Filial opinion is given on career choices, and a surprise visit brings no peace of mind.
At the same time Thelma was setting off back from Badger’s Fold, Pat was sitting at her kitchen table talking on the phone. In front of her was an open laptop; on an open page of her mindfulness journal was written: Biomass boiler – RNLI? – and nothing else. Despite extensive trawls on Google, she’d NOT found anything that she could readily make head or tail of. She really needed to talk to Matt Barley (and indeed had a text ready to send to him), but thoughts of how upset Linda apparently was stopped her. So instead, she was doing what she usually did when faced with something she didn’t quite understand – ringing her youngest son Liam.
‘Like RNLI,’ she said above the whine of the washing machine. Once again Andrew’s pants, plus two shirts and a pair of socks that had been found lying on the utility room floor.
‘That’s lifeboats,’ said Liam.
‘I said like RNLI, not RNLI.’ She spoke loudly and clearly with a hint of exasperation. ‘It’s to do with biomass boilers.’
‘Mother, I’m unfamiliar – not deaf.’ He was using his patient, sardonic voice, which meant that life was going well for him in some way. Perhaps it was this Bern she’d heard him mention a couple of times recently?
‘I thought you might know about it,’ she said.
‘Why would that be?’
‘Because you’re doing engineering,’ she said patiently. There was a silence. ‘And it’s to do with boilers, and boilers are engineering.’
‘We haven’t done boilers yet,’ said Liam. ‘That’s next week. We’ve only done tin-openers and staplers so far.’
‘Oh, ha ha.’ Yes, her son was definitely in a good mood.
‘Anyway, what’s with all this interest in biomass boilers?’
She wondered if she could face unravelling the whole Baldersby-Joe Public-Steve Hewson saga at this particular moment. On the whole she felt not. At that moment the back door opened, and Andrew marched in with an air of casual confidence. He smiled amiably and kicked his work boots off, leaving them just anyhow by the back door.
‘I’m just on the phone to your brother,’ said Pat brightly. Over-brightly.
Andrew nodded and ambled over to the bread bin.
‘Hey, bro,’ said Liam down the phone.
‘Liam says “hi”,’ said Pat. ‘I’m just going through to the living room.’
‘So how are things?’ said Liam as she settled onto the sofa.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine, are they? Things are fine. Oh dear, oh dear.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘On the Pat Taylor Shittometer “fine” ranks just a smidge below “bloody awful”.’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re going on about,’ she said.
‘So, is throwing our Andrew’s pants at his head what you do when things are fine?’
She felt her cheeks warming. ‘He’s rung you, has he?’
‘It was Dad actually. And then I rang Andrew.’
She paused, not quite sure what to say. Rod had rung Liam. That was a first.
‘Dad still planning to retire, I take it?’ asked Liam.
‘He pretty much already has.’ The words slipped out, hotter and more dismissive than she’d intended.
‘And Boy Wonder still planning on dropping out from Loughborough.’
‘You’d have to ask him,’ said Pat. ‘They seem to talk to you more than they do to me. I’m obviously the last one to find out anything that goes on in this house.’
‘Mother,’ said Liam in that way sons have of speaking to their mothers. ‘No way is our Andrew ever going to be a forensic scientist.’
‘He certainly won’t be if he jacks it all in,’ said Pat tartly.
‘You’ve seen how he is when Larson gets sick. How on earth d’you think he’d be with a bona fide corpse?’ Pat had often wondered this herself, but it would not do to concede this fact at this point in the conversation. ‘He just doesn’t seem to have thought this through,’ she said lamely.
‘Mother, have you not been looking at his Facebook page? He’s been loving working with Dougie.’
Pat fell silent. The truth was she’d skipped over all this because it had irritated her. There was a pause. Then Liam said: ‘It’s Dad retiring, isn’t it?’
Another pause.
‘I just don’t know if he’s ready for it.’ The words sounded lame even to herself.
‘He obviously thinks he is.’
‘It’s just – if he’s here all day—’
‘—in his own home, yes?’
‘He’ll get in the way.’ There, she’d said it. Some of it.
‘Then tell him to get out of the way.’ Another silence. If only it were that simple.
‘The thing is, Mother,’ said Liam, ‘you can’t have the poor old bugger going on working till he drops just so you can have the kitchen to yourself.’
‘I don’t mean that at all,’ she said protestingly. Though of course she did. Partly.
‘Is that all there is?’
‘I just need to get used to the idea.’ Not even to Liam could she face giving voice to that other, lurking blackness.
When she returned to the kitchen, Andrew was peaceably chewing a sandwich and staring into space. From by his feet Larson regarded him with all the concentration of someone watching the Wimbledon semi-finals. On the side were two dirty knives, the sunflower spread, a loaf, the bread board and a packet of Farm Shop ham trim that she’d mentally earmarked for a carbonara.
‘Have you seen your father?’ She crossed to the side and pointedly began clearing away the detritus.
‘No.’ Andrew seemed to realize slightly more was required and frowned. ‘I think he said something about going down the golf range.’
‘Did he,’ said Pat grimly. The news gave her an overwhelming sense of bleakness. This was how life was going to be. She checked herself – Liam was right, of course he should be able to retire … Only …
As she shut the fridge, she desperately tried to think of something to say to her middle son. Maybe a question about his morning or if he was eating with them tonight. But all she wanted to do was scream: Why can’t you clear up after yourself? That and fling those wet pants at his head.
Suddenly she realized Andrew was looking at her, an expression she recognized. He had something to say to her. She watched him, feeling a sudden flutter of panic. Had he guessed how she felt?
What he did say was the last thing she expected.
‘RHI payments,’ he said.
‘What about them?’
‘On your notepad. I presume you mean RHI. Standing for Renewable Heat Incentive.’ He shook his head. ‘A right old scam if ever there was one.’
Later on, as dusk was falling, Liz was driving into the new estate where Sam Bowker lived, a pristine collection of small houses to the south of the town arranged in looping closes, avenues and ways. The sign at the entrance to Herriot’s Meet stridently proclaimed a stunning development of luxury houses! Looking at the small, somehow forlorn dwellings Liz briefly wondered whether any of its residents ever thought, How luxurious! How stunning! Somehow, she thought not. Her phone gave an apologetic little buzz. Another missed call from Jan. And another message. RING ME. With a sigh, she turned the phone off. She did not want to speak to Jan Starke.
Walking up the paved path to number 18 Pumphrey Gardens, she felt not a little apprehension, so much so she found herself paused and indecisive at the plastic-wood front door. What to say? I had a sort of dream about you and was wondering if you were all right? Clutched in her hands was a box of flapjacks, one of the few things she could successfully bake and at times like this her all-purpose excuse for dropping in on someone.
As the melodic chimes faded, she found herself hoping that Sam would appear, relaxed and smiling as he’d been in school, and that in five minutes she’d be driving off and reflecting on how foolish she had been.
It wasn’t Sam who opened the door.
The pale, sulky-looking girl with the baby scooped in her arms looked tired, her lank straight hair scrunched back in a lifeless ponytail. She had, Liz noticed, the loveliest, clear hazel eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said. Her voice wasn’t welcoming and neither was it hostile, it was merely flat. The baby, who had obviously been crying, stared at Liz, obviously making up its mind whether to start again. Liz smiled brightly and brandished the flapjacks, which the girl and the baby both regarded uncomprehendingly. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ said Liz. ‘I wonder, could I have a quick word with Sam d’you think?’
‘Sam? He’s still at work.’ A slightly guarded tone matched the wary look. On a corner of the muted flat-screen, Liz could tell it was approaching seven o’clock.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Liz again. ‘I thought he’d be back by now.’
There must have been a note of something in her voice because the girl blurted out, somewhat unguardedly, ‘He tries to get all his work done at school. So he doesn’t have to work at evenings and weekends.’
Liz nodded. ‘Could you please tell him Liz Newsome called?’
‘Mrs Newsome who used to teach him? Who comes into school?’ Something dropped from the girl’s face and a range of emotions flitted awkwardly across: relief, worry, a kind of welcome. ‘He’s talked about you.’
‘Good things I hope.’
The girl nodded. ‘I’m Macy – Sam’s wife. Would you like to come in? It’s a bit of a tip.’ She looked worriedly over her shoulder at the living room, which seemed tidy enough aside from the detritus of infancy.
‘I won’t bother you,’ said Liz. ‘I just came to see Sam – and of course to bring you this.’ Once again, she brandished the Tupperware box, which once again they all looked at, the baby with the suspicion of a tremor in its bottom lip. ‘I only wanted a very quick word with him.’
‘I wish you would. Talk to him.’ Despite the gruffness of the words, there was a real note of worry. ‘Is he … is he, do you know, in some trouble at school?’
‘I really don’t know,’ said Liz. ‘Do you think he is?’
‘I don’t know – that’s just it.’ The words blurted out, sad and urgent. ‘Normally he talks to me when there’s something bothering him.’
‘And you think there’s something bothering him?’
At this point the baby had obviously decided enough was enough; her face screwed up and she emitted a startlingly loud bellow.
‘Look, I can see you’ve got your hands full,’ said Liz. ‘I’ll let you get on.’
‘Can I give him a message?’ asked Macy, fruitlessly jogging the wailing infant.
‘No.’ She was about to smile and turn away, say she’d see him in school – only something stopped her. ‘You could give him this,’ she said, fishing in her bag. She produced one of the last of her cards she’d had printed at that machine at the outlet mall some time ago.
Macy looked at it blankly.
‘Tell him if he ever wants to talk … just to call me,’ said Liz.
The girl nodded, took the card and the baby wailed helplessly and hopelessly.
So young, was Liz’s thought as she walked back to her car, and it wasn’t the baby she was thinking of.
Driving away down something or other close, she reflected it was pretty much five minutes later, but she had none of the feelings of reassurance about Sam she had been hoping for.
Thelma was sitting in her favourite wing chair by the gas fire, tired after her sixty-mile round trip, too tired to do anything but let the thoughts drift round her mind. Mike’s words kept playing in her mind:
Keep an eye on her for me …
Outside she could hear the unsettling noise of the autumn wind rising in the poplar trees by the recreation ground. The autumn winds bestir the trees and make the sound of distant seas … For some reason that poem had kept coming into her mind lately.
On the coffee table she could see the folder of pamphlets she’d given Teddy. She knew for a fact he’d not yet looked at them. Indeed, they had somehow acquired the air of certain Christmas presents Teddy received – that coffee table book about the Cairngorms, the collection of Giles cartoons – items she knew would at some point find their way, unread, to the Baldersby St James book fair.
Why hadn’t he looked at them? Could he not face the prospect of college closing? Or was it that at sixty-two, the end of his job would signify an end to his working life?
Another gust of wind made the curtains billow out slightly. Snaffles, body tense, eyes wide in distrust, regarded them from under the coffee table. She knew exactly how he was feeling.
She reached for her Grandma Spilman’s psalter as she often did at times of stress, let the soft-backed red book open where it would. It fell open at Paul’s letter to Timothy.
The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.
Her first reaction was a pang of disappointment. The phrase seemed to have no direct bearing on all her current upset … yet at the same time it felt somehow relevant. Of course, there was money involved with both those educational organizations, Lodestone and Baht’at – lots of money … the expensive suits, those laptops and iPads, Kayleigh Brittain’s caramel-coloured sports car. Education and money seemed to go hand in hand these days. What was it Pat’s friend had said? Education run as a business.
When her phone rang, she felt sure it must be Kayleigh Brittain ringing to tell her of yet another anonymous letter, but it wasn’t.
‘Thelma.’ The voice was slightly too loud, slightly too stilted; Thelma recognized that Josie Gribben was one of those people who hated using the phone. ‘Thelma, I’m ringing to see if you’ve heard the news.’
Thelma’s thoughts went back to their last conversation, the night of that fateful governors’ meeting. ‘You mean the possibility of the college closing?’ she said. ‘Yes I have.’
‘I mean,’ said Josie, ‘the nasty little plot behind the college closing.’
Thelma frowned. ‘What nasty little plot?’ she said.
‘Thelma!’ There was grim relish in Josie’s voice. ‘It’s time to man the barricades!’