Hastings is positively beaming. ‘My daughter, Clara,’ he says.
So this is the famous Clara. Ruth knows that Clara has finished her degree (she is the one who wants to change the world) but, otherwise, she would have taken her for a teenager. Clara Hastings is tall, taller than her father, and slim, with thick blonde hair cut in a shoulder-length bob. She is devastatingly attractive.
Hastings introduces Ruth and Nelson. Clara shakes hands politely with Nelson but her face brightens when she hears the word ‘archaeologist’.
‘That sounds fascinating. I’d love to do something like that.’
‘I like it,’ says Ruth guardedly.
‘I’m out of work,’ confides Clara. ‘Dad despairs of me. I’ve got a degree in law but I just don’t want to be a lawyer. All that making rich people richer. I want to do something useful with my life.’
‘What about the police force?’ suggests Nelson, deadpan.
The girl wrinkles her nose. ‘Well…’
‘Clara’s a real Leftie,’ says her father fondly. ‘She’s against all kinds of authority.’
Clara would get on well with Cathbad, thinks Ruth. Aloud, she says, ‘Are you looking for work? We might have some casual work on one of our spring digs.’
‘Oh that would be great,’ says Clara. ‘In the meantime, I’ll do anything. Dog-walking, gardening, babysitting.’
‘Babysitting…’ repeats Ruth, thoughtfully.
As they leave Sea’s End House, the rain starts. Within minutes they are drenched, buffeted by great wet winds from the sea. As they reach the car park, they see that the lights are already on inside the pub.
‘Have you had lunch?’ asks Nelson. He isn’t wearing a coat and his shirt is sticking to his back but he doesn’t seem cold. He always seems impervious to the elements.
‘I don’t want lunch,’ says Ruth but she is shivering. Her hood has blown back and her wet hair is trickling down her neck.
‘Come on,’ says Nelson, sensing weakness. ‘Just a sandwich.’
‘Okay,’ says Ruth.
The trap is set.
The Sea’s End is a squat, pebble-dashed building. Presumably, on a summer’s day, it’s the perfect place for a glass of white wine or a jug of Pimms. There are tables outside (though the sun terrace has long since fallen into the sea) and there is a spectacular view across the bay. But on a wet March afternoon the place seems dour and charmless. Ruth gets the feeling that, as this is the only pub in the village, the landlord has not tried very hard to keep up with the times. The walls inside are pine-clad, the floor covered with rather dirty lino. The tables are pine too, and sport plastic menus and ketchup bottles. A group of men stand drinking at the bar, watching Bargain Hunt on television.
‘Blimey,’ says Ruth, tapping a grooved wall. ‘It’s like being in a sauna.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ says Nelson. ‘I’ve never been in a sauna.’
‘I thought you went to the health club.’
‘For a swim, yes, or to the gym. I don’t go in the sauna.’ He sounds horrified.
‘You should try it. In Norway everyone goes in the sauna and then they run outside into the snow.’ As she says this, she thinks of Erik, who had a sauna in the grounds of his Norwegian lake house. She remembers black sky, white snow, naked figures running laughing through the trees. It had been innocent, she tells herself rather defiantly, a Scandinavian Eden.
‘Rather them than me,’ says Nelson, looking at the menu. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Oh, just a ham sandwich and a Diet Coke. I’ll buy it.’
‘No, you’re all right.’ Nelson gets up and goes to the bar. Ruth watches him rather warily. The exchange has put her on her guard. The last thing she wants is another row with Nelson over money.
But when Nelson comes back to the table, he doesn’t seem inclined to chat. He checks his phone and then places it carefully on the mat in front of him. Then he moves it to the left of the mat, then to the right, then on top of it, then below, then to the left again.
Ruth can’t stand any more. ‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘Talk?’ He says it like it’s a foreign word.
‘Yes, talk. That’s why you got me here, isn’t it? Why you suggested lunch.’
‘I just thought you might be hungry…’ Nelson begins, but he has the good grace not to go on. ‘I don’t know, Ruth,’ he says, looking down into his (full fat) Coke. ‘I’m so confused. I think about you and Katie all the time.’
Ruth finds herself breathing fast. ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘Don’t think about us.’
‘You can’t say that, Ruth. She’s my daughter. I want to help. I want to be involved. I want to give you money, at least.’
There is a pause while the landlord slops their sandwiches down on the table. Ruth tries to speak calmly. ‘I know you want to help but you can’t, can you? If you start giving me money, Michelle will find out. I’ve got to do this thing on my own.’
‘But she’s my–’
‘I know,’ Ruth interrupts. ‘But you’ve got your family. You don’t want to break up your marriage. I respect that. But I’m afraid it means that I make the decisions about Kate.’
Nelson looks as if he is about to explode. The thought of anyone else making decisions is complete anathema to him. But, quite suddenly, all the fight seems to go out of him and he says, in a low voice, ‘I just want to be involved.’
‘You can see Kate any time.’
‘Yes, for half an hour, sitting in my car.’
‘And that’s another thing,’ says Ruth. ‘If you keep offering to look after her, someone will suspect something.’
‘Who?’
‘Judy, maybe. Or even Clough.’
Nelson snorts.
‘Clough’s not stupid, you know. And she does look a little bit like you.’
The look of gratification on Nelson’s face is almost ludicrous.
‘Really? Do you think so?’
‘Well, she’s prettier than you.’
Nelson grins, reluctantly. ‘That’s true. Okay, I’ll be more careful but I can’t help how I feel. I feel protective about her. Like I do about my daughters… my other daughters. I can’t change that.’
‘You’ll have to try and hide it. Especially when there are other people around. You should have seen Clough’s face when you offered to hold her.’
‘Do him good. He’ll have his own some day. If he ever grows up, that is.’
‘I really think he’s in love with Trace.’
Nelson grunts. ‘Don’t talk to me about love. Even Judy’s getting married. It’s all the girls at the station ever talk about.’
Ruth wondered whether she should take Nelson to task for referring to fellow police professionals as ‘girls’, but she’s far too interested in the news to attempt re-education. Also, she’s glad of the change of subject. Nelson’s probably a lost cause, anyway.
‘Is she? She’s been with her boyfriend a long time, hasn’t she?’
‘Since they were at school.’
‘God, I can’t imagine that.’ Ruth thinks of the boy she was going out with at sixteen, a spotty youth called Daniel Harris. She thinks he became a plumber. He’s probably loaded. Maybe she should have married him.
‘Hen parties, wedding lists. That’s all I ever hear. Even Whitcliffe–’ He stops.
‘What?’
Nelson is silent for a moment, chewing his sandwich. Ruth takes an unenthusiastic bite of hers. It tastes of wet plastic.
Nelson pushes his plate away. ‘Did you catch the name of the bloke in the Home Guard?’ he says. ‘The one who’s still alive?’
‘Archie something.’
‘Archie Whitcliffe. I think he’s my boss’s grandfather. He talked about him once. Local hero. Fighting on the home front and all that.’
‘Will that make things difficult for you?’