“Are you joking?” said Keiko. “Thank God Rosa took me out to the chippy.”
“Yeah, just as well you’ve got me as a Sherpa.”
“Eh?”
“Don’t say eh. And don’t say God. Or chippy. What’s happened to you? If your English goes up the spout, who d’you think’s gonna get the blame? Muggins here.”
“Muggins?”
“Don’t say that either.”
“So many rules,” said Keiko, rolling her eyes. “No one told me hostess gifts in Britain were such a minefield.” She threw teabags into two mugs and poured over water from the kettle.
“This ain’t Britain,” Fancy said. “This is small-town east-coast Scotland. Cue the banjo music. You’re in lonely country now.”
“You are joking, aren’t you?” Keiko said. “This is a safe place really?”
“What you on about?” Fancy said, rummaging in Keiko’s cupboard for a packet of biscuits. “You’re not making much of dent in this lot, are you?”
“They brought more,” Keiko said. “I’m on about…” She didn’t want to mention Tash again after the atmosphere last time. Fancy had denied it, but Keiko knew better. But she didn’t have to mention Tash because that’s not all it was. “Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Glendinning?”
“From the newsagents? Course I do. He’s got a belly like a beach ball, she’s got a face like a smacked arse. Why?”
“They said something I can’t get out of my head.”
“Oh?” said Fancy.
“They called me this one. But I thought the Traders had never sponsored a student before. So how can I be this one? It smells fishy.”
Fancy sniffed. “Something does,” she agreed. “No offence, Keeks, but you should get yourself over to McKendrick’s and get a sink trap. Your drain’s minging.”
“It’s been like that since I got here,” Keiko said.
“Probably something in U-bend,” Fancy said. “If you get something hard stuck, it clogs like nobody’s business. You need to get Malcolm or Murray up and see.”
“Murray,” said Keiko, then flushed as Fancy arched an eyebrow. “Malcolm wouldn’t fit under the sink.”
“Good point,” Fancy said. “You forget once you’re used to him.”
Sunday, 27 October
She made her way towards the Pooles’ house at noon with the mints and chrysanthemum, passing the Bridge Hotel, crossing the street of big houses, through the street of small houses with chain-link fences and cars parked at the kerb, onto a quiet curving road where bungalows were set on green cushions of lawn that rose plumply from the pavement’s edge. Where is everyone? she wondered. It was a pleasant autumn day, but the streets were deserted. Where were all the people?
A few at church; a few more at golf; many still in bed or at least in dressing gowns, with the Sunday papers almost read and the third pot of coffee brewing. And upstairs at the ironmongers five of them were sitting round a table, no armchairs and crystal glasses of wine this morning, big decisions to be made today.
“Is it my imagination,” Mr. McKendrick was saying, “or am I still sensing cold feet here?”
Kenny Imperiolo, Etta McLuskie, Sandra Dessing, and Iain Ballantyne looked at one another, waiting for someone to speak first. At last, Sandra shook her head.
Mr. McKendrick saw the shake and pounced. “Good,” he said. “Maybe you can talk round this lot, then.”
“It’s just…” Sandra began. “We do see, of course. And we do all feel the same way you do. We’re Painchton folk. And we agreed we had to do something. To get fresh… whatever. It’s just that…”
“Keeping up with the cover story isn’t easy,” said Iain Ballantyne. His hand shook a little as he fiddled with his pen.
Mr. McKendrick noticed but his expression showed nothing. “I wouldn’t say cover story,” he said. “I’d say what we told the open meeting was for general consumption in the meantime. But come the hour, come the day, they’ll all be invited to the party. There’s plenty for everyone.”
The silence in the room lasted even longer this time and was only broken when Mr. McKendrick spoke again. “And as to confidentiality,” he said, “it’s Etta it’s weighing on. The rest of us just need to hold firm.”
Etta McLuskie turned and looked out through the net curtains to the bay window above the Pooles’.
“Is Grace coming?” she asked. “I’d be happier to hear from her own lips that she’s still with us.”
“She’s busy today,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Making Keiko Sunday lunch.”
A figure, garbled by the frosted glass, came towards the door and opened it. Murray. He started to hold out both hands towards her but then stepped aside, smoothing his hair back, gesturing for her to come in. Mrs. Poole was standing at the back of the hall, silhouetted in a doorway by harsh kitchen light and looking strange without her overall. She said hello and then went back to her cooking with a distracted glance over her shoulder. Murray led the way into the living room, where Malcolm was halfway across the thick carpet towards the door.
He stopped as they entered and turned back. “You found us okay, then,” he said, his voice seeming more muted than ever, as if soaked up by the room, by the plush upholstery, textured wallpaper and velvety rugs, thick drapes hanging snugly ceiling to floor, creamy net muffling the window.
Keiko sat down in one of the bulbous armchairs, sliding herself backwards until she rested against its cushions with her feet off the floor, and looked between the two brothers, smiling what she hoped was a friendly smile. Malcolm had settled into another chair and sat back, his head cradled, his feet firmly planted and a hand clasping each of the arms.
Murray perched on the sofa, making no impression on its muscular cushions, his head bowed under the lea of the headrest. “So,” he said. “Wild weekend so far? Ready for more?”
“It’s good to see you here at last,” said Malcolm. “We’ve left it too long.”
“Not at all, please don’t mention it,” said Keiko. “It hasn’t been a time for visiting.”
Malcolm glanced towards the fireplace, where framed photographs were arranged, and in the lull that followed, Keiko went to look at them. There were studio portraits of babies and little boys, a wedding photograph of a young Mrs. Poole in a bushy veil and tight dress, and a black-and-white picture of Mr. Poole, half-hidden by a spray of freesia. He was in a suit and tie, with Mrs. McLuskie’s chain of office around his neck and he must have been a huge man, since the chain that reached to Etta McLuskie’s waist was stretched wide across his suit shoulders and rested between his lapels.
He explained Malcolm, Keiko mused, but not Murray. Except that the face in the picture, when she looked closer, was an unsettling mixture; the peaked hair and lifted eyebrow of Murray along with the high plane of cheek and long stretch of jowl of Malcolm. It was as though the shadow of each of their faces lay in his wherever she was not looking, and when she shifted her gaze to catch it, it shied away again.
Beginning to wonder if she was being rude, she turned back to the room. Both boys were staring at her. Both looked away as Mrs. Poole come in with a tray of glasses. Keiko picked up the chrysanthemum and chocolates and went towards her.
“Just a… a wee something,” Keiko said.
“Have a cheesy biscuit,” said Mrs. Poole over her shoulder, as she went back to the kitchen. “Have a Twiglet.”
Keiko sat back down, alternately sipping and nibbling. Murray went back to his perch. Malcolm heaved himself up and came towards the table, bent over with a sigh, and swiped a glass up off the tray. He raised the glass to Keiko and emptied it into his mouth.
“Time to carve,” he said, “and make the gravy,” and started moving towards the kitchen.