Ray had often talked of getting a dog. I’d always opposed him. All that responsibility, all that shit. It was Ray who sorted out dog food and bowls, leads and worming tablets in the first day or so while I still reeled around in shock.
Digger had quietly recognised Ray as his new master. Sitting in the cellar while Ray worked at his carpentry, emerging at his heels with a frosting of sawdust on his fur. The kids were all over him and he was tolerant of their prodding and patting, slinking away when he’d had enough.
The phone was ringing as we arrived back.
‘Is Clive there?’
‘No, he’s not. We were expecting him back last Thursday actually, but…’
The young man on the other end sighed. ‘Look, can you tell him Pete rang? Tell him the cheque bounced, will you? You don’t know where he is, do you?’
‘No, just said he was visiting friends.’
‘Great,’ he said. Didn’t sound like he meant it. So we weren’t the only ones having money troubles with Clive. And where the hell was he? Surely he could have rung to say he’d be away longer? I jotted the message down and left it with the pile of mail for Clive.
I made fresh coffee and debated when to ring Mrs Hobbs. Did she work? I could leave it till after tea. What if her husband answered? Did he know she’d hired me? Had he put her up to it, as Martin had suggested? I dallied around, watering plants, tidying corners, sorting newspapers and bottles for a recycling trip. Displacement activities.
‘Oh, get on with it, Sal.’ I spoke aloud. Checked the number in my phone book. She was in.
‘Mrs Hobbs, Sal Kilkenny here. I’d like to arrange to see you.’
‘Have you found him, Martin, have you found him?’ Eager, hopeful.
‘Yes, I’ve been in touch with him.’
‘Is he alright? What’s happened to him? How’s he managing?’ Her questions tumbled out, edged with relief and excitement. I was angry with her; gripped the receiver tight, spoke formally. ‘He’s alright. I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.’
‘Oh, it’s such a relief. If anything had happened…But he’s alright, you say. Thank God.’
‘She never cared before.’ Martin’s words.
I made an appointment with Mrs Hobbs for the following morning. Her effusive thanks rang in my ears as I slammed down the receiver and rubbed at the cramp in my fingers.
It obviously hadn’t occurred to her that Martin might tell me about the situation at home. Or had she repressed those horrible revelations for so long that they’d ceased to exist? Denial. What did I know? Martin’s leaving might have forced her to face the truth; perhaps she wanted to do all she could to make amends, even prosecute her husband.
It wasn’t fair to condemn her before I’d confronted her about it. But I don’t always feel fair. And I couldn’t shift the image of that small boy gathering the courage to tell, waiting for the right moment, watching her face contort as she whispered her own threats and denials. Knowing it would happen again and again.
In the precious time before the school run, I worked in the garden. I cut the grass with our old roller mower, emptying the grass box on the compost heap, savouring the crisp sweet smell. I watered tubs and window boxes. I thought about JB, re-running in my head our meeting, freezing the frame on my favourite moments. Before long those memories of him would be concentrated in one or two images. I’d forget what he actually looked like; those fine cheekbones, warm brown eyes, the olive complexion, the quality of his smile. I wondered if there was a photo or a self-portrait of him in the squat. What would happen to his pictures, his things?
I tidied up the rampant clematis round the back door. Mourned over the stumps of marigolds that the slugs had got to. The slug traps were brimming. It could have been worse. I’d killed a fair few of the buggers. There was satisfaction in that.
I hadn’t told Martin about the funeral. Would he like to be there? Would he be allowed to come? He wasn’t a free agent, I’d gathered that much. Though not the whys or hows of it.
I was eager to wash my hands of the whole affair. I wanted to forget about it. I’d tell Mrs Hobbs what I knew. And what I’d learned. Give her a rollicking for lying to me. Work out my bill and give her the change she was owed. Close my file on Martin Hobbs. Or so I thought. Just shows how wrong you can be.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mrs Hobbs was waiting on the Dobson’s doorstep when I arrived. That threw me. I’d hoped to gather my thoughts, prepare myself to tackle her.
‘Sorry I’m early,’ she said, ‘I thought the traffic would be worse. I don’t often come in on a Saturday.’ She looked so respectable in her beige lightweight suit, a moss-coloured blouse with one of those old-fashioned cravat collars. Oh, I know abuse happens in every sort of family, but it still seemed incongruous that the plump, middle-aged woman who stood clutching her handbag and smiling nervously at me, had that dark secret.
‘Come in.’ I unlocked the door and led her downstairs. The office still smelt of paint and looked dingy and unwelcoming. I pulled up a chair for her, opposite mine.
‘He’s alright then? Where is he? How did you find him?’ She was grinning through the questions. She had a nice smile; it reminded me of the picture of Martin with the fish. ‘Oh, I was so pleased when you rang, you can’t imagine…’ I wasn’t returning her smile. She noticed. ‘Is something wrong?’ Worry enlarged those brown eyes. ‘I thought you said he was alright. What is it?’
‘Martin’s okay,’ I said. ‘He’s found somewhere to stay in Cheadle.’
‘Yes?’
My mouth was watering, a small muscle tremoring in my knee. ‘Mrs Hobbs, Martin explained to me why he left home. He told me what had been going on.’ I paused. Expecting some reaction. I got bewilderment. ‘I’d never have agreed to take the case if you’d told me the truth. Is that why you lied to me?’
‘What do you mean?’ She was alarmed. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, come on, stop pretending.’ I spoke roughly, my cheeks burning. ‘Martin was abused by his father for years. When he tried to tell you about it, you threatened to send him away, called him a liar.’
‘No…No…’ A strangled cry. Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘That’s what happened. Or are you still calling him a liar?’
She began to rock, back and forth, moaning, ‘ Oh my God, oh my God,’ over and over. She seemed genuinely shocked.
‘Don’t you remember? Did you really think Martin had made it up? Children don’t lie about things like that. Did you even ask your husband about it?’ No reply. She continued that disturbing motion. She was a long way away. She’d forgotten I was there.
‘Mrs Hobbs.’ I spoke sharply. She stopped rocking. Her hand still covered her mouth.
‘I can’t explain,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ She cried silently then. Shoulders jerking up and down. I waited for her to stop. Perhaps I’d misjudged her. Maybe she, too, had been abused by her husband. Robbed of the ability to protect herself or her child.
Finally, she looked across at me. Her face was blotchy, crumpled with defeat. My mother’s face held that look once. The day my father died. Naked with pain. My stomach contracted. I swallowed hard. ‘I’ve drawn up my account,’ I said. ‘This is the balance owing to you.’
She nodded, took the papers and put them in her bag. She stood up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t lie to you…you wouldn’t understand…I’d better go.’ I followed her as she slowly climbed the stairs. At the door, she turned to face me. ‘If I’d known…‘ Her face squeezed shut with grief. She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ I didn’t know whether she was talking to me or Martin then. She walked away down the path.
I shut the door and leaned back against it. I felt like bawling, but my eyes were dry. My throat ached and my fists were clenched as I railed against the painful, bloody mess of it all.