Fly in the Ointment (14 page)

Wilbur? How many Wilburs are there in the world?

I took Larry's hand again. ‘No, it's all right. I'll keep him.'

On the way back down the path, I thought this might be just the moment to strike a bargain. ‘In fact, do you mind if I keep him overnight? You see my aunt in Pickstone is having a party. And she'd particularly like—'

I didn't even need to carry on.

‘Whatever! I feel like crap.'

‘So I could bring him back tomorrow evening?'

She was already halfway through closing the door.

So that's how it came about that I had one young boy at my side when I went off to tip the ashes of another into the sluggish water of the city canal. I'd thought of going to the sea. But for the life of me I couldn't
think of any beach I could associate with Malachy. Some people throw the ashes of the ones they love off clifftops or mountainsides. As far as I could recall, Malachy had never so much as climbed up a steep slope without a litany of complaints. If we'd still lived in Rosslyn Road, I could at least have buried the ashes under the sandpit in which I remembered him spending so many happy, busy hours. But this is not a favour you ask of strangers. And so, the longer I sat companionably on the rug with Larry and ran the few last possibilities through my mind, the more clear it became that there were only two places in the world with which, for the rest of my life, I would associate Malachy and have him always,
always
come to mind.

One was the bench on which he'd been sitting the day that the bus to Forth Hill and Danbury came past and swallowed up the two of them.

The other was the towpath as it ran under the stone bridge.

The bus stop was out, of course. But the canal?

Why not?

Because the rest of the world would be appalled, simply appalled, to think I'd chosen to tip my own son's ashes into the same dank water in which he'd drowned. And yet, as Larry sat contentedly pounding his little wooden hammer down on the six yellow
pegs, then turning the toy to bash them down again from the other side, the thought kept hammering through my mind. That is the place. That's where, for the rest of my life, I'll not be able
not
to think of him. To stand under that stone arch, hearing the drips and feeling the dampness settle on my skin is almost to revive him. Until the day I die, that is the one place that will trigger memories, both good and bad, of my son Malachy. That is the place that will for ever bring back the ghost of my dead child.

So that was it. I had decided. And since I knew I could not spend the night in the same house as Malachy's ashes, I had no choice but to get on with things. Now I was glad that Larry would be by my side. He'd be the perfect cover for a canalside walk. What could appear more natural than a small boy and his grandmother under the bridge, bent over the water. If I was spilling something in, it might be the gritty dregs of a goldfish bowl, or some fish dead in a tank. Who would think twice?

Setting the carton on the table, I slit the tape that held the flaps in place and slid out the casket. It was plain and black and, for what I took to be the cheapest standard issue, looked almost sleek. A slim metal label fastened with two pins bore Malachy's name. I prised it off with a nail file, and noticed as I did so that round the lid there was a layer of
transparent sticky tape. That had been there so long it took a deal of prising off, and I was glad I'd got the job done before we left the house.

‘Coming?'

Larry jumped to his feet. ‘Swings?'

‘No. Somewhere different.'

I hid the casket in a shopping bag and we drove into town. I left the car in the same car park that I used for work. It wasn't far to walk, and Larry was in good enough spirits to make a go of it without the stroller. Still, when we walked under the bridge, the gloom of the place doused even his chatter. He clasped my hand more tightly as we waited until the only other person on the path had passed with a nod.

On any other occasion under an arch like that I would have taken the chance to show Larry how to set off glorious echoes. Instead, I leaned him up against the brickwork and told him quietly, ‘Stand very still now. I'll only be a moment. Don't come any nearer the edge.'

He watched with interest as I tugged the casket out of the shopping bag and tipped the lid back to let the ashes slide into the dark water. There wasn't time to stand and think deep grieving thoughts. There's nothing like a heap of strangely delicate pale scree to bring it home to you that someone won't return. And
right beside me was a child just the right age to catch sight of something curious and wander off without a word, close to the edge.

The last few gritty bits fell in the water. I turned the casket the right way up again, and flipped the lid shut.

‘Ready?'

I put out my hand to take Larry's. It was a horrid place and horrid way to let my Malachy go. Still, it seemed right. And anyway, it was a private matter. Together Larry and I walked back along the path. I stuffed the casket and the shopping bag into the first bin we passed, and once again I felt the same old bitter, ineradicable regret that everything to do with Malachy had always ended up working itself out in this drab, seemingly unloving way.

Still, I consoled myself again, no one would know. I would tell no one. Ever.

That is what I thought.

AND SO THE
autumn darkened into winter as Janie Gay and I fell into a sort of rhythm. Hearing poor Larry howl, I'd sidle out to check the washing on my line. ‘You're certainly having a hard time of it today!'

She'd hitch her tarty skirt up with her thumbs. ‘Too right! You'd think the little bastard knows I have a headache!'

I'd lard on my concerned look. ‘Shall I take him for a while?'

It wasn't in her to be gracious. ‘I suppose you'd better. If he keeps up this noise, I'm going to slap his bloody face into next Tuesday.'

I'd hide my wince. She'd heave Larry over the fence and I would carry him off, still howling horribly. It didn't usually take long to work out whether some
toy that squeaked or rattled or parped had just been snatched away from him, or if his meltdown stemmed from hunger or from his mother carelessly cramming him into some garment so scratchy and uncomfortable he couldn't bear it.

I did what I could to solve each problem as it came along and make his life a little easier, even at home. ‘Hope you don't mind, Janie Gay. He got a bit wet and so I've swapped that checked shirt of his for an old sweater of Sandy's.' I might have added, ‘And given him a glass of milk. And tempted him with a banana. And kept up the pretence that vitamins are sweeties. And given him a bath and washed his hair and sung the little mite some nursery songs instead of yelling at him.' The prosecution lawyer at my trial took off on more than one sarcastic flight about my ‘sanctimonious' claim to have done such a good job of pulling the little boy's life into some sort of order, bringing him regular hours of security and a lot of happy moments. But I believe that it was true. Over the months the tell-tale pallor of the ill-fed child gradually vanished. The little legs grew sturdier. I watched him grow in confidence, learning to
ask
for what he wanted instead of starting to wail, and moving on from simply pointing at objects and animals and saying their names to telling me things about them.

And then one morning something stupid happened. I'd taken Larry to the park. On the way home, I watched him charging merrily ahead of me along the pavement when up behind us came an untrammelled roar. A motorbike without its silencer. Larry spun round. The look of hope upon his face was terrible to see. His eyes shone, and his arms stretched out as if the only natural result of that great deafening crescendo was to be scooped up in the missing Guy's strong, loving arms.

The grinding din followed its maker around the corner and Larry was left staring down a lifeless street. The little face crumpled in disappointment. How long had Guy been gone? Over a year. On this estate, a host of motorbikes forever roared around. Could it have been only because that morning I happened to be a few steps behind that I had caught the look on Larry's face? And so one question spawned the next. Now I not only had to ask myself just how much happiness does a small child need, but day by day alongside that anxiety burgeoned another. How many hours of security can someone his age do without?

And finally one morning in the office, I cracked and knocked on Trevor Hanley's door. At my request, he went to fetch his father. Then, leaning together
side by side against the wall, the two of them politely heard me out.

The old man thought at first he must have missed the drift of my proposal. Settling himself in his son's swivel chair, he steepled his fingers and peered at me in rather a worried fashion, as if he feared his failure to understand might be due more to his own ageing faculties than to the sheer effrontery of my request. ‘I'm sorry, Lois. Explain all that again. You want to
what
, exactly?'

So I went through it one more time, and took good care to add, ‘It worked very well before, if you remember.'

Trevor took up the argument. ‘But that was just for one week. And you and Audrey and Dana were only working from home because we were putting in the window.'

I wasn't giving up. ‘But I did twice the usual amount of work. You look at the books. You'll see. And I'll come in to the office whenever I can, I promise. Sometimes it might even be for a whole day. And then I won't take lunch hours.'

Trevor was looking at me anxiously, as if he'd started fretting on my behalf. Did he think I was crazy? Or was it just his natural kindness showing through? I took the deepest breath. ‘I'm sure it won't be for long.' The next words nearly choked me. ‘You
see, I care so much about my daughter-in-law. And she won't need this extra help for ever. Her little boy will soon be going into nursery.'

The elder Mr Hanley jumped on the idea of day care. ‘What's wrong with him being looked after by someone else now?'

I picked my way carefully through this one. ‘It's complicated. You see, right at the moment his mother isn't quite herself. She needs someone close at hand to mind him in the house. But because of the state she's in, really it has to be someone she knows. Not a stranger.'

I knew I'd won when Trevor began to go over the details again. ‘And as soon as the child starts at the nursery, you'll drop him off and come straight here, and spend at least those hours in the office?'

‘I promise.'

‘But in the meantime you'll be working from home, but still do a full day's work.'

‘You know me. As long as I have all the files to hand, I'll probably work even longer hours.'

Oh, yes. He knew me. Trevor grinned – a huge broad beam that spread all over his face. ‘It'll seem very strange without you, Lois. You promise you'll come back as soon as –'

He waited for the name he'd never heard.

‘Janie Gay.'

‘As soon as Janie Gay is over her –' He raised an eyebrow. ‘What would you call it? Little collapse?'

A picture swept back from the day before. I'd been outside, scraping a teardrop of bird mess off my kitchen window and Janie Gay was sitting on her step, her mobile phone clamped to her ear. Suddenly Larry rushed round the corner of the house, pointing behind him. ‘Nedgenog! Over there! A nedgenog!'

She'd moved the phone away to spare the person she was talking to, but Larry got it full face. ‘Shut your face, stupid! Can't you see I'm busy
talking
?'

Even the memory of her tone of voice gave me the shivers. My eyes went round the office. Cream walls and tidy cabinets. A touch of colour in the picture on the wall. Calm. Order. Peace of mind. No way around it. I had come to love this place and all my hours in it.

‘Lois?'

I stared at the floor and, when I heard myself answer, realized the person I was trying to comfort was not Trevor Hanley but myself.

‘I am afraid I have no choice.'

There was a silence, broken finally by an explosion of laughter. I looked up to find Trevor giving me the strangest look, halfway between conspiratorial and stern. ‘You realize, Lois, that if this outrageous request had come from anyone except yourself . . .'

He left the sentence trailing. And only on the drive back home did it occur to me that perhaps he thought no one except a customer as cool as myself would ever have dared to ask it.

BUT I WAS
wrong. Over the next few weeks it became clear there was another motive over and above Trevor Hanley's generosity of spirit. Indeed, the arrangement might have been made to suit him. It must be hard to flirt when at any moment your old dad might sidle quietly past an open office doorway and catch you at it – not to mention the embarrassment of having Audrey and Dana stolidly pretend that they're not noticing what's going on. Small wonder there had been no signs of favouritism up till then. Once I was working from home, his interest in me promptly seemed to ratchet up a gear. Twice I went over to Pickstone to find a message on the answerphone saying that he'd be ‘passing by' just after work next day, and if I would like him to drop off a fresh batch of files . . .

It made more work for me. I wasn't going to admit I mostly spent my days on Limmerton Road, so I was forced into a deal of extra travel. I'd watch as Trevor glanced around my pretty living room in search of photos that might offer clues to my attachments. He made a point of admiring my tiny arbour so warmly that I was given reason to suppose that he himself had a much bigger garden. He even took the time between visits to look up the names of one or two unfamiliar plants I hadn't managed to track down in any of my own books or catalogues.

Each time he came, he took his time over the coffee. If I had Larry with me, Trevor would watch his antics with that slightly appalled fascination with which those who have never wanted offspring of their own regard small children. If Larry wasn't there, he never rushed to ask the question, ‘Where's the little man?'