The Right Thing (18 page)

‘Oh he's got a car then. More than I had at seventeen.' Madeleine tore a narrow strip off the edge of the newspaper and rolled it up between her chubby fingers. She had beautiful fingernails, perfect clean ovals. Kitty had a sharp clear vision of a little girl standing on tiptoe to reach a tap, carefully washing her hands, patting them dry on a towel and making an experimental mess with too much hand cream.

‘I suppose you want me to disappear before they turn up?' Madeleine made a move to get up, but Kitty quickly reached out and grabbed her wrist. Surprisingly, given the girl's bulky size, her fingers met round the slender bones. ‘No! Please, don't leave. There's so much to say, to find out about . . .'

‘About each other?' Madeleine snarled, finishing her sentence. ‘I know what I need to know. You're alive and well and you've been perfectly happy without me.' She grinned suddenly. ‘Though maybe I'll hang on for a bit, have a look at my brother and sister and watch them getting the shock of their lives.'

‘Yes, please stay.' Only reluctantly did Kitty let go of the wrist. It was skin that had been close-knit and new the last time she'd touched it. ‘Actually, they not only know you exist, have known since they were little, but I also told them there was a chance you'd find us. They know I've been doing the research it takes for you to find me.'

‘Oh.' Madeleine slumped back in her chair, disappointed.

‘And where will you go to anyway?' Kitty asked. ‘How did you get here? Did you drive or get a taxi from Redruth?' Even as she said it the words seemed ridiculous. The girl looked as if she could have barely afforded the bus fare from Penzance, let alone a cab.

‘Train, bus, then I hitched a lift from the main road, with some old hippy woman who said she knew you. She said mad things, like she knew who I was and good luck, though I didn't tell her anything. She had one of those fake-mystery smiles, like I'm supposed to think she's telepathic or a witch.' Madeleine laughed, ‘Actually when I got out of her car I got out really quick, 'cos I really thought she was going to kiss me or put a spell on something. She was well weird.'

Rita, Kitty deduced. Rita who was right now probably fidgeting and pacing with curiosity and asking Josh how long she should give it before she popped in to borrow a spanner and find out what was going on.

‘Anyone in?' Kitty jumped. George's big shaggy head appeared round the kitchen door. Absurdly Kitty thought how much he resembled an Irish wolfhound. ‘Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt.' He hovered in the doorway, staring at Madeleine and waiting to be introduced. He must be bored, Kitty realized, in need of even the smallest diversion. ‘Hello George. This is . . . this is my daughter, Madeleine,' she said as clearly and steadily as she could manage. Madeleine was already out of her chair and giving George the smile she might have been keeping in reserve for a better mother than Kitty. ‘You're George Moorfield! Amazing. I've read all your books!' She stood in front of him, looking like a starstruck admirer and George beamed at her, shrugging slightly and trying unsuccessfully to look faintly modest.

‘And I think you're a horrible, pathetic, overrated pornographer,' she went on, keeping the smile going in a strange contrary way. George's expression whizzed from startled to amused, bordering on delighted. Kitty felt like warning him that to laugh might be a mistake. ‘I suppose a shag's out of the question then?' he muttered, not quite far enough under his breath.

‘No,' Madeleine said.

‘No?' said George, puzzled.

‘No, it's not out of the question. You're not unfanciable,' she continued bluntly. George scratched his head and grinned stupidly, stumped for a reply. Kitty's sense of unreality was getting worse. In need of something to do to remind her where and who she was, she picked up the half empty can of tuna from the worktop and went to put it away in the fridge. It didn't say it was dolphin friendly, she noticed, pathetically trying to make some sense of what was going on and failing. She didn't particularly like dolphins; they all had the same false and indiscriminating smile which was a simple genetic accident of the jawline that made fools feel loved. Madeleine was grinning at George as if she'd never met anyone she loved more in her life, and at the same time slating his life-work.

‘Er, I just wondered if there'd been any post?' he eventually asked Kitty, keeping a wary eye on Madeleine.

‘Sorry George, if there had been I'd have brought it over.' Please go away, she willed him, closing the fridge door loudly in the hope that it would sound like a hint. She heard something fall over inside it, something messy from the top shelf splashing and clattering to the bottom. An egg, probably, demanding maximum effort for clearing up which she felt was well-deserved, seeing as she didn't seem to be handling anything too well just now.

‘Right. Just that I'm expecting the beginnings of a divorce. Er . . .' George continued staring at Madeleine for a moment or two, then backed out of the door. ‘See you . . . around? Are you staying?' he said to her, looking worried in case she said yes.

‘Yes. Well probably,' she told him. As the door closed Madeleine's smile vanished and she turned on Kitty. ‘The man you married, the father of these two kids you've got, is he
my
father too?'

‘No he's not.' Kitty felt exhausted. She wished she could put Madeleine in a cupboard for a few hours while she collected her thoughts.

‘I shall want to know about him. And about why you've got George Moorfield's mail being delivered here,' Madeleine said. ‘You can tell me later though, maybe tomorrow.' She leaned back against the dresser, hugging herself into the coat again. ‘Can I stay?'

Petroc's car swished across the gravel into the yard, skidding slightly as he braked and turned at the same time. Glyn did that sometimes, showing off like a schoolboy when he was particularly happy about things. He hadn't done it lately. Kitty felt sick.

‘Of course you can stay, we can all . . .'

‘Yeah I know, get to know each other.' The sneer was back, but with less venom. The door opened and Petroc hauled his college bag through it, hurling it hard onto the table.

‘Oh. Hi,' he said, looking at Madeleine with no particular interest. There were often strangers in the kitchen: writers, stray walkers, people off the beach who were desperate enough to ask to use the loo.

‘Hello little brother,' Madeleine said.

On the bus Fergus had told Lily she was a scraggy cow which was particularly uncalled-for when she'd just given him the best part of a Crunchie bar. Lily stamped angrily up the lane from the bus stop, ignoring Russell who miaowed eagerly and trotted along fast beside her, desperate to be stroked.

‘You should eat more,' Fergus had said as he gobbled it quickly, shedding flecks of gold honeycomb down the front of his Quiksilver fleece. Then he'd come out with the classic. Lily strode faster, more furiously, thinking about it. ‘You'll never get a bloke to fancy you till you grow some tits.' As if, she thought, turning off into Rita's gateway, as if she cared, as if it was completely compulsory for every girl to provide a pair of globular toys for some fumbling adolescent jerk.

‘Hi! You're in a hurry, you OK?' Rita was out by her front door, tidying up the dried-out leftovers of last summer's plants. Where she'd cleared out old leaves, new soft green growth was coming through the earth. It had made her envious, that nature could let plants renew themselves annually like that, but not people.

‘I'm OK.' Lily turned off the road onto Rita's path and flopped down on her doorstep, looking at her splendidly skinny legs arranged in front of her. ‘I'm thinking about men and balls.'

‘Oh yeah?'

‘Footballs, cricket balls,
their
balls, big round bouncy breasts – all the things they like to play with. Don't they ever want more grown-up toys?'

Rita sat back on her heels and laughed. Lily could see her fillings glinting bright gold, like the inside of Fergus's Crunchie. ‘Well of course they do. Sometimes they like long sleek cars, it's hard to part them from the TV remote control and I'm told that up-country, where these things actually work, they can't go out without clutching a titchy dick-sized mobile phone. Why, what's brought this on?'

‘Someone, someone stupid and pathetic, said I was too thin for boys to like. As if I care.' Lily folded her legs under her and wrapped her arms around her knees.

Rita stopped grinning. ‘To be honest you are getting a bit Bambi-like,' she ventured warily. ‘But I expect you're in a growing phase, stretching a bit.'

‘I don't think so,' Lily told her, concentrating on twisting her shoelace round and round. ‘I just don't want . . .'

‘Don't want what?' Rita prompted gently.

‘Anything much.' Lily looked up and shrugged, grinning at her. ‘Can I stay for supper? Then you can see that sometimes I do actually eat. I'll do the dishes.'

Rita stood up and arched her back, stretching her body with her hands on her hips. The gesture reminded Lily of joky versions of pregnant women. The thought of pregnancy almost made her shudder, the ultimate in loss-of-control – a runaway body, two, your own on the outside and the wild greedy one inside, sapping all your nutrients and leaving you feeling sick and wasted and huge and dead.

‘Actually, I think you ought to go home,' Rita said eventually, ‘I gave a lift to someone who was going to your place. If she's still there you might want to see her.'

‘Mysterious. Who is she?'

‘Go and have a look. She might have gone by now, but you should still go, just in case.' Rita reached out a hand and hauled Lily up from the step. She gave her a quick hug and stroked her hair. ‘Go on,' she urged, giving Lily a small push. ‘Look, your cat's still waiting by the gate. And take care of yourself.'

Glyn stared at the display of spades and tried to feel like a wise old gardener with years of hard-acquired knowledge (perhaps even several weathered generations'-worth) behind him. The only immediate differences he could see between the various implements were the prices, and the fact that some of them were in appropriate shades of cabbage green while others were in shiny stainless steel or toy-like primary colours as if they were for hugely oversized children to build sandcastles on the beach. Around him, people mooched about pushing their equally toy-like green plastic trolleys containing a couple of strips of too-early bedding plants, packets of seed, cartons of lawn food or some bright new thornproof gloves. Amateurs, he sniffed to himself, then felt remorseful. Maybe not one of them would have to dither over the selection of a simple spade, more than possibly any of them might be able to look at him scornfully and say, ‘That's the one you want, mate,' no hesitation.

He picked out one with a pale, shiny wooden shaft and a blade in a tint that brought to mind the British racing-green Austin he'd once owned, felt its weight and wondered what, exactly, he was supposed to be feeling
for.
Which was better, a lightweight tool that would probably bend to uselessness after a few hours but make the effort of lifting the earth easier, or a vast heavy one that would still be going strong when Lily's grandchildren were digging their own allotments, but would give him a spine like a figure seven in minutes? Green would disappear into the foliage the moment he leaned it against the hedge, but scarlet looked frivolous, a plaything for the weekend fun-gardener who'd probably think bastard trenching was a Mafioso way of getting rid of troublesome enemies.

‘Tricky, isn't it?' Glyn was startled out of his reverie by a woman's voice extremely close to his ear.

‘Decisions, I mean. Goodness, you
are
Glyn Harding aren't you? I mean when you've only met someone once . . . though I'm pretty good at faces. Please don't think I accost strangers generally.'

The owner of this face was smiling confidently at him. She wasn't really going to allow him
not
to be Glyn Harding. She looked familiar. Predatory teeth and eyes that gave the impression of seeking out trouble. He remembered.

‘Sorry. I was miles away. Rosemary-Jane, isn't it?'

‘Rose,' she corrected briskly. ‘Names like Rosemary-Jane are only OK for the under-nines; so very Milly-Molly-Mandy, I always think, don't you?'

‘Er, I hadn't considered really.' Actually he had, many times, during the months when Petroc, at about twelve, had failed to persuade any of his school-friends to start calling him Pete. He'd been quite alarmingly troubled at the time, so much so that Glyn and Kitty had tried to please him by going along with the new name. But it had sounded false and self-conscious, calling ‘Er,
Pete,
supper's ready!' up the stairs. Now, though, Petroc seemed to be quite proud of his name. Perhaps he'd grown into it, or found that girls liked it, or had simply met several people with worse ones and was relieved not to be called Horatio or Marmaduke.

‘Nice jacket,' Rose murmured, a speculative finger reaching out for a second and giving the light wool fabric a brief stroke. ‘Armani?'

‘Kenzo, in a sale a couple of years back.' Glyn felt childishly pleased at having his taste in clothes approved by a woman so obviously urbane and knowing. Rose was wearing a sleek charcoal grey trouser suit that would have looked more at home behind an executive desk than it did in a mid-Cornwall garden centre. Beneath the jacket was a simple scoop-necked top. She wore no jewellery except for silver stud earrings, no fussy scarf, just a frosting of streaky gold hair hanging on her shoulders. Glyn wondered what on earth she was doing there and the ridiculous thought shot into his mind that she'd perhaps been tailing him. She might want to stroke more than his sleeve. The thought was troubling, just like the ones he now and then had about Rita, but not unexciting, though on balance he'd still prefer her to be several hundred miles away, sorting out things with her husband so Kitty could be let off counselling duty.