Love And Devotion Part 9

'So long as it's not pensioners' night and it's child-free, I have no complaints.'

The pub was heaving, and after queuing for their drinks, they spied a free table in the garden overlooking the ca.n.a.l and the bridge. Further along, the towpath was busy with people mooring up for the night. When they were settled, she noticed that Miles's attention was caught by one particular boat, a beautiful sixty-foot traditional narrowboat. Its paintwork - red, black and green - was immaculate, and the bra.s.sware gleamed in the low evening sun. It was in excellent condition, not a mark or scratch on it, which meant it wasn't a hire boat; it had to be privately owned, about a hundred grand's worth.

'Ever thought you'd like to have a boat and just cruise away?' she asked him.

He looked back at her. 'We all think that at some time or other, don't we?'

'So why don't we do it?'

He blinked. 'You mean you and me?'

She smiled. 'No, I was talking generally. People dream of escaping, but they rarely do it.'

'The vast majority of people aren't brave enough. And, of course, there are those who are too tied down to do it.' He glanced away, his gaze once more drawn to the boat he'd been admiring.

Harriet took a moment to observe him. He'd always been the quieter and more thoughtful of the McKendrick boys. He had a sensitive, intelligent face with pale blue eyes. In all the years she had known him they had never argued and she had never stopped respecting the way he'd handled living in the shadow of such a difficult and dynamic brother. Dominic had to be the ultimate pain when it came to older brothers. As a highly regarded English don with a couple of slim books of poetry to his name it wouldn't occur to him that Miles was his equal. Or that anyone else was, for that matter.

As children, the four of them had been extraordinarily close, to the point of being a tight, self-sufficient clique. They had no need of any other friends; they had all the friendship they wanted. To this day, Harriet was convinced that this was the reason she found it difficult to fit in with other people and make new friends - she just hadn't learned the necessary skills at the age when most others do. After they'd all been through university they'd drifted apart, each doing their own thing. Felicity got married, Harriet started working for a small software house in Newbury, Miles went to London to work for a large chain of bookstores, and Dominic was offered a teaching job in the States at the University of Chicago.

Thinking about what Miles had just said, she asked him, 'So do you feel tied down?'

Again he looked back at her. 'Yes.' The starkness with which he uttered that one word made her sit up.

'But why?' she pressed. 'You're not married and have no real commitments to stop you doing whatever you want. You could sell the bookshop and - '

'I have a mother who's ill, Harriet,' he interrupted, his voice perfectly level.

'You have a father who can take care of her. She's not your responsibility.'

'You think I should just walk away and leave them to it? Like Dominic has?'

'It's an option.'

He looked her straight in the eye. 'Presumably that's the same option you could take. You could leave your parents to look after Felicity's kids.'

For a moment she didn't know what to say. Miles was the first person to broach the subject with her. No one had ever suggested she had a choice. That she could turn her back on her family ... could forget her promise to Felicity.

'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so blunt,' he said. 'But I'm right, aren't I?'

'I could walk away if I wanted to,' she admitted.

'You could, but you're missing the point. You won't walk because, like me, you have a strong sense of what's right and wrong.'

'That's not how I see it - right versus wrong.'

He dismissed her words with a wave of his hand. 'We're two of a kind; we both have an innate sense of duty. You're either born with it or you're not. It's called loyalty and it means we play with the cards we're dealt. We do the best job we can.'

She sat back in her chair and felt a rush of affection towards her old friend. Inexplicably, she felt like hugging him. It was great sitting here with no children, no parents, just the two of them having a proper, grown-up conversation that wasn't subject to countless interruptions. A conversation that meant something. 'You have no idea how refreshing it is to talk to someone who understands,' she said at length.

'I think I understand all too well. And I have nothing but admiration for you.'

Harriet took a long swallow of her lager and watched a pair of swans gliding past on the other side of the ca.n.a.l. When they disappeared behind the fronds of the willow branches dipping into the still, languid water, she looked up and noticed the sun was slipping lower in the sky, turning it hazy. 'People think that because I loved Felicity,' she said quietly, 'it must follow that I'm crazy about her children. But I'm not. I can't help it, but that's the truth. Children have never interested me. Does that sound as awful to you as it just did to me?'

'I have even less experience with kids than you, but my guess is the important thing is that you're there for them. That they know they can rely on you. They need stability and I reckon you'd be better than most at providing that. Okay, you might not be made from the conventional mother mould, but that might just work to the children's advantage.'

She suddenly smiled. 'You know what? I think we should do this again. You're good for me. To be honest, I'd been feeling guilty that I didn't seem able to - ' She broke off, distracted by the sight of a tall, slim man on the other side of the beer garden carrying two gla.s.ses of wine in his hands and a packet of crisps between his teeth. There was something comical about the way he was weaving his way through the tables and chairs, and the way his hair had flopped down in front of his eyes and was adding to his problems. It was only when he'd reached his table and was able to remove the crisp packet from his mouth and push back his hair that she recognised him: Will Hart. He was with an attractive blonde girl who laughed when he kissed her on the top of her head. She had to be about half his age. Typical, Harriet thought with disgust.

'Someone you know?' asked Miles, following her gaze.

She explained who it was. 'Do you know him?'

'I know of him. His ex-wife's an auctioneer in Maywood; she runs Stone's. Do you know it?'

'No. But I know he's into antiques.'

'He is now, but apparently he used to be a hotshot lawyer, had some kind of breakdown and then got into the antique trade. He has a place here in Kings Melford, took it over from a real old character, Jarvis Cooper. You must have heard of him.'

She laughed. 'Sorry, but the grapevine must have run out of branches; the news didn't reach me down in Oxford.'

'He's not new news, so to speak. He was around when we were kids. Hart's Antique Emporium is in what used to be The Tavern, the old coaching inn opposite the square; it's been owned by the Cooper family for years.'

Harriet vaguely recalled something about a shoe shop or a cobbler. But still thinking of Will Hart, she said, 'He doesn't look the sort to have a breakdown. He looks too ...' She sought to find the right words. 'He looks too laid back and untroubled.'

'Perhaps he has life sussed. Doesn't feel the need to escape like the rest of us.'

'How do you know so much about everyone?'

'I own a bookshop where people congregate to gossip over coffee and occasionally contemplate buying a book. I always knew I'd end up doing some kind of community service.'

'Hey, no whingeing allowed! You know you love that bookshop.'

'Actually, I do. The customers are great, and surprisingly loyal. They like the individual touch we offer. The nothing's-too-much-trouble approach we small businesses are famous for still means something to a lot of people.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'Have you started looking for a job yet?'

'I spent today putting the finishing touches to my CV and now that it's polished to within an inch of its life, I'm going to email it out to as many agencies as I can.'

'You wouldn't consider a change of direction, then?'

'No chance. I love the geeky world of computer programming.' She put a hand to her heart. 'I always knew it was my destiny, darling.'

He smiled. 'Felicity used to be so proud of you, you know.'

'Really?'

He nodded. 'She once told me that she wished she had half your brains.'

Harriet frowned. 'When did she say that?'

'Earlier in the year when she was staying with your parents. It might have been during February half-term. She had the children with her, so it probably was. She often used to come into the shop when she was home.'

Thinking that this tied in with Carrie's question about Novel Ways, Harriet said, 'Felicity was far smarter than me. She spoke three different languages, for heaven's sake. She was always in demand to do translation work. I don't know how she did it with the children around. Especially when they were really young.'

'She must have been very organised. Like you, I expect.' After a pause, during which he fiddled with his beer mat, he said, 'Does it upset you to talk about Felicity?'

'No. Funnily enough, it feels good. Like she's still with us. That I could look over my shoulder and there she'd be, her old smiling self.'

He nodded and looked thoughtful, staring off into the distance. 'I know what you mean. I still can't quite believe she's gone, but then ... but then I remember the funeral and it hits me like a hammer. Dead. It's so final.' He swallowed and slowly turned his pale-blue eyes back to Harriet. She was surprised to see the depth of sadness within them. 'I don't think I shall ever forget that day at the funeral,' he said. 'You handled it so well.'

'I was on autopilot. In too much shock to cry. But I do remember how glad I was to see you there.' She also remembered how upset he was, and that he made no attempt to hide his feelings. She liked his uncomplicated honesty. He was the complete opposite of his brother, who was the most devious person she knew. Felicity used to say that Harriet judged Dominic too harshly, that she expected too much of him. 'He can't help being the man he is,' Felicity said. 'We're all the sum of our experiences.'

In that case, Dominic must have had some pretty awful experiences, because he always behaved abominably.

A burst of laughter from Will Hart's table had them both turning to look. Harriet rolled her eyes. What was it about middle-aged men - especially the moderately good-looking ones - and attractive young blondes? Changing the subject, she said, 'So how's your love life, Miles?'

He looked surprised by her question. 'Non-existent. And you? How's it working out between you and that guy you mentioned at the funeral?'

'It didn't. I can't think why, but I may have lost some of my appeal when I moved back up here to look after Carrie and Joel.'

'Then he's a fool. You're well rid of him. You deserve better.'

'My sentiments exactly.' She raised her gla.s.s to drink to this but found that it was empty.

'Another lager?'

'Why not?'

She watched him go back inside the pub. It felt good spending the evening with someone who knew her so well. She might not consider Miles to be the greatest judge of her character and abilities - he was too old and too loyal a friend and therefore biased - but she did value his down-to-earth support and encouragement. Maybe he was right when he said that what the children needed was someone they knew they could rely on. Perhaps that's what Felicity had been thinking when she'd made Harriet make that promise. She must have known that if the unimaginable happened, Harriet wouldn't let her down. Or more importantly, wouldn't let her children down.

It was a tall order, but as Miles had just said, she couldn't help but try and do the best job she could.

Chapter Sixteen.

It had been a good day, with the prospect of getting better still. It was Will's birthday and he was driving back to the shop after a successful afternoon spent in Colwyn Bay at one of his favourite salerooms. He went there at least twice a month and it was always a pleasure. To top it off, he was looking forward to spending the evening with Gemma and Suzie. He'd suggested they eat out, but Suzie had said a meal in would be better. 'If you cook for us, I'll bake you a cake,' she'd said. 'How's that?'

Following the coastal road out of Colwyn Bay, he glanced to his left where the sea heaved and rolled. It reminded him of the sensation he always had in his stomach during an auction. He'd experienced the same thing earlier when the lot he'd come for had been announced. Crucially, he'd already checked out the stylish Art Deco clock online - a French piece, admittedly only silver plate, but all smooth lines and s.e.xy curves - and had set his limit. His stomach had started to churn the moment the lot was held up by the saleroom porter, Hairy Joe. When Will first knew the porter he was called Metal Joe, then he became Country Joe, now he was Hairy Joe because of the grey ponytail that hung down his back. With his palms sweating, his heart hammering and his stomach pitching, Will had kept one eye on Hairy Joe and the clock and the other on the a.s.sembled company. It wasn't a big turnout but there were a few faces he recognised: a couple of interior designers from south Manchester; a pair of London runners (the Spearmint Boys as Will called them because their jaws were permanently working at chewing gum); a smattering of dealers from all over the north-west and a handful of casual punters hoping for a bargain. It was the kind of slow-moving day when a less scrupulous auctioneer might take a bid or two off the wall to b.u.mp up the prices, but not this one. He was as straight as they come, a staunch chapel-goer who would never incur the wrath of the Almighty through dodgy practice. With a wave of his catalogue, Will came in as a fresh bidder when things began to go quiet - when the interior designers thought they had the lot in the bag. He knew they'd have cash to flash, that their clients numbered footballers and soap stars, but like the rest of them, they had their budgets and if you knew what you were doing, you stuck to your limit. To his satisfaction, the interior designers bowed out and the clock was his. He made two further successful bids, one for a pretty Victorian fire screen, and another for a job lot of odds and sods that he'd had a quick squint at when he'd arrived. All in all, it was a good day's work.

Once he was beyond Chester, he stopped for some petrol and a Mars bar, then took the road for Maywood and Kings Melford. It was gone five thirty when he arrived back at the shop. Jarvis was on his own - the two part-time dealers to whom Will sub-let an area on the top floor had already left.

'And what treasures have you brought home today?' Jarvis asked, making a play of pushing back his cuffs and rubbing his hands. 'Aha!' His eyes lit up when Will removed the clock from its swaddling of bubble wrap. 'Excellent,' he crooned, rather like f.a.gin. 'You did well, Laddie. The face is a little ordinary, but those exquisite figures more than make up for the deficit.' He stroked the slender leg of one of the figures lovingly. 'Charming. Quite charming.'

'And even more charming,' said Will, 'I have a buyer lined up. Remember the woman from the Wirral?'

'Pushy madam, tarty red convertible, and a face like a flounder?'

'One and the same. She asked me to look out for an Art Deco clock just like this.'

'And like a dog retrieving a stick for his mistress, you did her bidding. Very commendable. And in the box?'

'Take a look.'

While Will rewrapped the clock, Jarvis examined the fire screen then sorted through the job lot of junk, issuing forth a series of dismissive grunts and snorts. 'Ah, what have we here?' He held up a piece of china. 'A Noritake powder bowl, complete with lid. Gilt still fresh and perky too. How much did you pay for the box?'

'Five quid.' Will took the j.a.panese porcelain back, knowing Jarvis only tolerated Will's interest in Noritake ware. It wasn't proper fine porcelain as far as Jarvis was concerned - 'It's hardly in the same league as Royal Worcester or Minton, Laddie, is it?' - but even Jarvis had to admit that it was a growing market that only a fool would ignore. This scenic bowl and cover would perform nicely. Eighty quid minimum or he'd eat one of Jarvis's grubby old hats.

After Jarvis had left, Will made a few phone calls, including one to the flounder-faced woman on the Wirral, and locked up for the night, making sure the burglar alarm was switched on. It was a state-of-the-art system, so PC Plod had told him when he'd installed it. Will had deliberately approached Steve to do the job for two reasons. One, he wanted to show how magnanimous he could be, and two, if it ever went wrong, he'd have the b.u.g.g.e.r fixing it no matter what time of day it was. And for free.

Which wasn't the case regarding Steve's car. Will had now paid twice for the wretched thing to be fixed. Steve had taken it to the Jaguar garage where he'd bought it and the quote that had been faxed to Will could have cleared the whole of the third-world debt problem. Yet there was nothing else for it but for Will to grit his teeth and diwy up the gelt. Suzie had taken him to task for taking the blame. 'I feel awful,' she'd said. 'You should have told him the truth.'

But he'd shushed her, saying, 'Give your dad a break. I'm racked with guilt that you come from a broken home; this is my pathetic way to make it up to you.'

'Don't be daft, Dad.'

'Not even a little?'

'No. If you keep doing things like this, people will start calling me Princess Precious. They'll say I can't stand on my own two feet.'

'Rubbish. Anyway, there's plenty of time before you have to do all that boring grown-up stuff. How about you enjoy life a bit?'

Will would give anything to change what had happened to their family - bar live with the girls' mother again - but all he could do was indulge them now and again. In his opinion, they'd never once displayed a moment's Princess Precious behaviour. Unlike their mother, he thought less kindly. Perhaps that was Maxine's problem; she'd been too used to getting her own way as a young child and had come to expect it as her right. Her father had thoroughly ruined her, in Will's opinion; he had lavished everything he possibly could on her, all except for genuine, unconditional love.

Will had also been an only child, but his father had been the ant.i.thesis of the dad he wanted to be to Suzie and Gemma. William Hart senior had been a bitter man who'd worn his disappointment on the frayed cuff of his sleeve. A self-styled working-cla.s.s hero, he'd been shocked when Will had shown a desire to do well at school. William senior believed in learning at the School of Hard Knocks and when Will had announced his intention of going to university to study law, he might just as well have said he wanted to become a ballerina. In his father's mind, he'd sold out. If working for British Rail had been good enough for him, it was certainly good enough for his son.

Will often wondered what he would have made of the son who'd sold out on his own highfalutin dream. 'Well, you b.u.g.g.e.red that one up, didn't you?' he'd probably have said. 'I could have told you you were making a mistake.'

Will's mother had borne her husband's moods and criticism better than Will ever had. But as soon as she was widowed and free of the tyranny of constantly being judged, Ruby had blossomed and was finally able to be herself. Having been held back for most of her married life, she confided that she was now free to make all the mistakes she wanted without a word of criticism. Off like a hound after the hare, she filled her life with a job at the local supermarket, evenings at the theatre and cinema, and organised coach trips round Britain and Europe. In keeping with this new philosophy, she'd never once criticised Will. Not even when he messed up his marriage so spectacularly with a series of affairs. The worst she had done was to tut. But that small, apparently insignificant tut had done more to bring him to his senses than any screamed condemnation Maxine had flung at him. The 'tut' had been followed with: 'Are you sure this is what you want, Will?' And, of course, it wasn't.

Halfway down Maple Drive, he saw a small boy being dragged along by a wire-haired fox terrier. With his free hand, the boy was hanging onto a man. Behind the man was a girl. Recognising the group, Will gave a pip of the horn and a wave. Bob Swift returned it.

Will had met Bob one evening just as the light was beginning to fade. He'd been hacking back the jungle of bushes at the end of the garden when he'd heard a voice: 'Looks like you've got your hands full there.' Emerging from the undergrowth, Will had recognised his neighbour. Introductions were made and so that there could be no ambiguous awkwardness, Will had mentioned that he'd met Harriet and had learned of the family's loss. The other man's response had been: 'Harriet never said anything about meeting you.' Somehow this hadn't surprised Will.

He took a liking to the older man and they were soon chatting about the neighbourhood. Will was amazed to discover that the Swifts had lived there for so long. The McKendricks too. 'The four children literally grew up in each other's pockets,' Bob had explained. 'They were constantly getting into some sc.r.a.pe or other.' There had been several conversations since, all conducted over the gate and in the dusky half-light while Bob was out walking the recently acquired dog on the ca.n.a.l path. The dead daughter was never referred to again directly but her presence, he suspected, was a heavy one in Bob's heart. He couldn't begin to imagine how he would feel if anything happened to one of his girls.

Only a couple of packing boxes remained unopened, and stepping round these in the hall, Will carried the post through to the kitchen. One of the envelopes had Marty's familiar, neat writing on it. He opened the envelope and drew out a card depicting a grizzled old man behind the wheel of a Hillman Imp. 'If you're old enough to remember the car,' the caption read, 'you're too old to be driving!' Cheers, Marty, thought Will. The next card was from his mother. She'd also sent him a music voucher. She'd never been one of those mothers who religiously gave their sons M & S sweaters or socks. 'I know you wouldn't return them if they didn't fit,' she'd once said. She knew he'd hate to hurt her feelings. Which is why that 'tut' still resonated in his ears. 'Shame on you William Hart,' it said. 'I thought I'd brought you up better than to go s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g any woman you could lay your hands on.' Not that his mother would ever dream of using the word 'screw', other than when referring to cross heads or flat heads.

Will wasn't a great cook, but having lived on his own for as long as he had, he considered himself competent. Tonight he was knocking a chicken korma into shape. It was only at Suzie's insistence that he was celebrating his birthday. He'd been all for letting it slip by unnoticed, but Suzie had put her foot down. He was touched, but not happy that another year had been added to those already stacked against him. Forty-six. Who'd have thought it?

'Just get in the car, Gemma! Honestly, sometimes I could cheerfully kill you.'

Gemma banged the door shut.