Threats at Three (25 page)

“Jeems! Jeems!” she yelled, but her voice had nearly given out, and she hoped to see the little white dog somewhere in the murky darkness of the trees. It was very quiet, until a sudden squawk from a frightened blackbird caused her to stop and look carefully into the undergrowth. There she was! Almost disguised by the surrounding thicket, Jeems’s wagging tail showed up clearly. Gran forced her way through, scratching her hands and legs and cursing all dogs, until she could grab the tail and haul Jeems out of the rabbit hole.

“Come here, you little devil!” she said, and stood still to catch her breath. Then she peered more closely across the thicket. What was that over there? “Looks like a poachers’ lair,” she said to Jeems, and began to work her way towards it.

It had clearly once been a gamekeeper’s hut, but long disused. Somebody had patched it up with bits of wood and tarpaulin, and to Gran’s disappointment, had padlocked the door. She peered through a crack, but could see only a dead pheasant hanging head down from a crossbeam. The glorious feathers were still quite bright, so Gran knew it hadn’t been there long. She turned and made her way back to the footpath, dragging a reluctant Jeems behind her. “Our woods are full of surprises,” she said. “A secret world, dog Jeems.”

By the time she had followed the footpath round three sides of the wood, and then negotiated another field and into the main road, both she and Jeems were hot and tired. Back home in her kitchen, she filled the dog’s water bowl and looked at the clock. It was twelve o’clock, and she saw Lois going by the kitchen window.

“Hi, Mum. What’s for lunch? Had a good morning?” Then she looked down at Jeems seemingly drinking an entire bowl of water. “Good heavens! Where’ve you two been? Gossiping in the sun round at Joan’s, I expect. Well, don’t look like that, Mum. I was only guessing.”

This clinched it. Gran had been going to tell Lois about the hut in the woods, but now decided against it. She could hear Lois’s mocking voice, teasing her about being a townie and having no idea about the foolishness of taking a rabbit-hunting terrier off the lead right next to an open field. Anyway, the hut was just another old tumbledown place for poachers or them bird-watchers. She put it firmly from her mind.

I
WOULDN’T MIND DRIVING IT,” SAID JACK JR., STANDING AMONGST the others, looking down at the skeleton of their soap box. “I reckon it’s going to be the best.”

“How old are you, Jack?” said John Thornbull.

“Fifteen,” said Jack.

“No you’re not,” said one of the other boys. “I know which class you’re in at school, an’ they’re all thirteen or fourteen.”

“I’m a slow learner,” said Jack, and then burst out laughing. “All right, then, I’m thirteen but nearly fourteen. I know I could drive it. I think we should all have a chance. Maybe a competition to see who’s fastest? When it’s finished, Mr. Thornbull?”

John had been so charmed by the sight of Jack Jr. laughing that he didn’t think for a minute as he answered that that was a good idea. “But wait a minute,” he said, “there’s probably an age limit.”

“I don’t see why,” Jack said. “There’s no engine, an’ as long as I can reach the brake, I’m no more of a risk than somebody older.”

“I’ll look into it,” John said, thinking privately that a lad as handy as Jack was probably safer than some of the young farmers who drove like madmen round the village.

Jack had to be content with that, and in due course went back home, his spirits sinking as he reached his front gate. The police had been to see his mother, and she had told them about the dealer who had been pestering him. He was doubly scared now. If they caught him, he’d probably know it was Jack Jr. who had told on him. The dealer had threatened him over and over again with reprisals, not just from himself but from his mates. He’d got a lot of mates, he’d said to Jack, and none of ’em too particular about who they cut up. “Spoil your chances with the women, they will,” he’d said with a leer.

He couldn’t decide who had told his mother. It could have been Mrs. Meade, or her receptionist at New Brooms, Mr. Thornbull’s wife. Hazel Thornbull had been really nice, shielding him, and because he liked her he had blurted it out. Well, it didn’t matter now. In some ways he was relieved. Nothing he could do about it now the police were on the case.

The twins were playing on the swing Mum had bought with her New Brooms wages, and little Frankie stood unsteadily with his arms outstretched and a broad smile. Jack Jr. scooped him up and hugged him hard. If only they’d had a different dad, one like all the other kids at Youth Club, then Frankie could have a real father to look up to. Jack hated his own father now, and had stopped looking in the mirror in case he saw a likeness. He just hoped Mum wouldn’t be tempted to take him back. They were managing, weren’t they?

“Hello, young Jack!” It was Derek Meade, cruising by in his van. He pulled up and got out. “Just the man I wanted to see,” he said, crossing the road and smiling kindly at Jack. “How’s the soap box going?”

“All right,” Jack muttered.

“Good. I’ve heard you’re a handy bloke, and wondered if you’d like to give me a hand? Paid work, o’ course. I’ve got a job to do over at Fletching, and it’ll probably be in the school holidays by the time I get round to it. Nothing regular, of course, and not to interfere with schoolwork. But we could see how you get on.”

Jack looked away, down the road and into the distance. “No thanks,” he said, and walked off with Frankie in his arms, not looking back.

 

 

“SO MUCH FOR A GOOD DEED IN A NAUGHTY WORLD,” DEREK SAID later, as he sat down to watch the evening news.

“What are you on about?” Gran said. Lois had insisted on washing up this evening, and sent her and Derek out of the kitchen to watch television.

Derek told her what had happened with Jack Jr., and Gran said that she was not surprised. “What do you expect, with a family all at sixes and sevens? I don’t care what the modern generation says, a child needs a mother and a father, and a mother staying at home until they’re old enough to look after themselves. Some of these kids of seven and eight have a door key slung round their necks to let themselves in when they get home from school! And then they’re surprised when their kids go off the rails!”

“Better not say all that when Lois is around,” said Derek.

“As if I would!” Gran said, and fidgeted in her chair until she had calmed down.

“I shall tell her about me having a go at child therapy,” he said. “I suppose I’ll get Brownie points for trying?”

“Doubt it,” said Gran. “Anyway, shush, they’re talking about that reality show that’s gone all wrong.”

When Lois joined them, she sat down next to Derek on the sofa and tucked her hand in his. “I know what you did,” she said. “Paula rang me and said I was to thank you, and Jack had told her about you offering him work and was saying he wished he’d not turned you down. So it’s on, if you still want him.”

“There you are, then,” said Gran. “Virtue rewarded. Now could you please both be quiet while I watch my favourite program?”

 

 

THE LIGHT WAS GOING AS JACK SR. WORKED HIS WAY INTO THE wood, avoiding footpaths and keeping his progress as quiet as the thicket would allow. He had managed to filch a few potatoes out of the store at the hall, and he’d picked some nettle tops on his way home, knowing from his horticulture studies that they were palatable as young shoots. On his way home! That was a joke. Still, this old gamekeeper’s hut was better than a hole in the side of a bank, like some bloody badger’s sett. He’d stayed in one for a single night in desperation, but then he’d found this place and had made it watertight at least. In fact, it was so comparatively comfortable that he was tempted to work on it and make it more so. But if he faced facts, he knew he should keep on the move, a successful policy so far. He’d given Mrs. T-J a fictitious address, and she had obviously not checked. She was being quite nice to him when she saw his work was good.

It would have been a perfect sanctuary, if only Paula had not been working at the hall. Much as he loved to see her now and then, even if she was as cold as charity towards him, he realised that sooner or later she would split on him. Probably tell her boss at New Brooms. But would it matter? He’d got so used to living rough and keeping out of sight, that he had almost forgotten why he was doing it. At first it had been because he couldn’t think of an alternative. Paula had chucked him out with threats of going to the police, so he’d gone. But if she’d not put them on to him by now, she was probably not going to.

There was still that bloke he’d punched. Nasty piece of work, he’d been, and swore to get back at Jack sooner or later. That sort never forget. No, it’d be safer if he kept to his secret life for a while yet. He’d learned so many tricks and dodges now, that he was quite capable of disappearing at a moment’s notice, should the need arise.

One thing he had learned and was sure he would never forget. He would never hit anyone, especially Paula, ever again. The thought sickened him now. But what would he do if he found somebody else threatening his kids? They were still his kids, and he was only too well aware of how vulnerable they could be without a father to defend them. Not against violence, perhaps, but bullying and all that stuff that schoolkids had to go through. That would be the test.

He opened the padlock and walked inside. The pheasant seemed to accuse him with its milky eye. “You needn’t look at me like that,” Jack said. “I’ll have your head off and your feathers out in no time, see if I don’t.”

F
ATHER RODNEY WOKE EARLY. HE TURNED IN HIS LARGE BED and looked at the clock. Half past six. Too early to get up, even though Sunday was his busiest working day. His first service was a nine o’clock Communion over at Waltonby. The sun was shining strongly through the flowery curtains his late wife, Anthea, had loved so much, and he wondered whether to get up and get some fresh air before spending most of the day in the cold, stony interiors of his village churches. He had four parishes in his benefice: Long Farnden, where he lived, Waltonby, Fletching and a tiny village, Hallhouse, with only half a dozen cottages and an ancient Saxon church, beautiful in its plainness. He tried to give them all services most Sundays, and today Holy Communion was in Waltonby, followed by Matins in Farnden church, and then home to a cold lunch. Evensong was at Fletching, and the tiny village had no service until next Sunday.

His wife had died unexpectedly, five years ago, when she was only thirty-nine. She had been a successful athlete, particularly good at short-distance sprinting. They had had no children, and she was the centre of his world. When she collapsed one hot afternoon at an athletics meeting, he had prayed as he had never prayed before for her recovery, but in vain. She had died four hours after being taken to hospital, where they discovered she had had an undiagnosed damaged heart.

Now he soldiered on alone. He knew he was regarded as an eligible bachelor by presentable spinsters in his parishes, but he could not imagine sharing his life with anyone but his beloved Anthea.

He put his legs over the side of the bed, thinking that by doing so the rest of his body had no alternative but to follow. This always worked, and once upright, he drew back the curtains and was glad. It was a beautiful morning, and he pulled on some casual clothes and set off up the Waltonby road at a brisk pace. Anthea would not have liked to see him go to seed.

As he passed by the hall he quickened his pace. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted by Mrs. T-J and forced to listen to her version of the Gospel according to St. Mark. She must, as a child, have been made to absorb the entire Old and New Testaments by heart. He had learned very early on never to contradict her on a matter of dogma or Biblical reference. She would have made an excellent bishop!

He had been astonished when he heard she was intending to drive the WI soap box. Was there nothing this woman could not do?