by Leo McNeir
For a count of five there was silence. Valerie Paxton turned on her heel and left. Then the children noticed Mr Meadows’ expression. From the rear of the hall a girl laughed, then another joined in. Soon, everyone was laughing, except Mr Meadows who rightly perceived himself to be an object of ridicule. His face reddened. The laughter seemed to roll in like a tsunami towards the front of the assembly where it engulfed him.
*
Willow sat lost in her thoughts for some while, and Marnie wondered about asking her to join them for lunch. The shared confidences had brought them closer together, and it seemed churlish to let Willow return alone to her boat with snow falling outside and a plentiful supply of soup and cheese standing by. Before Marnie could make her invitation, Willow began speaking again.
“After going to college for the year following her gap year, Catherine, my sister, retook her exams and got her grades. Ben was twenty months old by then and I had to decide on our future. In the end it was simple. Catherine was going to study at Manchester, so we worked out that she could live with us while she was there. We found a mooring near the city and that was that.”
“You lived together for three years?” Marnie asked.
“Quite happily. Catherine had her own sleeping cabin, which was reasonably far enough away from mine when Ben was teething. I had enough money to live on with the thousand each month from David plus family allowance. And Catherine made a contribution. It suited us all.”
“But presumably you didn’t have Poppy back then,” said Marnie.
“No. That came about by chance. It happened that the woman who owned the marina where we stayed trained boat horses. I often had spare time, so I began helping her while Ben was having his afternoon nap. Later, he was allowed to play in the yard. It was enclosed and quite secure. We both loved the horses and learned a lot about them.”
“Was that Joy Rufford?” said Marnie. “I read about her and saw her once at a boat show doing a demonstration with a couple of horses.”
“You probably saw me then, Marnie. I used to go with her to help.”
“Was Poppy one of the horses?”
“No. She was just a filly back then.”
“Sorry. I interrupted you. Please go on.”
Willow collected her thoughts. “So my sister graduated and applied for a teaching course in Manchester. She had a boyfriend by then and they decided to get married. For me, that meant more decisions. My parents were now regular visitors and were pleased with the life I’d made for myself, even if it was rather unorthodox. They wanted me to come back to Chester, but I valued my independence.”
“You could’ve found a mooring in Chester, presumably,” said Marnie.
“Well, yes, I suppose so, but by then I was almost indispensable in the stables. For my help with the horses I was given free mooring and electricity, plus free pump-outs and use of the laundry room and showers. All those costs were covered and my bank account grew every month.”
“How old was Ben by that time? Had he reached school age?”
“Ben was five and he was already well advanced for his age. Both my sister and I had been teaching him since he could talk. Catherine had trained for primary and we had loads of materials. She used to call him her little guinea pig. I took him along to a local nursery school, which seemed lovely, but he just got bored, so I took him away.”
“That’s when you decided on home schooling?”
“More or less. But it really became inevitable because of what happened next. One day Joy Rufford said she was going to retire at the end of the year and hand over the running of the marina and stables to her son. She said I could stay on if I wished, but that didn’t appeal very much. You see, her son was pretty keen on me. He was pleasant enough, but I had no feelings for him and I knew there’d be complications if I stayed. I told Joy that perhaps it was time to move on.”
“The boat you had then wasn’t Glastonbury, was it?”
Willow shook her head and smiled. “By way of a parting gift, Joy asked me if I’d like to do a boat swap. In return for my boat, she offered me the converted butty, Glastonbury. It had been modernised and had an engine fitted. Then she surprised me again by saying I could have one of the boat horses that I’d helped train. It was a really generous offer that meant I’d have more space and better facilities. I thought about it for a few days and we did the paperwork.”
“And you chose Poppy.”
“She was my favourite and I’d helped train her from a foal. She was young but sturdy and bright.”
“And she brought you here to us,” said Marnie.
*
Mr Meadows stood in the school secretary’s office and read through the list of all the pupils who had someone at home able to take care of them after the dinner break. One significant name was missing.
“Mrs Paxton, did you check the names in the register for my class?”
“Of course, Mr Meadows, while you were supervising dinner arrangements.”
“You don’t have all the names ticked off.”
She stood up. “I beg your pardon?” Her tone bordered on indignant.
“You haven’t ticked Ben Haycroft as having a parent at home. We know they’re icebound. That’s the whole reason for him being in school in the first place.”
“I double-checked in his case. He said he wanted to stay, that he was being collected at the end of the school day, so he had no reason to miss the afternoon.”
“That’s not his decision, Mrs Paxton. When he’s finished eating, please tell him that he’s going home like the other children. And please phone his mother and ask for him to be collected.”
“Very well, Mr Meadows. But Ben said he thought the message from the education office meant they could choose whether they stayed on or went home.”
“Did he now? Well, he’s too clever by half is Master Haycroft, too clever for his own good.”
Or too clever for you, Mr Meadows, Valerie thought.
*
Anne poured soup into bowls and they sat in the office using the desks as dining tables. Ralph was still occupied with his statistics and would join them later.
“I seem to have taken up all your morning,” Willow observed. “Sorry about that.”
Marnie smiled. “I can catch up over the weekend. That’s not a problem. I was interested to hear your story. You’ve certainly had an unusual life. Tell me something. Did you have a particular reason for coming in this direction?”
Willow laughed. “Yes. I thought the weather would be better down here than in the north!”
“You get a warmer kind of snow in these parts,” Anne said, grinning.
“Have you ever found out where David is or what he’s doing?” Marnie asked.
“No.” Willow became serious again. “My only contact is that he still pays money into my account every month. Sometimes I used to have a pang of conscience, felt a bit like a kept woman.”
“Why should you?” said Marnie. “You devoted your life to working to bring up David’s son.”
“That’s how I see it, and the money I’ve been saving will go towards his higher education when the time comes. The payments have gone up since they first started. When I swapped his boat for Glastonbury I had to get BW to contact him, but he still went on paying for the boat licence. He’s been good like that.”
“There was one other thing. Sorry for interrogating you like this.”
“It’s all right. Go on, Marnie.”
“You said there were other reasons why Mr Meadows couldn’t cope with Ben. I wondered what they might be.”
“Ben isn’t just good at his school work. Catherine and I got him into a routine of learning from the time he was very small, so it was always likely he’d be well up with the standard of kids his age. No. Ben is also very bright. Catherine gave him an IQ test when he was eight. She just did it because she found it in a book. He came out with a very high score.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” said Anne. “He’s always
very quick on the uptake and mature for his age, too.”
“Yes. He’s well ahead of his age in reading and general knowledge. He loves subjects like history and geography and he’s very good at maths. Also we’ve been teaching ourselves French from a cassette course, and he’s miles better than me. He just picks it up and doesn’t forget anything.”
“Sounds like he’s really gifted,” said Marnie.
Willow frowned. “That’s how my sister describes him.”
“Gifted?” said Marnie. “Aren’t you pleased at that?”
“In a way, but I sometimes think it’s a mixed blessing.”
Chapter 19
Rumours
At breakfast on Saturday morning Marnie gazed through the window on Sally Ann and let out a sound that was a cross between a groan and a scream. Anne jumped and almost dropped the coffee pot.
Ralph laughed. “Are you trying to tell us something, my angel?”
Marnie slumped onto her chair. “I know it’s very pretty and all that, but look at it out there. The spinney looks like Santa’s bloody grotto!”
“I thought you liked the snow.”
“Sure, in moderation. But going on like this day after day, it makes me feel hemmed in. I want to break out and do something.”
“Such as?”
Marnie shook her head. “Dunno. Anything, just to get out and … whatever.”
“You don’t have anything particular in mind?”
“Well, I was wondering about the Docklands flat.”
“You haven’t changed your mind about keeping it?”
“I’d like to have another look at it with you there, Ralph. I want your opinion.”
They agreed on a plan. As long as the roads were passable out of the village, they would go down by train. Anne would hop off at Leighton Buzzard and visit her family for the weekend.
It was still not yet daylight when they piled into the Discovery and threaded their way up the field track. Their departure was watched by the amber eyes of a sturdy black cat. Dolly then pranced through the snow to take up her position on top of a bale of straw in Poppy’s stable.
*
On the train to London, it occurred to Marnie that the estate agents still had at least one set of keys to Simon’s flat – she still thought of it that way – and she rang their office in Shad Thames. A woman confirmed that they did indeed hold keys, which Marnie could pick up on providing two forms of proof of identity. This came as a blow. Marnie had not thought of that complication and conferred quickly with Ralph while the call was still in progress.
“Do you have any ID with you?” he asked.
“Just my driving licence.”
“Say you’ll meet one of their staff at the flat. You have your own keys as owner. That should be enough.”
Marnie resumed her conversation to find that the voice on the end of the line had changed. Quentin Blunt had taken over the call. He agreed to meet Marnie at the flat to discuss her future plans.
“And to hand over the keys, Mr Blunt,” she reminded him.
*
Marnie and Ralph arrived at the flat before Blunt and dropped their overnight bags in the living room. They located fresh sheets in the airing cupboard and were making the bed when the doorbell sounded. Quentin Blunt entered carrying a camera-case and a folder of papers.
With a regretful air he produced a number of documents for Marnie to sign, officially concluding their agency agreement and accepting that the flat was in good condition. He took out an inventory and invited Marnie to check that everything was in order. She assured him she had no desire to count all the tea-spoons and light bulbs and trusted him to have taken good care of the flat and its tenants while it was his responsibility.
Having signed the various forms, Marnie stood up and extended a hand to Blunt, who took a step backwards with both hands raised, his palms facing Marnie.
“Not quite finished, Mrs Walker.” He gave her an oily smile. “One last job before I can leave you.” He opened the camera-case. “I need a photographic record of the apartment for our files.”
Marnie restrained a sigh as Blunt set about his task. Ralph gave her an inquisitive look.
“Standard practice,” she murmured. “They want proof that the flat was in good order in case I make a complaint and try to claim against them for damage after the tenants departed.”
Blunt asked them if they would mind standing aside while he shot the living room.
“Sorry about this, Mrs Walker. Company policy. You know how it is. There are some unscrupulous people about. Nothing personal, but I have to do this in the presence of the owner.”
Marnie nodded her understanding. Unscrupulous people. A sad fact of life. She walked over to the window and looked out on the panorama of Docklands. It was a very different prospect compared with the rural setting of Knightly St John. Spread out before her, only lightly dusted with snow, lay one of the most stylish cityscapes in Europe, an eclectic mixture of refurbished wharves and warehouses, interspersed with modern residential blocks, flanking the wide expanse of the Thames.
London had never sought to rival Manhattan’s skyline, so the cluster of skyscrapers at Canary Wharf dominated the view to the east of where she stood. The capital’s newest financial centre reinforced the City itself, which lay just across the river to Marnie’s left.
Lost in her thoughts, she became aware that Blunt was standing close behind her and that he was saying something that had not registered. She half turned.
“Sorry, Mr Blunt. Were you speaking to me?”
“I just wondered if you’d had any further contact with Mr Dekker?”
“What made you think of him?”
“If you remember, we spoke about him when you were last here. You had some arrangement concerning his mail?”
“I haven’t seen him recently,” Marnie said.
“It’s funny. You know, that idea of synchronicity?”
“When you hear something for the first time and then keep hearing it again?”
“That’s it. Well, Dekker’s name cropped up in the office the other day. We received instructions for a sale, a property in Bermondsey Wall, a fairly exclusive development of apartments five minutes’ walk from here.”
“Instructions from Mr Dekker?”
“Not quite, no.” A grim smile. “Instructions from a family whose business had folded as a result of his actions.”
“What actions would they be?”
“Come, Mrs Walker.” Blunt looked sceptical. “I can’t believe you aren’t aware of his background.”
Marnie felt a wave of anger roll over her. She was contemplating opening the balcony window and throwing Blunt out to feed the fish in the Thames when Ralph joined in the conversation.
“Mr Blunt, I think you have the wrong impression. We’ve had only the slightest contact with Mr Dekker. Our sole link with him is that he has a narrowboat and has called in on our village to collect his post. That’s it.”
Blunt gave Ralph an appraising look. “I see.”
“We’re not privy to his business dealings. The man selling his apartment is completely unknown to us.”
“Widow,” said Blunt.
“Sorry?”
“The owner’s widow is selling the property. Her husband committed suicide after his company collapsed.”
Marnie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God! You’re saying the failure was down to Maurice Dekker?”
Blunt stared at her. “That’s the word on the street.”
*
For Anne, that morning reminded her what a normal family Saturday was like, an expedition to the shops and the market followed by a visit to the library. Yet her life at Glebe Farm was so different, she now felt like an outsider looking in.
That Saturday was what her father called a scouts day. Once a month they put out a bundle of newspapers by the garage door to be collected by volunteers, mainly parents of the local scouts. The papers were then whisked away to a depot for recycling.
Payment for the waste paper generated a small but regular income for the neighbourhood troop.
Anne’s brother, Richard, squatted on a stool in the garage and stacked the old newspapers in a neat pile. Beside him on the floor stood a ball of string and a pair of scissors. Anne hovered over his shoulder.
“How long have you been taking The Independent?” she asked.
“About a year, I suppose. What do you get at Marnie’s?”
“Everything.”
“Eh?”
“It’s on account of Ralph. He skims through all the papers every day for his work.”
“What, even The Sun and that lot?”
“Yeah. He says some of the tabloids have got some good journalists in his field, economics.”
Richard made a funny face. “I can’t see the average Sun reader buying the paper for the economics section, unless it’s on page three.”
Anne conjured up an image of Ralph secretly ogling the page three girls in the privacy of his study. Richard was obviously on the same wavelength. Brother and sister laughed together at the thought.
Abruptly, Anne’s laughter stopped. “What time do they come to collect the papers?”
Richard was surprised at the sudden change of tone. “Er, after lunch usually. Why?”
“Can I look through them before you bundle them up?”
*
Marnie signed the last of the documents, patted them neatly together and handed them to Quentin Blunt. It felt as if she was finally taking possession of the flat. She wondered if from that day onwards she would no longer think of it as Simon’s flat. Bizarrely, when she looked round the living room she caught a glimpse of Simon standing by the door of his master bedroom suite with his habitual self-deprecating smile. Blinking to clear the vision and with a sharp intake of breath, she realised it was time to change the subject.
“I, er, thought all that business with Maurice Dekker happened some time ago.”
Gotcha! Blunt thought. “What business would that be, Mrs Walker?”