Love And Devotion Part 7

'Myself as much as anyone. Don't you ever do that?'

'Not out loud.'

'Perhaps you should. It helps clear the mind.'

If only it was that simple, Harriet thought as they tripped along Crown Street towards Fuller's. Fuller's was the kind of old-fashioned shoe shop that stored most of its limited stock in shelves above the displays, and as they pushed open the door, they looked up to see an elderly woman balanced on a stepladder, sorting through a column of boxes. Some things never change, thought Harriet, remembering the countless times she and Felicity had been brought here by their mother to buy sensible school shoes - boring black, lace-ups. There were no other customers about and, not wanting to waste time browsing the shelves, Harriet asked the woman if she had any plimsolls.

'You've left it a bit late, haven't you?'

Harriet gritted her teeth. 'So I keep being told.'

The woman came nimbly down the stepladder. 'What size are you after?'

'Size one and - ' But Harriet got no further.

Having eyed the measuring device in front of the row of chairs, Carrie had kicked off her shoes. 'I'd like my feet measured, please,' she said.

'Carrie, we know exactly what size you are.'

'That's all right, dear, I don't mind measuring her. It's best to get these things right. We don't want her coming last in a race because she was wearing the wrong size, do we now?'

'But you do have some plimsolls?' Harriet couldn't bear to go through the palaver of having Carrie's feet measured only to be told there wasn't a single plimsoll to be had. Though why she should worry about a few lost minutes was beyond her. She'd lost the whole of her life; half an hour in a timewarp shoe shop was neither here nor there.

'Oh yes, we still have some stock left,' the woman said with a smile.

Joel tugged her sleeve.

'Can I have my feet measured too?'

Twenty minutes later they emerged from the shop with the children each carrying a plastic bag. Relieved that she could cross the last item off her list, Harriet said, 'Let's have that drink now, shall we?' She thought they'd earned it. She also thought she'd earned the right to a treat and so took the children into Novel Ways where she could have not only a caffe latte but also a rare, self-indulgent browse among the bookshelves afterwards. She hoped Miles would be about: she still hadn't got around to ringing him.

They queued up for their drinks, then found themselves a table. They'd only been there a minute or two - long enough for the children to have messed about with the sachets of sugar and spill some milk - when a voice said, 'h.e.l.lo Harriet.'

It was Miles, looking his usual hurried self: carrying a stack of paperbacks, a pen stuck behind an ear, a piece of ripped paper sticking out from his shirt pocket. He was the only person Harriet had ever known who walked as fast as she did. They'd always marched on ahead together, leaving Dominic and Felicity trailing in their wake. 'h.e.l.lo, Miles,' she said warmly. 'You look busy.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Tell me about it.' Then more awkwardly: 'I've been meaning to ring you for ages.'

She shrugged. 'Same here.'

'Mum and Dad told me you were back on a permanent basis now. Is that true?'

'It was the only answer.'

His gaze flickered over the children and Harriet was prompted to say something to bring them into the conversation. There were any number of memory joggers she could give them, like 'You remember Miles; he was at your parents' funeral,' or, 'You remember Miles; you met him most years when your parents came back to Cheshire for Christmas,' but what she said was, 'You remember Miles, don't you? His parents live in Maple Drive.'

Joel said nothing, just continued to suck hard on the straw of his milkshake, but Carrie looked thoughtful. 'Is this your bookshop?' she said.

'Yes, it is,' Miles replied with a smile. 'Do you like it?'

She frowned. 'I don't know. I haven't seen enough of it yet.'

'That wasn't very polite of you,' Harriet said when Miles had been called away to answer the telephone.

'I was only telling the truth. You're always saying we should be honest.'

Touche, thought Harriet. But then Carrie said something that surprised her.

'Did Mum bring us here?'

Joel stopped sucking on his milkshake and peered at Harriet beneath his eyelashes.

'I don't know,' she said carefully. 'She might have. Can you remember her bringing you here?'

Carrie lifted her shoulders and let them drop. 'Maybe it was another bookshop.'

This was as close as Carrie had got to openly discussing her mother, and Harriet didn't know whether she ought to pursue the matter. Was it enough that Carrie had said as much as she had, or was it a tentative signal that she was prepared to go further if given the necessary encouragement ? But the moment was lost when Joel said, 'I need the loo.'

They hurriedly finished their drinks and after the obligatory trip to the loos, Harriet showed Carrie and Joel to the children's area. She told them to stay there until she came back for them, then went to find something to read for herself. Something totally absorbing in which she could lose herself. She was just picking the latest Tracy Chevalier off the shelf when Miles appeared again. This time he was empty-handed, though there was still a pen sticking out from behind his ear - a tuft of hair sticking up too - and an air of urgency about him. He was often taken for a young student, as she herself was, and she knew it irritated him, especially if he wasn't taken seriously. He had once tried to grow a beard to look older, but with his fair hair and smooth-skinned complexion, the attempt had taken for ever and had provoked people to ask repeatedly if he was unwell.

'Harriet, I don't suppose - ' he broke off and swallowed nervously. 'And you would say if you thought it was inappropriate, what with Felicity and everything - ' Again he paused, this time pushing a hand through his short hair and dislodging the pen. He picked it up and shoved it clumsily into his back pocket. 'Look, I just wondered if you'd like to go for a drink. That's if you're not too tied up with the children.'

Despite the reference to Felicity, and the painful awkwardness in Miles's face, she smiled. 'You mean a grown-up drink? In a pub, or a wine bar? A proper drink that doesn't include straws and endless trips to the toilet?'

He relaxed and smiled back. 'I guess that is what I mean.'

'Then you're on. When were you thinking?'

'How about Wednesday evening?'

'Perfect. I can't wait.'

And the extraordinary thing was; she meant it. For the first time in weeks, she felt she had something to look forward to.

Chapter Thirteen.

While Eileen was busy with Dora, and Harriet was out shopping with the children, Bob was acting on an impulse he wasn't sure would be greeted with universal approval. Eileen would probably question the extra cost and work involved, but he didn't care, this was something for him.

He stared down at the abandoned one-year-old wire-haired fox terrier in the cage and saw not a rescue dog in need of a good home, but the means by which he would be able to plan his own escape. Walking a dog twice a day would give him the ideal excuse to be out of the house. It would give him the chance to be on his own. To think his own thoughts. To be himself.

'I'll take this one,' he said to the young woman who was patiently waiting for him to make up his mind. She'd let him inspect five dogs in all, but she'd said that this one would be the best around children, and had a lively but loving nature. As though understanding that he was about to be freed from the depressing dog refuge, the terrier got up and wagged its short tail.

The money side of things was soon dealt with, and using the tatty, worn-out collar and lead supplied, Bob walked the dog to the car. The terrier stayed close to his heels and Bob felt oddly comfortable with him at his side. Before Bob could decide whether to put him in the front or the back of the car, the dog decided for himself. In one easy movement he hopped up onto the driver's seat and then stepped across to the pa.s.senger seat. He sat back on his haunches, ears p.r.i.c.ked, and looked steadily at Bob as if to say, Where to?

Home, was Bob's unspoken reply. If you can call it that, he added silently. Latterly, he'd started to feel a stranger there. More than that, a stranger in his own life. Everything seemed to revolve around the children. Any conversation he had with Eileen usually began and ended with Carrie and Joel. He gripped the steering wheel, vaguely ashamed of this admission. He was being selfish, he knew. But he couldn't help it. He loved the children, as any grandparent would, yet the strain of having them under his feet every single minute of the day was getting to him, making him feel claustrophobic. He longed for the old days, when he could trot out that old grandparents' line about being able to spoil the little darlings with sweets and ice-cream, then hand them back before they were sick.

But, of course, what he really longed for was his daughter to be returned to him. Some might say that he should count his blessings, that he did at least have another daughter. In fact, someone had actually said that to him. He racked his brains to remember who it had been. Some well-thinking fool who didn't have a clue what they were talking about. As a parent you're not supposed to have a favourite amongst your children, but Felicity had always been special. She'd been an important turning point in his life. He had never felt so close to Eileen as he had when she'd first handed Felicity to him to hold. He didn't so much as look at another woman from that moment on. It was as though the purity of his newborn baby's life had rubbed off on him and turned him into a better person.

The two affairs he'd had still haunted him. He wasn't proud of it, and he didn't know what he'd do if Eileen ever found out. He'd gone to great lengths to cover his tracks, to keep her from being hurt. He'd never been so stupid as to leave till receipts lying around or to get up in the middle of the night to make a secret phone call, as someone at work said he'd done, only to learn that his wife had picked up the extension in the bedroom and heard every word.

As a salesman, he'd spent the vast majority of his working life on the road, travelling from town to town, city to city. The opportunity to play away from home had always been there, and compared to a lot of reps he knew, he'd been the model of good behaviour by having only two affairs. The first one had lasted less than six months and the second one, two years later, had gone on for nearly twelve months. Both of the women concerned had had no idea who or what he really was. He'd lied to them both, telling them he was recently separated and felt too raw to commit fully to anyone new so soon. It was behaviour of the very worst kind and he'd hated himself when he was at home lying in bed beside Eileen. Unable to sleep, he would promise himself it would stop, that there was too much at stake. But he was weak, and within days he would be figuring out when he'd be able to get away next. It was only when he was with these other women that the pain of what he and Eileen were going through lessened. It was in their arms that he could forget the sadness they were forced to endure each time they lost yet another baby.

On both occasions, the affairs had ended because of his conscience. Deep down he loved his wife and didn't want to hurt her. When she fell pregnant and for the first time managed to get beyond the five-month stage, he made a promise to himself. If this baby lived, he would never put temptation in his way again by spending a night apart from his wife.

It was a promise he stuck to and no matter where in the country he was sent, no matter how bad the weather, he always drove home to be with Eileen and the family he was so proud of.

His wasn't an exciting job, working for a firm that sold industrial cleaning equipment, but he'd been with the company since the start, when it had been little more than a Portakabin office and a lock-up, and over the years it had given him a decent living, security for his family, and stability. On his retirement, last year, the firm celebrated forty years of business and boasted over a hundred employees with an office in Birmingham as well as the original one in Chester. He'd been the first of the long-term employees to retire and had been nicknamed the Daddy of the team. Jim Clark, the managing director, had made an amusing speech on the day of his retirement, and had presented him with a set of garden furniture. It was good-quality stuff, solid teak - the sort, so Jim had said, that would live for ever if looked after carefully. These days Bob couldn't look at that garden furniture without thinking, what was the point in it living for ever? Who gave a d.a.m.n if a b.l.o.o.d.y bench outlived you? And why could a bench go on living when his daughter couldn't?

Some of his colleagues had been at the funeral. They'd brought flowers and cards, but not the ability to look him in the eye. They made promises to give him a ring, to take him out for a drink. But the phone had never rung.

He swallowed hard, kept his eyes firmly on the road, clamping down on the pathetic loneliness. Still, it was better than the days when he felt an uncontrollable need to tear out his own guts.

Eileen seemed to be coping far better than he was. It was irrational, but her one-step-at-a-time att.i.tude annoyed him, as though her steady recovery somehow trivialised his pain, or worse, trivialised Felicity's death. She seemed perfectly happy to muddle through the days, focusing on the children or worrying about Harriet's handling of them. She didn't seem to need to make sense of what had happened. Perhaps she had the right idea, because as far as he could see, it was a hopeless task. Maybe he should start taking Prozac like her and sleep his troubles away. He instantly felt guilty for this thought. It wasn't Eileen's fault that she needed to rest in the afternoon.

He was almost home when it occurred to him that some dog food might not be a bad idea. He pulled up onto the kerb outside Edna's and nipped inside. Edna was behind the counter, giving a group of young teenage girls the beady-eye treatment as they crowded round the magazines, giggling and chatting much too loudly. It was yet another reminder that it felt like only yesterday when Felicity and Harriet had been doing the same.

He found the pet-food shelves, made a random selection and took them to the counter. The shop was quiet now; the girls had left. Edna surveyed the tins. 'Dog food, eh?'

'That's right. I decided we needed a dog to cheer us all up.' Sometimes it was easier simply to provide all the necessary information, thereby short-circuiting Edna's interrogation.

'That'll prove a costly business, then, won't it?'

It will if I continue to buy the food from here, he very nearly said.

Back outside, the girls were grouped around his car. They were ooh-ing and ah-ing at the dog, who seemed to be enjoying being the focus of attention - he was leaping about the car like a performing circus dog. All he needed was a pointy hat and a ruffle round his neck to complete the picture.

Bob drove the short distance home, and letting the dog out of the car but keeping it on the lead, he went round to the back of the house, bracing himself for Eileen's reaction.

September Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her.

But once they are in hand, he or she alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game.

Voltaire

Chapter Fourteen.

It was the start of the autumn term, and the school gate and playground were thronging with activity. The sight of so many children made Harriet shudder. She had a terrifying picture of Carrie and Joel making friends with every man jack of them and inviting them all home to tea. But looking down at Joel's petrified face, and the grim set of Carrie's jaw, it looked more likely they wouldn't make a single friend. They'd be lucky to survive, never mind socialise.

It had been agreed during tea yesterday that the job of taking the children to school for their first day would fall to Harriet. Her mother, while doling out yet another child-friendly meal of reheated shepherd's pie and peas, had suggested to Carrie and Joel that since it was their 'special day' they should choose who took them. 'We could all go if you like,' Eileen had added. Feeling silently relieved that this was one task that wouldn't fall to her - no way in the world would Carrie and Joel want their horribly scary aunt with them - Harriet had been astonished to hear Joel say, 'I want Harriet to come with us.'

Even Bob and Eileen had looked askance. 'How about you, Carrie?' Bob had said.

Stirring her plate of food, without looking up, Carrie had said, 'I'd like Harriet and Toby to take us.'

Joel's face brightened. 'Oh, I didn't think of him. Can Toby come as well?'

Coming home out of the blue with a dog was the best thing her father could have done for cheering up the children. Eileen wasn't keen, though, and had said the house was full enough as it was with so many to feed and keep clean. 'And what about Harriet's asthma?' she'd asked.

'Mum, you know it's pollen and mould spores I'm allergic to, not animals,' Harriet had told her. Stress could also bring it on, but she saw no reason to mention that.

But seeing how the children instantly connected with the dog, Eileen had soon relented. 'Oh, all right,' she'd said, 'he can stay. But I can tell you for nothing, it won't be me who'll take it for walks in the wind and rain.'

'That will be entirely my responsibility,' Bob had stepped in. 'I promise.'

Carrie had thought of the name Toby and they had all agreed that it suited the dog perfectly.

Toby had to be left behind in the car while Harriet and the children walked across the playground, because it was against the rules to bring him into school, much to Joel's disappointment. Harriet was convinced, knowing how cunning children could be, that Carrie and Joel had chosen her for the task as some sort of punishment. Their grandparents would have made a far better job of it; after all, they were the experts, having done it twice before.

They were greeted in the noisy corridor by a tall, elegant woman who claimed to be Carrie's teacher, Mrs Kennedy. Amidst the kerfuffle of screeching children and gossiping mothers, they were shown where to hang Carrie's PE bag, then pointed in the direction of Joel's cla.s.sroom further down the corridor. It was probably for the best, but there was no appropriate moment to say goodbye. Mrs Kennedy swept Carrie away with her and there was nothing else for it but to get the next bit over and done with. Joel was going to cry; Harriet just knew it. And she had no idea how to prevent it.

There were lots of small children milling around outside Joel's cla.s.sroom; Harriet noted that one or two faces were not dissimilar from Joel's. Presumably they were in the same boat - their first day at school. Others, the confident, c.o.c.ky ones who were charging on ahead to the cla.s.sroom were, she imagined, old hands, having been in some kind of nursery cla.s.s. They'd probably already sized up the potential losers who could be bullied into drug-running for them. Not funny, she told herself. There were one or two mothers who looked in bad shape, their faces hanging grimly onto what they doubtless thought was an encouraging smile. Harriet remembered Felicity saying how upset she'd been when she'd waved Carrie goodbye for the first time. Apparently she'd driven home in floods of tears and had spent the day playing with Joel, counting the hours until it was time to collect her.

Feeling the pressure of Joel's hand in hers, Harriet glanced down at him. His eyes were pools of tear-filled wretchedness. Once again she thought of Felicity, and how good she would have been in this situation. She would have known exactly what to do and say.

All the other children had disappeared inside the cla.s.sroom, and now that the corridor was empty, Harriet spotted Joel's name above a coat peg. 'Here,' she said, 'we'd better hang up your plimsoll bag. Joel?'

He shook his head and pressed the bag to his chest.

'Come on, Joel, hand it over or we'll be late and in trouble before we've even started.'

Still he wouldn't do as she said. She bent down to him and he leaned into her. With his head resting against her forehead, he dropped the plimsoll bag and flung his arms around her neck. He held her tightly. So tightly he nearly pushed her backwards and onto the floor. He wasn't crying, but somehow that made it worse. She knew that when he was silent he was most upset. All she could think to do was put her own arms around him. It was then, with a shock of tenderness, as she felt the trembling within his small body, that she realised this was the first time she could recall ever really hugging either of the children.

'h.e.l.lo there. I'm Miss Rawlinson and you must be Joel Knight. I was wondering what had happened to you.'

Disentangling herself from Joel's vice-like grip, Harriet stood up to greet her nephew's teacher. 'I'm afraid he's a little nervous,' she explained, at the same time taking in the woman, or rather the girl. Miss Rawlinson looked no older than a school-leaver. With her wide grin, her hair in high bunches, her gingham, puff-sleeved top, denim skirt and black PVC boots, she resembled one of those overactive children's television presenters that Carrie and Joel found so unaccountably absorbing. Surely she wasn't old enough to be in charge of so many children? Especially a child like Joel who would need extra support and encouragement. Suddenly feeling twice her age and unexpectedly reluctant to hand over her nephew, Harriet put a protective hand on his shoulder.

'Is this yours, Joel?' Miss Rawlinson asked, picking up the plimsoll bag.

Burying his face into Harriet's legs, Joel ignored her.

'Why don't you come and meet all your new friends? Everyone's waiting to meet you.'

His head moved from side to side.

'Don't you want to make lots of new friends?'

Another shake of his head.