Fancy shrugged. “She came back. Offered to baby-sit.”
“Offered?” said Craig.
“Well,” said Fancy. “Didn’t say no.”
“She looks a bit fed up with it,” said Murray, squinting up at Keiko.
“Nah, she was fed up already,” Fancy said. “I think she’d been crying.”
“What?” said Murray. “Bloody hell, Fancy. Why are we standing around down here staring at her then?”
“So how did you get on?” he said, upstairs in the kitchen, blowing on the top of his tea. “First day and all that.”
“Fine,” said Keiko. She smiled at him. “Thank you for asking.” Her voice wobbled as she spoke. “Please eat. I have plenty.” The bottom cupboard was stacked with cash and carry multi-packs of Kit-Kats and Bountys and Mars Bars, crackling heaps that threatened to slide out onto the lino whenever she disturbed them. Craig dipped his Twix in his tea and stirred it around before sucking off the chocolate.
“I can’t believe you still do that,” said Fancy, shaking her head at him.
“How come?” said Craig, taking the Twix out of his mouth with a long suck that put deep dimples in his cheeks and left a ring of chocolate on his lips afterwards. “Don’t you still do anything you used to do at school?”
Fancy blinked and snapped her head around to stare-without seeing-at Murray instead.
“So, Murray,” she said. “What’s em… Where’s-yeah!-Where’s your mum off to with Pet, then?”
“Cemetery,” Murray said.
“Who’s dead?” Viola asked with her eyes wide.
Fancy shushed her. “Murray’s daddy, sweetheart,” she said. “You know that. And so his mummy’s gone to visit him. Sorry. Really. Sorry.” She glared at Craig.
“Bloody nuts,” said Murray again. “Visiting his grave. As if he’s in there waiting for company.”
“Er, Murray,” said Fancy nodding at Viola who was owl-eyed now.
“Viola, ask your mum what Mrs. Watson called Mrs. Dessing,” said Craig. Fancy smiled at him, forgiving.
“Mrs. Dessing that hates you?” said Viola.
“Who hates you?” said Keiko. “Why?”
“I made posters advertising massage treatments,” said Fancy. “And Sandra Dessing reckoned she’d cracked the code.”
Craig shook his head and laughed. “But what old Vinegar”-he glanced at Viola-“Bits didn’t get was how a letter in the local paper condemning Fancy’s morals was gold dust. Like saying a book’s full of filth. Instant bestseller! Nobody would have looked at the posters if she hadn’t kicked up-no offence.”
“None taken,” Fancy said. “Like how nobody ever reads their junk mail.”
“Ha!” said Keiko. And they all turned and stared at her. Even Viola, sitting on Keiko’s lap, twisted round to look. “Junk mail!” she said. “It’s getting cleverer and cleverer. And then we get more and more sophisticated. So it gets cleverer still. Until it looks like a cheque or a credit card or even something sent to frighten you.”
There was a silence.
“Okay,” said Fancy slowly. Craig frowned and Murray gave that look of his with one eyebrow hooked up under his hair. Then Keiko laughed and they joined her, still not understanding.
And suddenly, sitting there with her fingers laced across Viola’s warm middle, listening to them all, she felt all the daydreams go: the circle of friends sipping sherry and savouring disagreement; the like-minded others somewhere else in the department, somewhere Lynne let only favoured, home students go; the mentor she had dreamed of, the sage at whose feet she would sit and from whose wisdom she would grow wise. She wouldn’t want to be anywhere near Dr. Bryant’s feet anyway.
Painchton, she thought. And really, how much more typical for it to be so unlikely. A better story in the end. Fancy and Murray and Craig. A living room covered with books and papers and pretty tea-cups. Wine glasses even. And a solitary scholar: Trollope in the post office, Einstein in the patent office, Nishisato above the butchers. She would not be like those other girls, who disappeared leaving tears and worry behind them. This one would last.
“Can I ask?” she said. “Who is Mrs. Dessing? I know Pet-your foster-parent, Fancy-and Mrs. Watson with the vegetables, of course. But Mrs. Dessing?”
“Where do you start?” said Craig, lacing his hands together and cracking his knuckles.
Downstairs, Malcolm could hear them laughing even over the noise of the suet grinder. She was settling in; she would stay.
He worked until there was no more work to do and even then waited until he had heard everyone leave and Keiko begin to run bath water before he let himself out of the shop and set off home.
ten
Wednesday, 16 October
“They swallowed it whole,” said Kenny Imperiolo. All five of them were in the room above the ironmongers, glasses of good wine at their elbows, trays of nibbles in the middle. “International outreach to get lottery funding to do up the Green and plant some petunias. I thought they’d balk at some of it for sure.”
“Well, to be fair, Ken,” said Sandra Dessing, “Jimmy did have to field some awkward questions.”
“Aye, especially when you let slip about special committee meetings,” said Iain Ballantyne.
“Me?” Mrs. Dessing began, but Mr. McKendrick shushed them.
“Children, children,” he said. “Why are you bickering? Everything’s going to plan. We should be congratulating ourselves. Quietly, of course.” He grinned around them all. “Softly, softly, cooky monkey.”
“Catchy,” said Iain Ballantyne. ‘It’s ‘catchy monkey.’”
Mr. McKendrick frowned then threw back his head and roared with laughter.
“Freudian slip!” he said, his eyes merry. “Oh, that’s a good one.” Then he sobered, seeing that no one was laughing along. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s the matter with you?”
Kenny, Sandra, Iain, and Etta did not look at one another and slowly they dropped their eyes until they were not looking at Mr. McKendrick either.
“Nothing wrong with me,” said Kenny at last. “I mean, except that it’s a lot to take on-changing hearts and minds-and people are always looking to catch you out these days.”
“Sandra?” said Mr. McKendrick. “Iain? Tell me you’re not getting cold feet too.”
“I don’t like to think of my name and face splashed all over the papers if I’m honest,” said Iain Ballantyne. Mrs. Dessing nodded.
“No such thing as bad publicity,” said Mr. McKendrick. “And if Etta’s all right then you should be, by Jove, for she’s got more at stake here than us all.”
Etta McLuskie took a sip from her glass to steady herself before answering.
“I can’t say I don’t have concerns, Jim,” she said. “I mean, don’t misunderstand me, I absolutely share your desire… I’m just not sure it’s right. Never mind legal.”
“Oh-ho! It’s not legal,” said Mr. McKendrick. “That’s for sure. But Painchton is a special place-a unique place-and this is a unique opportunity. The world’s too bland these days and we’re standing against that. Come on, people! We need to stick together.”
“Aye, but we’re not, are we?” said Mrs. McLuskie. “We’re not even all here.”
“Grace has a lot on her plate,” said Mr. McKendrick.
“She surely doesn’t look very happy,” said Mrs. Dessing.
“Well, not when you had a go at her in front of the whole board,” said Iain.
“I did no such thing,” said Mrs. Dessing, hotly, suddenly upright in her armchair.
“Oh, leave it,” said Iain. “Your tongue’s that sharp sometimes, Sandra, you could floss your teeth from inside.”
She turned and gaped at him, her eyes filling with tears. “I thought I could count on a bit of-” she said, then bit her lip and turned to Mr. McKendrick. “Is Grace okay, though, Jimmy? Speaking of counting on people.”