Dangerous Things Page 11

  She worried, too, about Genevieve. The girl dodged her whenever she could, either cutting Hattie’s sessions altogether, or sitting silently and uncooperatively well at the back of the room, and Hattie didn’t push herself at her any more than she did at Arse. But she noticed all the same; noticed her skin get both downier and more translucent, and noticed her clothes get more voluminous and disguising — and it was easier for Genevieve to increase their enveloping effect as the weather sharpened — and she fretted over her. Soon something more definite would have to be done. However alarming, indeed intimidating, her father might be, the fact was that Genevieve was getting thinner and thinner, and no one but Hattie seemed to know or care, she sometimes thought. But still she said nothing. Until the girl was willing to give Hattie her confidence, there was nothing she could do. So she watched and waited for the chance to approach Genevieve again. The time would come; it would have to. And it would prove to have been well worth waiting for when it came, of that Hattie convinced herself. Thinking that way at least helped her to feel less guilty about her inaction.

  Late in October, almost accidentally, she accepted dinner from Sam Chanter. It was just after half-term, and she was alone at home. This year it had worked out that the school Sophie and Jessica and Judith’s children attended had their half-term break the week after the one at the Foundation, and Hattie had been in a great lather of anxiety over that and how she’d manage. Judith, however, had solved the dilemma in her usual scatty fashion by accepting the offer of a visit to a villa in Northern France owned by a friend of hers.

  ‘We’re driving there, darling, taking the ferry, three cars and hordes of mums and children, such bliss — Peter says he’d die rather than come. I wish you could, but I know it’s not on, what with your job, so let me take the girls. They’ll adore it and Jenny and Petra’ll have no fun unless they’re there to play with. So it’s all settled. You can have a blissful week painting your toenails after work and having long, long baths …’

  And to Hattie’s gratitude she said nothing at all about having the time to go out with someone. She’d been very circumspect ever since that journey on the tube, and had said nothing at all about a new man for Hattie, a piece of self-control on Judith’s part for which Hattie gave her full credit. And perhaps it was that which diminished her guard.

  Whatever it was, on the Monday evening she was actually loitering on her way out of school, instead of rushing off to get home in time for the girls as she usually did, and Sam Chanter caught up with her as she stood beside a patch of late dahlias in a protected corner of the quadrangle, revelling in the way their rich rubies and crimsons, golds and purples splashed against the stone walls.

  ‘I’m used to seeing you with go-faster lines, legging it for the tube,’ he said. ‘So, what can ail thee, lady-at-arms, alone and palely loitering? That’s the only bit of poetry I can ever remember. How kind of you to give me the chance to misquote it at you.’

  She laughed. ‘It is a luxury to take my time, I do admit. My children are away on holiday with a friend. Gone to France.’

  ‘Lucky them. And the weather’s good, too.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she grinned. ‘I read the French weather forecast before the English one. It’s lovely for them. I miss them though.’ She reddened then. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —’

  ‘Why not? You’re allowed to be a person with feelings, you know, even here at the Foundation. Allowed to have children you miss.’

  ‘I don’t want to turn into one of those people who do nothing but talk about their home lives and problems all the time.’

  Sam Chanter laughed. ‘Like Steenman. We all know about his old mother. She has these attacks every year or so. We get used to listening to him whingeing on and on about her.’

  ‘I wasn’t meaning to criticize him —’

  ‘I was. So, clearly, tonight’s the one we can have dinner. Since neither of us is in a hurry. There’s a concert at the Barbican you might like, and there’s a restaurant there that isn’t marvellous, but it isn’t that bad either.’

  ‘Oh!’ She blinked. ‘I don’t know much about music …’ she said, knowing it to be an absurd response, and he greeted it with the dismissal it deserved.

  ‘Gershwin you don’t have to know about. Just have to listen. Come along. I dare say I’ll be able to get another ticket somewhere in the house, and then we can do a swop with whoever turns up to sit next to one or other of us.’ And she took so long trying to think of something to say to refuse him that wouldn’t seem rude that they were halfway to the underground before she could come up with even the lamest of excuses. By which time the moment seemed to have passed.

  She enjoyed the concert greatly, and the food was, she told Chanter, marvellous. ‘If only because I didn’t have to think about it. It was just there and I ate it. I’d forgotten just how agreeable that can be.’

  ‘I know precisely what you mean, and I hope we can do it again. No, don’t look like that. You can pay for yourself if you’ve got a hang-up about that. I just like pleasant company that talks enough but doesn’t overwhelm me with chatter. You’re an excellent companion for such an evening as this, and I hope we can do it again.’ And he managed not to sound patronizing, though his words could have been so construed.

  He said goodnight at the tube station with no unseemly fuss about seeing her home and just nodded a goodbye and that helped her relax and be comfortable the next time he suggested they go out, this time to the theatre, and made it possible to accept him.

  After the half-term respite, when the children came back, she got into the habit of getting a babysitter in on one night a week; not Judith (or her Inge) who would have been altogether much too interested in where she was going, why, and above all, with whom, and indeed she didn’t get round to telling Judith she was going out with Sam Chanter at all. She just murmured vaguely to her about the school’s Christmas play and how she’d have to be around for rehearsals, and hoped that would cover her absence from home. It was none of Judith’s business anyway — and besides, she was bound to jump to foolish conclusions. And there were none to jump to.

  Which was quite true. She learned a little more about him on those evenings; that he too had been widowed, soon after marriage, and preferred not to talk about it, so she didn’t; and that he had no intention of staying at the Foundation any longer than he had to.

  ‘Once the book’s done and I can get a home for it, and a commission for the next,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I’ll be off to my garret to live the life of a creative type. Not that I am, particularly, but I fancy the idea.’

  ‘You must be creative if you’re writing a book. Unless it’s a textbook you’re doing.’

  ‘I wish it were,’ he said. ‘You can earn a fortune from textbooks. Once they’re on the list for a set syllabus you’re laughing. No, I’m not writing a textbook.’

  She said nothing, just looking at him expectantly, and he smiled at that.

  ‘Well done you. Any other woman would ask questions.’

  ‘You’ll tell me if you want to. You won’t if you don’t. Why waste breath?’

  ‘Admirable commonsense. All right. It’s a thriller.’ He sounded a little defensive.

  ‘Fun,’ she said. ‘What sort? Alastair MacLean? Freddy Forsyth?’

  ‘You read thrillers?’

  ‘I read everything and anything. It’s the only thing that kept me sane these past months.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and looked over her shoulder, into the past. ‘I did that too.’ There was a little silence and then he said, ‘No, it’s not a modern sort at all. More like — well, nearer Jules Verne.’

  She was enchanted. ‘I adored those stories! They were marvellous. Lots of physics and chemistry, of course — is that what you mean? Science-fiction-type thrillers?’

  ‘Perceptive of you. Yes. Mine obviously deals with biology because it’s what I know about.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ll nev
er write it if I talk too much about it.

  Better to put the words down on the page.’

  ‘I suppose so. When do you work on it?’

  ‘When I can. Evenings. Weekends. Early mornings.’

  ‘You still sleep badly?’ It was as though she knew what his life had been like; their shared experience of widowhood sat easily between them, undiscussed but recognized.

  ‘Sometimes. Not as often as I used to.’

  ‘I feel a little wicked now,’ she said then. ‘You’re wasting an evening with me when you could be writing.’

  ‘Don’t be so arrogant!’ There was amusement in his tone which took any sting out of the word. ‘I need a night out from time to time. I’d rot if I didn’t. It’s more agreeable with good company than on my own. Not that I couldn’t cope on my own, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said gravely, and he laughed.

  ‘Enough about me. Your turn.’

  ‘I’m not writing a book,’ she said. ‘Nor likely to.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. There’re already too many competitors. What do you want to do eventually?’

  ‘Do? What I am, I suppose.’

  ‘What, even after your children have left home? They won’t be around much longer. How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘Then in another dozen years or so you’ll still be under fifty.

  Will you still be paddling around at the Foundation?’ She reddened. ‘I’m hardly paddling now.’

  ‘Oh, of course you are. You’re certainly not in deep water, striking out to keep yourself afloat. You’re capable of much more than you do there.’

  ‘Oh, I see what — Thank you. Well, yes, I suppose I am finding the job easy enough. It just happens to suit me at present and —’

  He brushed that aside. ‘So what do you want to do when your kids are at full-time school and old enough not to need you there to mop up tears and so forth when they come home? You can be back at full-time work in another four or five years, you know.’

  ‘I haven’t thought about that.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll rot if you don’t.’ He got to his feet and she perforce stood too. They’d finished their meal and he was holding the slip of the bill, to be paid for at the door on the way out. ‘I’ve seen it happen to too many people.’

  ‘I’ll take that risk,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m staying around at home at the times my daughters are there until they’re well past their teens. They might need me. Things happen to kids left alone too much.’

  They had reached the cashier and she took the bill from his hand and looked at it and began to dig into her bag for her share. It had been accepted by them both that their nights out were Dutch treats; it was much easier that way.

  He was silent as they came out of the restaurant into the chill of the November night, and then he stopped on the pavement and looked at her. His face was an odd colour in the sodium light thrown by the lamp over her head and she looked at him and thought, I wonder how I look to him? And then pushed the thought away in embarrassment. That was the sort of thing Judith would be worried about. She should know better.

  ‘You could be right,’ he said. ‘To stay at home when they’re in their teens, I mean. If poor old Matterson’s mum hadn’t been out all the time, maybe he’d … Well, your two have each other, of course. And you’d never just leave them alone even if you couldn’t be there, would you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She started to walk and he fell into step beside her. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t arise. I’m not going to do it. Who’s Matterson?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘People have said his name a lot, and they always sound so odd when they do. Who is he?’

  ‘Was,’ Sam said. ‘A sixth-former, last year. Bright boy. Marvellous watercolourist. Extraordinarily gifted.’

  ‘Sixth form. Sixteen? And dead?’

  ‘Yes. He was going to do four As, poor bastard.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s a nasty story.’ He seemed curiously unwilling to go on and she was suddenly irritated by that. It was as though he were trying to protect her, and that was not to be tolerated.

  ‘I’m not a child, you know,’ she said tartly. ‘Not some sort of fragile blossom who can’t be told nasties. I was at Old East for enough years, in Casualty and Theatres much of the time. I don’t shock easy.’

  ‘He died by accident, they said at the inquest. Strangled by a ligature while seeking sexual gratification. There are tricks males can use to give themselves extra-powerful — sexual arousal, and sometimes fulfilment. They have almost to hang themselves for it to happen…’

  ‘I see,’ she said steadily. He’d clearly found it difficult to talk about and she gave him full credit for being as direct as he had. ‘I seem to have heard of such things.’

  ‘Have you?’ He said it almost savagely. ‘Well, lucky old you. Most people, thank heaven, never find out about it. Let alone how to do it. It’s one of those things experienced men have to teach the less experienced.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said and her steps slowed a little. ‘Yes, I see that. You think this boy — that someone else. …?’

  ‘I doubt he picked up the knowledge from a book,’ he said, and his voice was still hard. ‘This is information passed on by word of mouth and demonstration, believe me. I’d never heard about it until Matterson died, for Christ’s sake, yet he was sixteen.’

  ‘You think someone showed him how?’

  ‘I think someone shared it with him and then left him to it, frankly. The evidence at the inquest was a bit — well, I wasn’t satisfied. They were and they left it at accidental death, but I still think there was more to it than that. If the kid had had another person in the house with him, it wouldn’t have happened. Not in his own home, would it? It wouldn’t have been so easy for someone to walk away and leave him.’

  Now she stopped walking and turned to look at him. ‘You think that Matterson was killed, then?’

  ‘Oh, not deliberately. It wasn’t someone doing him in to please himself. We’re not talking deliberate murder. But I do think someone was around when it happened and could only be there because the kid was on his own. And when it went wrong, whoever it was left him to it. Or maybe got a kick out of seeing it go wrong? I’ve heard of men like that.’

  ‘And he was a Foundation boy,’ she said. ‘Like Arse.’

  ‘What about Arse? Poor little sod, what’s he got to do with —’

  She started walking again. ‘Oh, it’s silly, I suppose, but I just — well, I’m concerned about him. He’s such a little misery. And then, well, at that autumn fair thing …’

  She told him then what had happened, and it was comforting to be able to share it. He listened and said nothing until she’d finished and then nodded.

  ‘You think someone at the school could be getting at young Arse? Dammit, we ought to call him by his name.’

  ‘I know.’ She felt herself redden in the darkness. ‘It’s just that no one else does.’

  ‘I know. And it suits the poor little bugger. I suppose you could be right and there was someone at the school that afternoon who scared him. Or it could just be that he had a panic attack.’

  ‘I think there was a reason. I don’t know why — I know they can happen out of the blue, but it wasn’t quite like that. Someone had scared him badly.’

  ‘You think it’s one of the staff.’ It wasn’t a question, and she took a deep breath and nodded.

  ‘I wondered about Tully,’ she said, amazed at her own loquacity. Why tell this man all this? Because he’s the first agreeable person you’ve met for ages, a secret voice inside her answered. She ignored the private conversation and went on and told Sam about her first lunchtime at the school and again he listened in silence till she’d finished.

  ‘I doubt it’s Tully,’ he said at length. ‘I doubt it very much.’

  ‘Why? It could be! To behave like that —’r />
  ‘Precisely. If he were up to some sort of secret villainy he wouldn’t be so outrageous in public. Tully does what he does for effect. He doesn’t ever want to hide anything. He probably saw you that day and kissed the boy expressly to shock you.’

  She stared at him blankly in the dim light, and then was furious. Not with him, but with herself for being so foolish. He had to be right, of course he did. She’d been naïve in the extreme.

  He seemed to know her thoughts because he started to walk again, and said cheerfully, not looking at her, ‘Don’t feel bad. It’s easier for me to understand the man. I’ve known him for years, heaven help me. You’ve only been in the place a matter of weeks.’

  ‘However short a time it is, I should have thought it through more sensibly. I feel stupid.’

  ‘Well, you’re not. But I wouldn’t think too much about Arse. I’ll keep an eye on him too. He’s in one of my sets. Will that make you feel a bit better?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think it will.’

  And it did.

  Eleven

  Dilly sat at the back of the gym, leaning against the wall bars as comfortably as she could, watching them with as clear an expression of scorn on her face as she dared put there, wanting everyone to know that she had no desire to be involved, that she was there only because Mr Staveley had been so unpleasant about the people who hadn’t volunteered to be a part of the whole stupid nonsense from the beginning and most of all because Freddy had insisted.

  ‘It’ll make a nice little film,’ he’d said in what Dilly regarded as his most oily of patronizing tones. ‘Young people working together for the good of their school and for charity. Could get it networked with a bit of luck and a following wind.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Dilly had said as nastily as she dared. ‘You’re always saying that about those poxy little films you do and none of ’em ever get on network TV except at the sort of times no one worth fourpence is watching. Nine-thirty on a Sunday morning, that last one was! Big deal.’