“Well, I’m not much of a one for Catholics,” said Gizzy. “At least you’re Scottish.” She was giving me a good look up and down, appraising, and so she might have noticed me starting to breathe faster, might have seen me rub my hands on my thighs. I knew I had to ask her.
“The upholstery,” I said. “In the vans. Is it foam? Mostly? Is it microfibre?”
“Don’t tell me you’re allergic?” she said, with her lip curling.
“Not to microfibre,” I said. Deep breath. “Aretherefeathercushionsinthevans?” The only way I could say it was so quickly that chances were, I’d have to say it again.
“Oh! La-di-dah!” she said. “Twenty featherbeds, eh? Goose-down pillows in satin cases! Eiderdowns to spare! No there bloody aren’t, and if you paid the cleaning bills, you’d know why.”
“Good!” I said. Too loud, trying to shut her up before she thought of any more names for them.
“You can start tomorrow on a two-week trial,” she said. “Eight sharp and bring your references.” Dillon came up and tried to heave his own armload up beside Ruby’s. I bent to help him. “There’s no discount, mind.”
“I can’t start tomorrow,” I said. “Not till after four anyway. But I’ll work on till it’s done.” I stood up and held out my hand. “Jessie Constable.”
“Gisele MacInstry,” she said. “Gizzy.”
“That’s us set then,” I said. “Can you put me in the tick-book for this lot and take it off my first week’s wage? I’m kidding,” I added before she could blow a blood vessel. Slowly, she went back to her usual colour: the deep purplish brown of someone who runs a good seasonal business and spends the winter somewhere warm with cheap drink.
“Aye, well,” she said, “I suppose. Butter wouldn’t melt in that Ros’s mouth and she’s turned out useless.” She cracked open a plastic bag with a flick of her wrist and started ringing up the junk on the register. “Yes to everything. ‘Jess, Gizzy’ this and ‘jess, Gizzy’ that and then upped and walked. What’s wrong with you?” Because I was standing staring at her.
“Polish accent,” I said.
“Oh, don’t go all offended on me,” said Gizzy, rolling her eyes. “She was bad enough. I called her Rosalind once and got an earful. As if I could pronounce what Ros was short for! I meant no harm.”
“Jaroslawa,” I said. Gizzy blinked at me. “He’s Ros’s friend,” I said. Ruby squinted up at me. “Ros’s friend,” I said again. “He’s nothing to do with Becky. He’s looking for Ros. Which… ” I looked into their three faces and then settled on Ruby. “Which… makes tons more sense. Why would you be worried enough to come looking for someone after an hour or two? But Ros left on-”
“Saturday,” said Gizzy. “And this friend needn’t come looking round here for her. I’m sick to the back teeth with the lot of them.”
“I wish I could remember his name,” I said to Ruby and Dillon as we sailed back down the path with the wind at our backs. I could feel the rain soaking through the neck of my coat, but it was a holiday compared with the outward journey.
“Wanna sweetie,” said Dillon.
“Mister!” I shouted. “Kaaaaz? Mr. Wet Man! Mr. Kaaaaaz!” I would have probably shouted Mr. Polish Guy if it hadn’t been for Gizzy. “Help me shout, kids.” I swung their arms with a one and a two and a one-two-three.
“Mr. Kaaaaaz!” Ruby and me shouted.
“Wanna sweetieeeee!” Dillon shouted louder than both of us.
“Dillsky,” I said. “It’s pouring with rain if you haven’t noticed. You need to wait till we get home.”
“There he is,” said Ruby. She pointed to the row of cabins and bungalows at the edge of the sand and then pelted off, pumping her arms so hard that her whole body twisted with each step. I could just hear her shouts-“Mr. Wet Guy!”-being torn out of her mouth and hooked away by the wind. I took a tighter hold of Dillon and followed her.
She ran right up to the middle house, the big one, and under the awning thing, halfway between a real garage and a carport.
“Mr. Kaz!” she shouted, and it was suddenly deafening under the roof. I hissed at her to come out.
“There’s nobody here, Ruby-doo,” I said. “Come on. This is someone’s house, you know.” And they were in too; the tumble drier was going.
“I saw him,” said Ruby. She was standing like Zorro in the middle of the floor, just on the oil stain where the car would be if it was parked there. “He was peeking at us. He was here.”
“Aye well, he’s not here now,” I said. “And Dillon’s shivering. Come on.”
“Mr. Wet Guy,” said Ruby in a come out, come out wherever you are voice, high and wheedling. At the back of the garage, where the canoes were bundled, someone laughed and smothered it.
“Kaz?” I said.
“Kazek,” he said. “Jess.” He stood up from where he’d been hiding behind the canoes and sidled out. He was wrapped in a sheet of bright blue crackling plastic, like for covering a boat or something.
“Right,” I said. “Kazek. Yeah. Good. Okay. Jaroslawa is not dead.”
“Alive?” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Where is Ros?” said Ruby.
“Where she gone?” said Dillon.
“Why you said is dead?” said Kazek. He came shuffling out from among the canoes. His trainers were so wet I could hear them squelching.
“Misunderstanding,” I told him. “Is this your house?”
“Is here?” he said. “Is back?”
“She’s away home to Poland,” I told him. “Why are you wrapped up in that tarpaulin?” What were the chances he’d understand that? He was shaking his head, moving forward all the time, right up close to me.
“No,” he said. “No way. Not go home.”
“Sorry,” I said. I was staring at the space between the edge of the tarp and his neck, the way it stood out from being so stiff. I could see quite a bit of his collarbone, almost out to his shoulder, and I didn’t think he was wearing anything under there. I stepped back.
“You good woman,” he said.
I took another step backwards. “Roobs,” I said. “Goan, go back out to the beach, eh? Go on.” She scuttled outside. He must have been pinging her radar too-no way she’d go just because I told her.
“You make me happy, jess?” Kazek said. “Jaroslawa is no dead. You make no cry, jess?”
“No way!” I said, and Dillon flinched against my neck at the sudden loudness. I hadn’t even realised he was drowsing. “You’re seriously weird, pal.” I hutched Dillon over so I could hold him with just one hand and I stretched the other out, pointed my finger. Jabbed it really. “Just stay out of my way.” Then I turned tail and ran. All the way along the beach, over the rocks and up to the cottage, locked the door, checked the back door was locked too, and still couldn’t help looking out the window for any sign of a blue plastic cloak coming our way.
Thirteen
There’s a noise the computer makes at work when you fire it up for the day. It’s a bit like the start of Rhapsody in Blue from that film, and a bit like a fire alarm that doesn’t quite get going. There’s silence and then there’s a whooshing noise lifting up and then the computer sort of hums all day, except you don’t really notice until you switch it off at night. That’s what happened to me when Gus came home, eventually, at nearly six o’clock, when it was dark outside again. I thought I was awake and firing on all cylinders until he opened the door and walked through. Then I went whoosh and started humming, and it felt like I’d had about half as much again blood pumped into me. I felt the smile break out over my face and couldn’t help it. The same daft look spread over his and his neck went red. He picked the kids up, both together, and blew on their necks, but he was looking at me.