The boy was discomforted. He’d hope to be turned out and left to his fate, but this hadn’t happened. “Thirteen,” he said. “Nearly fourteen.”
“Can I open the window?” Floss said. She had no idea what Mrs. M had in mind, but wished she would get on with it. The painkillers were beginning to wear off, and she wanted to be home with her leg up. And the smell was awful.
Lois opened the windows, allowing a welcome rush of fresh air. “Nearly fourteen, eh,” she said. “And the eldest? The man of the family?”
“I’m not! My dad is the man of the family,” Jack said, his face bright red. “Or should be, if he hadn’t taken off and left us in the shit.”
“Maybe he’ll be back?” Lois silently put her finger to her lips, asking Floss to be silent.
“Not my dad! Mum wouldn’t have him.” Jack thought for a moment, and decided a little honesty would go down well. “An’ yes, I am scared of going to school. There’s this man who lies in wait for me.”
“Who d’you mean? Where does he lie in wait?”
“Dunno who he is. He’s every bloody where. Mostly outside school. Meets the bus. Us kids are too scared to tell the school. Let me go now, missus. I’m gonna be hours late as it is. I’m in for more lectures on truancy, more extra homework…”
“Mrs. M,” Floss said quietly. She could hear tears in the boy’s voice. “Couldn’t we run him into Tresham, back to school? Poor kid’s had enough, I reckon.”
“What d’you think, Jack? Shall we let you walk the rest, or drop you outside school?”
“Take me to school,” the boy said quickly, “an’ wait ’til I’m inside.”
Lois started the van, and they cruised along the Tresham road in silence. As they neared the school, she said, “I’m going to have to tell your mother, Jack. This can’t go on, y’know. He can be stopped.”
“Mum knows. And we don’t want the police! He’s got friends, and they’d kill me.”
Lois stopped outside the school gate and reached behind her seat. She took hold of his hand. It was cold and the nails were bitten down to the quick. Nearly fourteen, she reminded herself. A child still.
“Get going, then,” she said, and then, as an afterthought, shouted after him, “You know where I live.”
On the way back, they said nothing for a while, and then Floss cleared her throat. “It isn’t right, is it, Mrs. M? It isn’t fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” said Lois. “D’you think I should mind my own business, Floss?”
“Are you serious?” said Floss. “That kid needs help. His mum works with us now, and everybody knows you’re well in with the cops. You’re probably his best hope. Couldn’t we all help?” she added.
Lois frowned. “Against the rules, Floss,” she said. “My own rules. Family first, then New Brooms, and a poor third comes my work with Inspector Cowgill. I don’t think your Ben would think much of me if I involved you in a nasty court case. It could come to that, with witnesses an’ that. No, you’re a good soul, but all I ask is that you keep your eyes open for that boy’s father. There may be no need for that now, but it’s not certain yet. Now, here we are, gel, let’s get you out and into the house. Then I’ll phone your mum.”
Joan Pickering was round at her daughter’s house minutes after Lois’s call, full of concern and plans for looking after Floss. “Just you be more careful in future,” Joan said, and with a sideways glance at Lois added that she didn’t think turning out cupboards was part of the job description anyway.
“Don’t fuss, Mum,” Floss said. “There’s worse things to worry about than a sprained ankle.”
TWENTY-THREE
THE REST OF THE WEEK HAD PASSED WITHOUT ANY UNDUE events. Lois and Gran had made friends, and had now decided that instead of going to Sunday church, Gran’s preference, or weeding the flower beds, Lois’s choice, they would do neither, but would take the little terrier Jeems out for a walk in the woods.
Lois had heard nothing from Cowgill, nor had she mentioned her encounter with Jack Jr. to his mother. If, as was possible, the drowned tramp had been Jack Sr., it was going to be tragic and difficult for the Hickson family, but no longer a dangerous threat. She had cautioned Floss to keep the whole thing to herself, promising to let her know if any solution suggested itself.
It was a beautiful morning, and the two set out with Jeems tugging eagerly at her lead. “Walk properly!” said Gran. She shortened the lead and the terrier immediately obeyed. “Pity some kids are not so easy as this little dog,” she said reflectively.
“Meaning?” said Lois.
“That eldest Hickson boy,” Gran said. “He was at the cricket match on the rec yesterday, fooling about with another boy-not from the village-and disturbing people who were trying to have a picnic and watch the match.”
“What were they doing?”
“They’d got their bikes, and had made a track of hollows and bumps down by the hedge at the bottom of the field. Then they were riding as fast as possible, shrieking and yelling until they fell off. Wheelies, do they call it?” Gran could see from Lois’s face that she did not think this a great crime, and decided to change the subject. She had no wish to start another quarrel with her daughter.
“How’s Floss’s ankle coming along?” she asked, as they climbed the stile and took the footpath into the wood.
“She says its much better,” Lois said. “Mrs. Tollervey-Jones sent her a bunch of flowers! How’s that for a changed character? Mind you, she’s always been fond of Floss. I don’t like the girls to get too close to the client, as you know. That’s why I send Paula there alternately with Floss.”
Gran thought of saying that she would bet a pound that Mrs. T-J wasn’t as devoted to Paula Hickson as she was to Floss. But she bent down and released Jeems, who headed at once towards a rabbit hole.
“Damn!” she said. “Will she come out?”
“Don’t worry. We can grab her tail,” and saying this, Lois took hold of Jeems’s rapidly waving tail and pulled her out backwards.
They strolled on, enjoying the dappled sunlight through the trees, until Gran stopped suddenly. “Who’s that?” she whispered. She pointed to a figure seated on a stool with an easel in front of her, painting away, totally absorbed and unaware of their approach.
“It’s that new woman,” Lois whispered back. “They’ve bought one of Thornbull’s old farm cottages for weekends. She’s in the wood most weeks. All weathers, apparently. Painting the trees. Doesn’t like anybody talking to her. Lovely paintings, people say.”
“No accounting for folk,” said Gran, “though she looks friendly enough.”
They walked on, talking idly about Jamie and his concert tour, and Douglas and Susie, and young Harry. They agreed they would do certain things differently in his upbringing, but also agreed that it was best not to interfere.
“I suppose you know the way? We’re not lost are we?” Gran said, as Lois stopped and gazed around her.
“No. It’s just there’s something different about the bushes over there. Looks like somebody’s made a hide of some sort.”
“Bird-watchers,” said Gran. “They’re everywhere these days. You’d think birds couldn’t exist unless someone watched them. Barmy lot, if you ask me. They should let the little dears get on with it, without bein’ watched all the time. Enough to make them emigrate, I say.”
“Just wait a minute. I’ll go and look,” Lois said, and pushed through the bracken. It was a rough hide, but not for bird-watchers. Ashes from a fire had been spread out neatly to make sure there were no smoldering cinders. A small wooden box turned upside down proved to be a mini-larder. In it, Lois found a plastic bottle of milk, half-full, and the remains of a loaf of white bread, both covered in protective wrap. Insulation, Lois supposed. She rewrapped them carefully and replaced the box.