Astonishing Splashes of Colour (8 page)

The doors to the theatre are still open, so I tell Emily and Rosie to stand by the door, while I go up to where we were sitting. I look back at them. Rosie is still half asleep and Emily is trying to hold her hand. They have trouble fitting their hands together.

I run up the steps to the upper circle. Cleaners are moving between the rows, vacuuming, picking up rubbish. They haven’t reached our row yet. I race to the top. Two steps at a time. A pink sleeve dangles over the seat in front. Rosie’s coat, ice cream stains down one side. I grab it. I don’t look at the cleaners.

When I come back downstairs, there’s a man talking to Rosie and Emily, crouching down so that his face is on their level. He is a young man in jeans and a red check shirt and there is something vaguely familiar about him.

“… put a glove over my hand, like this …”

Children talking to strangers. Children disappearing mysteriously. I rush forward.

“Kitty,” says Rosie as she sees me. “There’s my coat.” I grab her hand firmly, and take Emily’s in the other.

“Hi,” says the man, straightening up. He has curly hair and open, easy eyes.

“Girls, you shouldn’t be talking to a stranger,” I say. This is one thing I do know about children.

“He isn’t a stranger,” says Emily indignantly. “He’s Captain Hook.”

That must be why he looked familiar, but I can’t see it when I study him more closely.

“I thought they looked lost,” he says.

“Well, they’re not,” I say.

“It’s Captain Hook,” says Emily again. “He’s all right.”

“That’s not the point,” I say. “You don’t know him. You mustn’t talk to someone you don’t know.”

The man spreads his arms defencelessly. “Sorry. You’re quite right.”

“I know,” I say. I take the girls by the hand, tuck Rosie’s coat under my elbow and march them to the door.

“Kitty,” wails Emily. “He was nice.”

“You don’t know that,” I say. Just before going through the door, I look back and he is standing watching us, not annoyed, a pleasant smile on his face. It’s true, he does look nice. But you can’t take chances on people. It’s safer to assume they’re hostile.

The bus is late, more than thirty minutes after the previous one. We stand at the stop in silence. I keep looking at my watch and calculating what time we will get home. How long will it take to put them to bed? A cold solid lump is slowly gathering inside me. I’m just beginning to tell myself not to look at my watch again when the bus turns a corner and rolls slowly towards us, reassuring and familiar.

“Here it is,” says Emily. “Buses are good, aren’t they? When you miss one, another one comes instead.” They’re not used to buses.

We climb on, pay and sit near the front. I am trying not to worry about time, but I can’t think of anything else. What time will Lesley’s parents’ evening finish? She might stay talking until they lock up, but I don’t know what time that would be. How long does it take to drive home?

The girls sit hunched next to me, silent and miserable, knowing they can’t talk to me, feeling my worry, afraid to break into it.

Emily tries once. “Kitty—”

“What?” My voice is flat and unfriendly.

“Nothing.”

I feel guilty. “Nearly there,” I say in a semi-cheerful voice, which sounds unreal, even to me.

They don’t reply.

The bus stops a few hundred yards from their house. We climb down. I suddenly feel extremely tired and forget what I was worrying about. The girls hold hands with each other and I walk behind.

A police car passes us and stops. I immediately feel as if I’ve committed a crime, but surely there’s nothing illegal about going to
Peter Pan.
We are allowed to be out after ten P.M. with children, aren’t we?

A policeman gets out and approaches us. He’s enormous, towering above us as he puts his cap on. We stop walking and look at him.

“What does he want, Kitty?” says Emily. She pushes backwards into me for safety. Rosie starts to cry.

“Would you be Katherine Maitland?” he says in a deep, serious voice.

I nod. My mind starts racing. How does he know? Has someone told him about the girls being too young for the
theatre, or about leaving Rosie’s coat behind? Is it something else? I can’t remember, but I feel as if there’s something I’ve forgotten.

“And these are your nieces, Emily and Rose?”

I nod. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. Emily and Rosie huddle close to me.

“We’ve been looking for you,” he says. He goes back to the car and speaks to his colleague. Then he beckons us over. “We’ve just radioed through to let them know that we’ve found you. Jump in. We’ll run you home.”

Obediently, we climb in the back of the car and drive to Adrian’s house. Lesley is waiting for us on the pavement. She pulls the girls out, hugging them. I climb out awkwardly and make my mouth smile at her. The light spills from her open front door on to the pavement.

“We’ve been to the theatre,” cries Emily. “We’ve seen
Peter Pan.
”

“Flying,” mutters Rosie in a very tired voice.

Lesley tries to pick them both up at once and kisses them repeatedly. I have never seen her so demonstrative before. She looks oddly unwell.

“Did your parents’ night finish early?” I ask, not at all sure of the time.

She looks at me and her face seems to close up. “I came home early. I had a headache,” she says in a curiously cold voice.

“Oh,” I say.

We stand looking at each other and I know I’m in trouble. In the half-light she apparently sees me better than I can see her. I’m frozen in the glaring spotlight of her disapproval.

“Why don’t we run you home?” says the policeman. “Then you can sort it out tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I say and climb into the car. I can see Lesley
taking the girls into their pink house. A neat little house with a place for everyone, where they live and grow together, where they know they belong. The front door closes. I sit in the back on my own, feeling as if I’m about to cry, and look for a tissue in my bag. There are three tickets next to the tissues. Train tickets to Edinburgh—one adult and two children. I don’t really know why they’re there.

J
AKE’S PORCH IS BIG.
Indoor plants grow dark-green and rich in the heat of the sun through the windows and with water from Suzy’s loving hand, but they never look hysterical or out of control. Suzy has style. The plants know exactly how big they’re allowed to grow, how wide their glossy leaves can become. There is room for two white wicker chairs with bright, tapestry cushions. It is more a conservatory than a porch, where Suzy and Jake could sit and watch the passing traffic. But I’m sure they don’t. The chairs are like the plants, part of a design, a testimony to Suzy’s good taste.

I’m surprised to find that the outside door is open. I step in. I’m tempted to move the chairs together to make a bed, and my whole body aches at the thought of lying down. But I’d prefer not to meet the postman or the milkman at six o’clock in the morning. I couldn’t bear the thought of being watched while I’m asleep.

I knock gently and step back from the door to see if there are any lights on inside. It’s not easy to tell because the windows have heavy metal shutters. Suzy, the bank manager, knows about security.

There’s a light on inside, but I suspect it’s a nightlight, intended as a deterrent to burglars, not a welcome for me.

It’s after midnight, but you can’t tell with Jake. He could be fast asleep—tucked up by a mothering Suzy—or he could be sitting up all night with the television, nursing his insomnia. Paul reckons that this is the result of a guilty conscience, but he hasn’t yet produced a good reason for the guilt.

I step to the side of the porch, out of reach of their security light. The night is never black in Birmingham, so just beyond light is the darkest place to be and the most comforting.

I am cold, chilled from inside. I go back, lift the knocker and tap very gently. He won’t hear it if he’s asleep, but he might if he
is lying awake—unless he’s watching a horror film. Panic bubbles up inside me and I struggle to stop myself crying. I’m afraid. I don’t know what to do. I need sanctuary. I wish Jake would just appear.

I listen intently to the silence that is not really silent at all. I can hear my heart beating, a rustle in the hedge, a car in the distance—and another noise, a shuffle from inside the house. I hold my breath and hope it isn’t Suzy.

Someone is on the other side of the door. I hear a light switch, a footstep and then nothing.

“Who is it?”

I start to shake with relief. “Jake? It’s me—Kitty.” My teeth are chattering. I don’t know if he can hear me. I can hardly hear myself.

He pulls back the bolts, the mortise lock and finally the Yale lock. The door eases open and I see Jake’s tangled hair, his waxy face, his eyes dark and not well.

“Can I come in? I won’t make any noise.” Please, Jake, let me in.

The door opens wider and I step through. Jake shuts it behind me and rolls the locks back. Then he turns. I can only see the paleness of his face in the dark.

“Go in the living room,” he whispers. I tiptoe in, wondering if he will follow me, or just go back to bed.

The door closes, then there is a click and the light comes on. I stand blinking, unable to see anything in the sudden brightness.

“What are you doing here, Kitty?”

I try to focus my eyes. Jake is wearing a pale pink chenille dressing gown. “Why are you wearing Suzy’s dressing gown?”

He doesn’t bother to look. I worry about how silly he will feel when he realizes he is decorated with pink roses. First floor, Ladies’ Separates and Lingerie at Marks & Spencer.

He sighs and bends to light the gas fire. “They’re after you,”
he says. “Adrian phoned earlier to see if you were here.” He sits heavily on the sofa by the fire, looking cold.

I move a chair closer to the fire and curl myself up on it. I can’t stop my teeth chattering.

“I know,” I say, feeling more miserable than I did before. “Why do you think I came here?”

He smiles at me, and I feel easier. Jake’s great strength is that he’s good in a crisis. He can rise above the temperatures and tonsillitis and infected ingrowing toenails and become wise and serious and supportive.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I wasn’t asleep.”

I silently bless his insomnia. “I didn’t know where to go.”

“Home to face the music, I should think.”

I smile feebly and watch the flames of the fire. They are a clever invention, these pretend-coal fires. You have to study them for a long time before you realize that the flames are not random, but follow a meticulously organized pattern. And even then, you can’t be absolutely sure.

I haven’t talked to James for several days.

Jake stops smiling. “Kitty, what were you thinking of, taking the girls out without telling anyone? I assume they’re at home now?”

I can’t look him in the eye. I study the carpet instead. It’s a neutral beige, calm and spotless, made from natural fibres so that it won’t aggravate Jake’s allergies. Much too hard-wearing for Jake and Suzy who live in a bubble of cleanness and never spill anything. “We forgot Rosie’s coat. It would have been all right if we hadn’t had to go back.”

“You can’t just go off with children like that. They’re too young.”

What does he know about children and the age they do things?

“Where did you take them?” The tone of his voice is casual, but the loudness gives away his eagerness to know.

“
Peter Pan.
”

He nods knowledgeably, either trying to tell me that he knows
Peter Pan,
or that he considers it to be a wise choice.

There is a plate of Quality Street on the coffee table. Suzy always leaves eatable temptations around. I think she likes to show everyone that she can exercise restraint, that she doesn’t eat nice things whenever she sees them. I take a toffee and unwrap it. As I chew, I want to throw the paper into the fire, but remember at the last minute that it isn’t a real fire. I screw it up in my hand, then open it out carefully on my knees, smoothing out the creases, folding it perfectly and folding it again.

“Did I wake Suzy?” I ask eventually.

Jake sighs. “No, I don’t think so. She’s had a tummy upset during the day, but she’s a lot better now, thank goodness.”

“Was she sick?”

“Yes, very.”

We sit in silence. I don’t really want to talk to Jake. I came here because I needed somewhere to go, and I didn’t want to stay out all night again. There’s a deep coldness inside my stomach which is spreading upwards and outwards. The heat of the fire can’t reach me.

The train tickets flash into my mind: little white cards, neatly printed, sitting in my bag next to the purse.

Where did they come from?

Did I put them there?

Why?

“Is there anything on the telly?”

“Does James know what’s going on?”

I shake my head. “Well, I suppose he does now. No doubt Adrian will have phoned.”

He nods and takes a coffee cream.

“It’s a good thing somebody likes coffee creams,” I say.

“I don’t like them. I just eat them because nobody else wants them.”