. ‘I’d hate to speak out of turn but I just wanted to say how terribly sorry we are. Shannon told us what had happened and we think it’s wonderful the way you’re carrying on with your work.’

  So Shannon knew about William. That meant all the children must know. Had Neville told them or had one of them found out and told the rest?

  ‘Thank you.’ Kristen saw Shannon’s worried face and gave her a reassuring smile. Then Danielle appeared with her drawing and everyone relaxed.

  When Kristen left the house a short time later, Mrs Wilkins accompanied her to the car, saying she needed some stamps from the post office on the corner. As soon as they were out of earshot, she asked if Kristen had noticed how sensitive Shannon was, and wanted to know if it was normal for clever children to be like that.

  ‘It can be.’ Kristen wondered where the question was leading. Had Shannon said something about the classes? About Hugo?

  ‘Only the last couple of months …’ Mrs Wilkins looked flustered, as if she regretted raising the subject. ‘Little things seem to upset her, programmes on the telly.’

  ‘What kind of programmes?’

  ‘Sad ones, even when it’s only one of those silly soaps. She told me she thought it was wrong, people enjoying watching children in hospital and real-life crime. Then another time, Jackie was watching Neighbours and Shannon tried to switch it off, just because a couple were having an argument.’

  As she drove away, Kristen felt convinced that any problem Shannon might have was unlikely to be the result of tensions at home. Jackie had complained how mean her father was, not letting Shannon help her with her homework, but Kristen could tell it was something they discussed openly and there was no real resentment.

  In spite of the family being so friendly, Kristen felt uneasy. The car in front – a two-litre Golf GTI – was being driven at a little over ten miles an hour. Why buy such a powerful car? Slow drivers caused almost as many accidents as boy racers did – or was that one of those urban myths people trotted out as an excuse for dangerous overtaking? The sun had come out again and she considered driving to the coast – Clevedon or Portishead – as a way of raising her spirits, but it would only bring back memories. Better to spend the afternoon working on her thesis. Part of her had been unwilling to exchange the noise and good-natured banter of Shannon’s house for the silence of her flat. And relief that Shannon’s moodiness appeared to have nothing to do with the family was starting to give way to concern that the cause must have something to do with the college.

  Today was Friday, one of the days Shannon had extra maths with Neville. Did that account for her outburst against Hugo? Kristen decided to talk to Brigid again although she would need to tread carefully. Brigid had known Neville for several years, since before the classes began. A week ago, Brigid couldn’t have been friendlier, but these past few days she had been a little distant. How much help did Alex give her? Had putting off having a baby until they were in their late thirties and early forties been a joint decision, or had Alex had no wish for children and only given in after Brigid persuaded him how much she wanted one?

  Ahead of her on the road, a crow had discovered the remains of a flattened animal. Unwilling to relinquish it, the bird flew up at the last possible moment so that Kristen thought it inevitable it would smash against her windscreen. Braking hard, without looking in her driving mirror, she heard the angry hoot of the driver behind and pulled into a lay-by with her heart thumping and tears pricking her eyelids. Accepting the job at the college had been a mistake. It was too soon. She was too raw. But what was the alternative? Sitting alone in the flat, drinking endless cups of coffee, pretending to work on her thesis? In any case she needed the money.

  Since William’s death she had been kept going by the routine of looking after Theo. William had been killed on a Friday evening. Theo had stayed at home until the following Wednesday then insisted on returning to school, and the pattern of their life, at least as far as their outward behaviour was concerned, had returned to normal. Without Theo for company, Kristen had spent her days reading, making not
es, watching morning television with its addictive stories about babies who had survived against the odds or middle-aged women reunited with long-lost siblings. Then more desultory work on her thesis, followed by lunch – a biscuit or a piece of toast – followed by more work until half past two when it was time to buy something for supper and join the other mothers outside the school gate.

  Re-joining the traffic, she forced herself to stop all the useless speculating about Brigid, about Shannon, about her brief conversation with Cameron Lyle. Only seven more days and Theo would be coming to stay.

  13

  A week had passed since Kristen’s visit to the bungalow in Westbury-on-Trym. She phoned Vi but there was no reply and it occurred to her that she should have let it ring longer since Vi could be in her studio. The second time it was answered at once and Vi sounded out of breath.

  ‘Was it you before? I was in the bog. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Kristen said automatically. ‘Look, I don’t expect it’s a good time but I wondered if it would be possible to record an interview about your views on artistic talent.’

  ‘Now? You mean this afternoon?’

  ‘You’re painting.’

  ‘I don’t know if there’s much I could tell you that I haven’t said before.’

  Kristen hesitated. The coolness in Vi’s voice felt like snub. ‘It was only a thought.’

  She expected Vi to contradict her, apologise even, but she merely repeated how she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to add much to her previous comments. ‘Another day perhaps. Are you still there? Call round whenever you feel like a chat.’

  As soon as Kristen put the phone down it started ringing.

  ‘Kristen, is that you? Has Theo been in touch?’

  ‘Theo?’ Her heart began to race.

  ‘He and Kimberly went to Hamleys. The toy shop. She thought he’d wandered off, gone up to another floor, would meet her by the door to the street.’

  ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘Do you think I should?’ Ros had picked up the panic in Kristen’s voice. ‘I wouldn’t have bothered you only…’

  ‘How long has he been missing?’

  ‘Less than an hour but I thought he might have phoned you – I bought him a smartphone – but it’s in his bedroom, he left it behind. He’s been perfectly fine but you know how unpredictable children that age can be, and we had a slight disagreement.’

  ‘What about?’ Kristen realised she was shouting. ‘I’ll stay here in case he phones. You’ll let me know if you find him. Where are you?’

  ‘In the flat.’

  Then why the hell couldn’t you have taken Theo to the shop yourself? ‘I’ll ring off now in case he’s trying to get through.’

  He was on his way to Bristol. Did he have enough money for the train? Did he know which station to go to? Of course he did. He would have planned the whole thing. He was nearly nine. Nine was much older than eight. When he turned up what would she do? No use thinking about it, not until she’d talked to him. She could go to Temple Meads, wait on the platform. No, better to stay put, make absolutely sure there was no way they could miss each other.

  Unable to relax, Kristen picked up an article about the parents of gifted children and stopped trying to work out exactly how far Theo’s train had travelled. One of the children described in the article had been reading since he was two but by the age of five had begun to demand excessive attention and become violently disruptive if it was withheld. None of the children at the college appeared to have behaviour problems but perhaps that was because only a small sub-group could be described as having exceptional ability.

  The phone rang and Kristen snatched it up.

  ‘Kristen Olsen?’ The voice was unfamiliar and she felt a stab of fear. Someone Theo had gone off with? Someone he had met at the station?

  ‘Cameron Lyle,’ the voice said, ‘we met at the market. I wondered if we could meet up. I’ve been talking to a guy called Steve. William may have mentioned him.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Really?’

  Lyle’s surprise angered her. ‘What did he say?’

  There was a short pause. ‘Why don’t we get together so I can tell you properly? Tomorrow evening?’ And when she hesitated. ‘Later in the week if you prefer.’

  ‘Tomorrow evening,’ she said, thinking how she could easily cancel it if Theo was with her, ‘but you’d better give me your number just in case.’

  ‘Of course.’ His voice was making it clear she had no right to sound so reluctant since she was the one who had contacted him in the first place. ‘Eight thirty?’ He suggested a pub in Kingsdown.

  ‘Yes, all right.’

  Her mobile was bleeping. ‘Yes?’ Her voice came out as a breathy croak.

  ‘Panic over,’ Ros drawled. ‘I’m sorry I had to involve you in the little drama. The silly boy went to the wrong exit, waited half an hour then made his way back to the flat on his own, on the bus. I’ve ticked off Kimberly for not making sure there was no possibility of a mix-up, but really I don’t think it was anyone’s fault, just one of those things. I’d put him on the line but he’s in the shower, washing off the London grime. Be in touch again soon. Bye for now.’

  The pub was small and uninvitingly bare and unless there was another bar, not visible from the door, Cameron Lyle was late. Kristen ordered a pint and sat on a stool looking round at the flowered brocade wall seat, the Dickensian-style prints, stone jars, and brown gloss paint. The barman had close-cropped hair and looked about seventeen.

  ‘Is that the right time?’ She jerked her head in the direction of a wall clock with a brewer’s logo painted on a speckled mirror and two racing cars for hands.

  ‘Could be,’ he muttered, coming round from behind the bar to collect some glasses and stamp a pile of ash into the black and green carpet.

  The wall lights in the shape of fans were so hideous they were probably sought-after by collectors. On a raised section, three girls sat with their heads together, talking in hushed voices and every so often letting out a collective shriek of laughter.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Kristen watched Lyle come in from the street and stop to have a word with two old men sitting at a table near the window. She had recognised him immediately because of his distinctive curly hair but in other ways he looked different from the first time they met. One of the old men gestured wildly with his arms and Lyle’s eyes closed up with laughter, and she noticed the faint lines radiating towards his high cheekbones. She had estimated his age as roughly the same as her own. Now she was not so sure. Late thirties? His clothes were casual but smarter than hers and for a fleeting moment she wished she had taken more trouble with her appearance.

  He had noticed where she was sitting but was in no hurry to join her and, by the time he had prised himself away from the old men and bought himself a drink, she had moved to a wooden bench in the corner and was pretending to take an interest in the competition on the back of a beer mat.

  ‘Sorry.’ His face had the feigned apologetic expression of someone who makes a habit of keeping people waiting. ‘You haven’t been here long? Did you have any trouble parking?’

  She shook her head, hoping he would get to the point of their meeting as quickly as possible.

  ‘This Steve I told you about.’ He looked down at his glass. ‘You say you’ve never heard of him? Apparently he and William had a shared interest in rock climbing then William had a fall.’

  ‘He injured himself quite badly.’

  ‘How long have you been living in Bristol?’

  ‘We came here from London about three years ago. You say you just happened to bump into this Steve.’

  ‘Sorry?’ He gave her a long, questioning look. ‘At the market. His girlfriend’s interested in old cameras, binoculars, all that kind of crap.’

  Why did she thinking he was making it up as he went along? It was all perfectly plausible but if there was anything he thought she ought to kno
w he could have told her over the phone.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s not important where the two of them met. It’s what Steve told me about him.’

  Her hand was steady on her glass but her head had started to throb. Lyle paused then, noticing her drink was almost finished, jumped in with an offer to buy her another.

  ‘No thanks.’ She kept her eyes on his face, trying to assess every transitory expression.

  ‘Steve’s a … how can I describe him? Cautious, set in his ways. If you ask me that could account for the way he described William.’

  ‘How did he describe him?’

  ‘Said he was a bit of a tearaway.’

  ‘Is that how you saw him?’

  ‘Me? No, but I told you –’

  ‘You hardly knew him.’ Kristen made a move to stand up. ‘That’s it then, is it?’

  ‘Of course not. The reason I wanted to talk to you, Steve had an idea William could have been dragged into some kind of trouble.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘It’s crossed your mind already.’ He looked relieved.

  ‘No.’ She was angry. ‘If this Steve’s so sure why didn’t he get in touch with the police after William died?’

  Lyle raised his eyebrows. ‘You’d have liked him to?’

  ‘If it helped to find who killed him. Anything’s better than not knowing.’

  He thought about his for a moment, as if he was weighing up how much to tell her, then he picked up his glass and asked how long she and Vi had known each other. ‘No, sorry, you said before. You’re working with Neville, only met her recently. What did you think of her?’

  ‘I like her.’

  He nodded. ‘Most people do. So you’ll be seeing her again.’

  Kristen thought about her phone call the previous day and Vi’s unexpectedly off-putting response. ‘I’m writing a thesis on children with exceptional ability. Vi doesn’t believe in inherited talent, she thinks it’s all a matter of motivation and hard work. I’m hoping to interview her, record some of her ideas.’

  He laughed. ‘I assume you favour the opposite view. This thesis of yours, how would you go about collecting evidence? I mean, who’s going to be able to disentangle the effect of someone’s childhood, who they met, their teachers … it must begin at birth. And kids with bright parents start with a huge advantage.’ He noticed her expression and broke off, smiling to himself. ‘You’re thinking I don’t know what I’m talking about.’