On weekday mornings after breakfast and before he emerged for morning tea at ten-thirty, Bernard shut the door to his library and attended to any correspondence pertaining to the commercial properties he owned in Hampton and Gabriel’s Bay. Bernard had invested in property after the publishing firm he had shares in was acquired. At the time, his family sneered, because they were, in Patricia’s opinion, a pack of hideous snobs who considered that the only acceptable way to make money was to inherit it, or steal it from the poor. Fortunately, Bernard was an only child, and his father, uncles and aunts were all dead now. His mother, Verity, was in a retirement home in Hampton, still alive only because she refused to give anyone the satisfaction of being able to dance on her grave. Either that, or God and the Devil had tossed a coin for her and were still debating who had lost.
The property portfolio was relatively straightforward to manage, with most leases being long-term and the tenants reliable. There were two vacant retail spaces in Gabriel’s Bay, but those were unlikely to be filled any time soon. Now that he and Patricia were both nudging sixty-five, Bernard had been making noises about hiring an assistant, but as far as she could tell, had done nothing about it.
Possibly because he was distracted by challenges facing the Gabriel’s Bay Progressive Association. Bernard was Chair, and a Committee member by the name of Elaine Pardew was intent on undermining him at every turn. Elaine, out of sheer spite, had done her utmost to scupper the Littleville project, which Bernard had championed, and now that it had survived (barely), was actively dissuading locals with influence to support it. This had made Bernard even more determined to get the project off the ground, and he had regular meetings with Littleville trustees, Charles Love, who had time now that he’d retired as town GP, and Tai Te Wera, Corinna Marshall’s husband, who was also a lawyer. Tai worked in Hampton and kept tabs on the rise of Elaine through the council ranks. He said she was building a reputation as a councillor with zero tolerance for anything she considered antisocial, including vandalism, loitering and general untidiness, and could well be in line to be the next Hampton mayor.
A part of Patricia admired Elaine’s steel and tenacity in pursuit of her own aggrandisement. Patricia, by contrast, had relinquished hold on too many goals, and had trailed in the slipstream of others for far too long. But making oneself big by making others feel small — that did not sit well with her. Complete self-abasement was helpful to no one, except perhaps devout monks, but letting your personality sit quietly in the background meant you could be of service to those who struggled to be heard or acknowledged. Patricia hoped that if a child did come her way, he or she would respond to a calm presence, an unhurried routine. If there was one thing Patricia knew how to be, that was steady. And from what she’d been told, that was a quality manifestly lacking in these children’s lives.
The phone. Although Bernard had never specifically requested that he be uninterrupted, Patricia had always assumed he would prefer that, and so if she were home, she would take the calls. Most often, it was Bernard’s mother, Verity, who insisted on speaking to him though she knew full well that he wasn’t free. Patricia was always polite in her refusal, and had more than once said goodbye and replaced the receiver with sound still emanating from it — an enraged, defiant hissing, such as a hooded cobra might make when pinned by a mongoose.
Patricia squared her shoulders and picked up the phone. Twenty minutes later, she put it down, and knew her world had changed forever.
It was nine fifty-seven, and she could find plenty of tasks to fill the next thirty-three minutes until Bernard finished his morning’s work. She could — she should — be patient; that was a practice of steady people. But right at this particular moment, steadiness could go hang. Patricia marched to the library, tapped on the door.
‘Bernard?’
Instead of the ‘Come in’ she expected, the door immediately opened, as if Bernard had been waiting.
‘Was that the retirement home?’ he said, a little breathlessly.
‘Ah,’ said Patricia, divining the source of his expectancy. ‘No, I’m afraid it wasn’t. You know she won’t shuffle off until she gets her telegram from the Queen. Though, of course, she’d celebrate it as a personal triumph if Her Majesty pre-deceased her.’
Bernard sagged and then stiffened upright again, as if a puppeteer had yanked on a string attached to his head. His thought process was obvious: if his wife had interrupted his work then she must have news that was both urgent and important, and to Bernard, those factors were harbingers of, if not actual doom, then considerable inconvenience.
Patricia decided not to hedge. ‘A child is coming to stay. This Sunday. For four weeks.’
‘What kind of child?’
The kind who needs our help, Patricia was tempted to respond. But poor Bernard — his voice had risen at least an octave. She knew full well that he’d been wishing the whole idea would never manifest, that they’d remain forever a comfortable twosome, in their comfortable home. After almost losing her, he may not yet be prepared to share her with another. She hoped his natural compassion and courtesy would override any jealous impulses, and that she would not have two childish natures to manage.
‘His name is Reuben Coates,’ she said. ‘He is nine years old. His parents live in that wreck of a house on the road out, and are both on the sickness benefit. For the last five years, his older sister has taken on the burden of caring for both her parents and her brother.’
‘His sister? How old is she?’
‘Nineteen. It seems Reuben was somewhat of an after-thought. There are two older brothers in their twenties, long since left for parts unknown, and no other relatives nearby. Maree, the sister, has managed, Lord knows how, to feed and clothe the family, put herself through secondary school and, for the last two years, hold down a full-time job. She has been supported by social services, and Casey Marshall has kept an eye on her, so she has not had to manage entirely on her own. Mostly, but not entirely.’
‘Good grief,’ said Bernard. ‘Sickness benefit, you say? Both parents?’
Patricia could see him trying hard not to judge. He had her sympathies; when she’d been informed by the case worker of Reuben’s situation, her impulse had been to march to his house and slap sense into the adults who had abandoned so completely their parental responsibilities and handed them, seemingly without compunction, to their daughter. But the Coateses were an unfortunate pair. In the year Reuben turned four, his mother had been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and his father, just seven months later, with chronic fatigue syndrome. As a result, both were now also being treated for clinical depression. Patricia had sought out her old friend, Charles Love, who’d assured her that these physical conditions were, indeed, horribly debilitating. Even if the sufferers tried their best, they could find it nigh on impossible to function normally. Every day was a struggle — once-simple tasks became mountainous obstacles. Depression was a common side effect, as they became beaten down with pain, exhaustion and despair.
‘No matter what the positive-thinking brigade may claim, human beings do not have endless reserves of willpower or emotional resilience,’ Charles had told her. ‘If we are not given the opportunity to replenish, we run dry — our spirit becomes a casualty of constant battling. And once our spirit has gone, unless our circumstances change, it is unlikely to return. Our world becomes shrunken, grey and joyless.’
The Coateses lived in a dilapidated house on the rural outskirts of Gabriel’s Bay, which they had no hope of leaving. Patricia knew the place, and had previously judged its owners for letting it decline so badly. The paint was worn down to the undercoat, the roof was rusted and lifting, and where there might once have been a garden lay piles of hard rubbish smothered by weeds. Wildly overgrown shrubs sprawled over outer walls, blocking access and light, and broken windows were covered with taped-up cardboard. Yes, Patricia had once tut-tutted as she drove by; but now she knew that the house’s parlous state was no fault of its owners. It wasn’t that the Coateses did not care — they could not. That ability had abandoned them.
And now their daughter was also abandoning them. If only for four weeks. The stalwart Maree, who had kept her family together for the last five years, had one more special quality.
‘Reuben’s sister works for your favourite place, The Book Nook in Hampton,’ Patricia told Bernard. ‘She needs our help because she’s won a scholarship to the United States to attend some kind of advanced bookselling course. It’s very prestigious, and hotly contested.’
‘That Maree!’ said Bernard. ‘I know her! A most capable young woman, and remarkably knowledgeable for her age …’
Patricia could almost hear her husband’s mental gears grinding. In Bernard’s opinion anyone who cherished books was immediately elevated above lesser mortals. Gainfully employed book people were not the kind to live in dilapidated houses with welfare bludging parents. Capable young women did not foist their siblings onto other people.
‘Maree did not expect to win the scholarship,’ Patricia explained. ‘She initially intended to turn the opportunity down. But her support team, including Casey, persuaded her to take it. Social services will provide respite care for the parents, and we will look after her little brother.’
Bernard’s frown signalled his struggle to decide whether the family dragged Maree down, or whether she lifted them up. Patricia had no doubt it would be the latter. In his mind, book people were a breed beyond reproach.
‘Why on earth has she not chosen to leave home?’ Bernard asked. ‘For a bright young woman, the situation must be an absolute penance.’
‘I’ve not had the opportunity to speak directly with her,’ said Patricia. ‘But from what I’ve been told, Maree has always been the purposeful type. Living at home allows her to save money, and her aim is to buy a house of her own within the next three to four years, one with a granny flat for her parents. Reuben, too, will live with her until he chooses to leave. The Coates house will be sold, or the land, really, as that is all that now has value. Apparently, Maree detests living in the house, but she is not prepared to deplete her savings to pay for repairs. As I said, a purposeful type.’
‘But what if she wants to start a family of her own? Won’t it be rather — crowded?’
‘I imagine Maree will ensure any suitor knows that living with her extended family will be a non-negotiable part of their relationship. I rather hope I do get to meet her,’ added Patricia. ‘She sounds formidable. No doubt a reason why she won this scholarship.’
Bernard’s mental gears ground again, as he tried to make the contradictory fragments coalesce into a sensible whole. Fair enough, thought Patricia. It was the kind of tale that made you revise upwards your estimation of humanity, while simultaneously downgrading the opinion of your own worth. Would she or Bernard ever have been prepared to live in near squalor to fulfil a single-minded plan that ensured the whole family would be looked after? Would they, at nineteen, have had anywhere near the same mettle, grit or generosity?
Now, of course, all those qualities were about to be tested. Reuben, despite Maree’s heroic efforts, had behavioural issues. He was behind in class, inarticulate and prone to lash out physically at other children. Jan Dundy, the principal of Gabriel’s Bay primary school, had always been sympathetic to Reuben’s situation, but the news that his sister would be leaving — Maree broke it to him over the weekend — had resulted in a day’s worth of disruptive outbursts. One teacher had been bitten, and a child kicked in the face. The principal had requested that Reuben stay away from school until Maree was back in his life. Reuben would be with Patricia and Bernard on Sunday, driven by social services straight after breakfast, and would remain with them for twenty-eight days.
Patricia had intended to take on the bulk of the work caring for the child, but right now, that prospect loomed impossibly large. Yes, she would have support from social services, from Casey Marshall, who took a personal interest in the Coates family, and from Jan Dundy, who had provided simple lessons to bridge the schooling gap. But that support would be mostly remote, via phone. It would not be here in the house, by her side, every hour of the day.
‘Bernard,’ said Patricia. ‘I think this might be an ideal time to advertise for that assistant.’