“Why are you so chirpy?” he said. “How can you stand this weather?”
Keiko wondered whether to try to explain about rain, but in the end just kissed his head and said nothing.
“Where’s Mum?” asked Malcolm, when he got back from putting away his cape. Rainwater still rolled down his face in fat drops and he cranked a piece of paper towel out of the dispenser and wiped his head roughly.
“Gone to see Byers,” said Murray.
Malcolm nodded, one upward jerk of his chin, making him look very like his mother, and then made his way towards the cold store.
“What’s happening?” asked Keiko. “Is Mr. Byers going to sell his workshop to the Traders?”
“God knows,” said Murray.
“Is that the secret?” Keiko asked, dropping her voice until she was only murmuring. “Is it something to do with the committee?”
“How many times-” Murray began.
“Oh!” said Keiko, interrupting him. “Dina and Nicole are both fine.”
Murray let go of her and propelled her away from him, but just as she began to ask what was wrong the shop bell rang and the door swept wide open to admit Mr. McKendrick, who would not appreciate-what did Fancy call them?-public displays of affection.
He backed in, closing an enormous umbrella, which he shot deftly into the stand before righting his tweed jacket and turning to face them.
“What a day, what a day,” he said comfortably. “Now don’t you be booking yourself a seat on the plane home, mind.” He twinkled at Keiko and then craned towards the passage to the office with an expectant look. “Is your mother busy, Murray? Will I just go through?”
“She’s not here at the mo,” Murray said.
“I’ll catch her at home,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Just as good.”
Malcolm emerged from the cold store, swinging a chunk of dark meat from a hook in one hand. What does he do in there, in the cold? Keiko asked herself. What could take him all of the time he spends in there with the door shut on him?
“By, that’s a good-looking rib,” said Mr. McKendrick.
Malcolm swung the meat up and rested it against the back of his wrist twisting it this way and that to show it off like a waiter with a bottle of vintage wine.
“I’ve never seen a better colour on a piece of beef when your father himself was alive,” Mr. McKendrick continued, admiring.
Malcolm looked up. “Mum,” he said.
Keiko looked towards the door, where Mrs. Poole was standing, pushing her dripping hair back from her face, her white overall transparent with wet, showing the colours of her clothes underneath.
“Gracie, for God’s sake,” said Mr. McKendrick. “Where have you been? Where’s your coat?” He shook out a large handkerchief and seemed about to dry Mrs. Poole’s face with it but settled for passing it to her and shifting from foot to foot, pointing to where she needed it.
“Just round the corner,” said Mrs. Poole. “I had my brolly, but I’ve left it behind.” She tried a laugh, which came out oddly. Mr. McKendrick frowned at her then turned to look at the water coursing down the window pane and guddling away along the pavement. He caught Keiko’s eye briefly. How could anyone step out into that and forget her umbrella?
“Round the corner where?” he asked.
“Post box.”
“I never saw you.”
“I came back along the lanes.” Mrs. Poole gave a shiver, tiny but too much for Mr. McKendrick; with one movement he had swept off his jacket and settled it around her shoulders. She stiffened for a second, then drooped again.
“And now,” Mr. McKendrick cried, “it’s soup kitchen time.” Being in his cardigan sleeves seemed to have released even more energy in him. “I say soup, Keiko, but ask Malcolm what he made last year. Eh? For the Christmas dinners for the homeless? Eh, Malcolm?”
“Venison casserole,” said Malcolm, with a small smile at Keiko.
Mr. McKendrick reached up and clapped one hand against his shoulder. “Venison casserole for the homeless,” he said, triumphant.
“It’s meat from deer, isn’t it?” said Keiko.
“Aye, Bambi’s mum,” said Murray softly behind her. “Kids love it.”
Mr. McKendrick chortled. “Not at Christmas, Murray. Stewed Rudolph. Very seasonal.” He laughed richly and rubbed his hands again. “So what’s it to be this year, son? Ostrich steaks? Spit-roasted partridge?”
“Not this year, Jimmy,” said Mrs. Poole. “Malcolm’s not going to be doing it this year.”
Mr. McKendrick sobered himself with a gruff cough. “No? No, no, I quite understand. You’ll want them round you this year on Christmas morning, Grace. I quite see that. But you’ll do the cooking on Christmas Eve?” He addressed the question to Malcolm, but Malcolm continued to look at his mother and she answered.
“No, I’m afraid not, Jim.”
Mr. McKendrick was still smiling gently, although a worried look was beginning to form. “But I can count on you to donate the meat?” he said.
“I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Poole, very quietly. She threw one look in Keiko’s direction and then walked with her head down towards the back shop.
Mr. McKendrick looked after her and spoke with every last wisp of a chuckle gone from his voice. “Can we borrow your big pans?”
Mrs. Poole wheeled round and rolled her eyes as if searching the ceiling for some attacking bird. Her voice was ragged. “Of course you can borrow-For God’s sake, Jimmy. What do you think I am?”
“Well, that’s something,” said Mr. McKendrick into the silence she left behind. He mustered himself. “That’s grand. We couldn’t do it without the big pots. We couldn’t do it without you.” He retrieved his umbrella from the stand and nodded goodbye to the three of them, managing a medium-sized smile but not quite meeting their eyes.
“What’s going on?” said Malcolm, staring after his mother.
Murray’s eyes were narrowed and he spoke slowly, thinking it through. “Mum lied to Jimmy there,” he said. “She was seeing Byers, not at the post box.”
“Maybe she did both,” said Malcolm.
“Yeah, but she kept the Byers bit quiet, didn’t she? And if she thinks there’s no cash to spare, that must mean they’ve struck a bargain about my workshop.” He caught hold of Keiko, pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks, her wet hair forgotten. She tried to smile at him, but she was thinking about him saying this was a bad place for him and that he had to get away.
“Great,” Malcolm said. “Mum’s rooked herself, the town plans are up the spout, and the homeless can forget their dinner on Christmas Day. Congratulations, Murray.” Before Murray could answer, he lumbered away.
“Do you want the workshop?” Keiko said.
“I need it for just a wee while longer,” said Murray. “Wait and see.”
“Your mother seems very upset,” said Keiko.
“She’s defied Jimmy and the Traders,” Murray said. “She’s probably terrified. Who wouldn’t be?”
thirty
Monday, 25 November
Mrs. Poole did not look terrified, Keiko thought, as she watched her. She had cracked open the kitchen window to clear the rice steam, and she looked out when she heard the scrape of the slaughterhouse door. She saw Mrs. Poole emerging. The woman looked the same as ever: head down, shoulders slumped, plodding listlessly up the yard with her buckets.
But something was different. It niggled at Keiko while she sat at her desk trying to concentrate, and it was only minutes before she was back again. There it was! Mrs. Poole hadn’t closed the door this morning when she was finished. It was still was ajar and that wasn’t all. Drifts of steam were curling out. Someone was in there.