The Other Child (2 page)

TV would probably be more entertaining. Yet he hesitated to just leave her and sprint across the schoolyard and up the road. She looked so … abandoned.

‘Where do you live?'

‘In Staintondale,' she said.

He rolled his eyes. He knew Staintondale, oh God! A main road, a church, a post office where you could also buy the most basic foodstuffs and a couple of papers. A few houses. A red phone box, which was also the bus stop. And farms, which looked as if they had been thrown into the surrounding countryside.

‘You've no doubt also got a little walk from the bus stop in Staintondale,' he guessed.

She nodded unhappily. ‘Almost half an hour, yes.'

He had not only made the mistake of talking to her. He had the impression that she had noticed his disappointment, and something told him that it was a painfully familiar occurrence for her. It might have been the case that she had awakened a man's interest often, only for it to immediately extinguish when the man actually approached her. Perhaps she guessed that he would have offered to help, if only she had been a little more interesting, and now she assumed with some certainty that nothing would come of it.

‘You know what,' he said quickly, before his selfishness and laziness got the better of his sudden generosity, ‘my car is just down the road. If you'd like, I can drive you home quickly.'

She stared at him in disbelief. ‘But … it's quite a trip … Staintondale's—'

‘I know the place,' he interrupted. ‘But I don't have any plans for the next few hours, and there are worse things than a drive in the country.'

‘In this weather …' she put in doubtfully.

He smiled. ‘I would advise you to accept my offer. First, you probably won't catch your bus now anyway. Second, even if you do, you'll have a nasty cold tomorrow or the day after. So?'

She hesitated, and he could sense her mistrust. She was asking herself what his motives were. He knew that he was good-looking and a success with women, and she was probably realistic enough to realise that a man like him could not really be attracted to a woman like her. She probably had him down either as a sex offender wanting to lure her into his car because he took whatever he could get, or as a man overcome by pity. Neither alternative was appealing.

‘Dave Tanner,' he said, holding out his hand. She shook it hesitantly. Her hand felt warm and soft.

‘Gwendolyn Beckett,' she said.

He smiled. ‘So, Mrs Beckett, I—'

‘Miss,'
she corrected him quickly.
‘Miss
Beckett.'

‘OK, Miss Beckett.' He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Your bus goes in one minute. I think that decides that then. Are you ready for a sprint, across the playground and a few yards down the road?'

She nodded, surprised by the realisation that she didn't really have any choice but to clutch at the straw which he was offering her.

‘Hold your bag over your head,' he advised her. ‘That will shelter you a bit.'

She dashed after him across the playground awash with puddles. Along the wrought-iron fence surrounding the premises, tall trees bent under the pouring rain. On the left the enormous Market Hall appeared, a building with catacomb-like underground passageways and vaults. In its galleries and shops you could buy mountains of kitsch, and even a little art. To the right was a little residential street lined with narrow red-brick terraced houses, each with a gloss-white door.

‘Down here,' he said, and they ran past the houses until they reached the small, blue, rather rusty Fiat parked on the left-hand side of the street. He unlocked the car, and they tumbled onto the front seats with relieved sighs.

Water was streaming off Gwendolyn's hair, and her dress stuck to her body like a wet cloth. Those few yards had been enough to soak her through. Dave tried to ignore his wet feet.

‘I'm an idiot,' he said. ‘I should have fetched the car and picked you up at the school. Then you'd be more or less dry still.'

‘Oh please!' Finally she laughed. She had nice teeth, he noticed. ‘I'm not made of sugar. And it's definitely better to be driven to my door than to jolt about on a bus ride and then have a good little trek awaiting me at the end. Thank you.'

‘Not at all,' he said. He was trying for a third time to start his car, and finally got it going. The motor wheezed to life, the car jumped forward. In two jumps it was in the street, spluttering as it drove off.

‘It'll be all right,' he said. ‘The car just needs to warm up. If I get through the winter with this old heap of junk I'll count myself lucky.'

The motor was now starting to hum more regularly. It was fine for now: the car would make it to Staintondale and back.

‘What would you have done if you hadn't caught the bus or met me?' he asked. Not that Miss Beckett particularly interested him, but they would be sitting next to each other in the car for half an hour and he did not want the situation to descend into an awkward silence.

‘I would have phoned my father,' said Gwendolyn.

He threw her a quick glance. The sound of her voice had altered as she spoke of her father. It had become warmer, less distanced.

‘You live with your father?'

‘Yes.'

‘And your mother …?'

‘My mother died young,' said Gwendolyn in a tone that revealed that she did not want to talk about it.

A daddy's girl, he thought, who can't break free. At least mid-thirties, and Daddy is still the Only One for her. The Greatest. The Best. No man is his equal.

He supposed she did everything, consciously or unconsciously, to be Daddy's dream daughter. With her thick blond plait and her old-fashioned flowery dress she was just like the women from Daddy's youth, which would have been in the fifties or early sixties. She wanted to please him, and probably he was not keen on mini-skirts, conspicuous make-up or short hair. The signals she gave out were completely asexual.

Well, she hardly wants her old man in her bed, he thought.

He was very attuned to people's moods and could sense that she was wracking her brains for a way to change the topic, so he helped her out.

‘By the way, I teach at Friarage School,' he said. ‘But not the kids. The school lets its rooms be used in the evenings and some afternoons for adult education. I teach French and Spanish, and that just about keeps the wolf from the door.'

‘Do you speak those languages well?'

‘As a child I lived in Spain and France for a long time. My father was a diplomat.' He knew that
his
voice did not show any warmth when he mentioned his father. Instead he had to take care not to show too much hate. ‘But let me tell you, it's no fun to have to teach a group of totally untalented housewives a language whose sound and expressiveness you love, and whose complete mangling you have to bear three or four evenings a week.'

He laughed in embarrassment as he realised he might have committed a
faux pas
. ‘I'm sorry. You might be taking one of the language courses. Have I just offended you? There are three other language teachers giving classes.'

She shook her head. Although the wall of rain outside meant that it was rather dark in the car, he could see that she was blushing.

‘No,' she said, ‘I'm not taking part in a language course. I …'

She was not looking at him, but was staring out of the window. They had reached the road that led north out of Scarborough. Supermarkets and rows of terraced houses flew past outside, garages and dismal pubs, a mobile-home park, which looked like it was sinking in the floods.

‘I'd read in the paper,' she said quietly, ‘that in Friarage School … Well, on Wednesday afternoons there's a course, which … for the next three months …' She hesitated.

In a flash he understood what she was talking about. He did not understand why it had not been clear to him at once. After all, he taught there. He knew about the new course. Wednesdays. From half-three to half-five. Starting today. And Gwendolyn Beckett was just the kind of person who would attend.

‘Oh, I know,' he said, and made an effort to sound casual about it. As if it were the most normal thing in the world to attend a course for … yes, for whom? Failures? Dead losses? Losers? ‘Isn't it a kind of … assertiveness training?'

Now he could not see her face at all. She had turned to the window. He guessed that she had gone bright red.

‘Yes,' she answered quietly. ‘That's it. You're supposed to learn to conquer your shyness. To approach other people. To control your … fears.' Now she turned towards him. ‘That must sound like a load of rubbish to you.'

‘Not at all,' he assured her. ‘When you think you have a weakness, you have to face it. That makes a lot more sense than just sitting around and not doing anything but complaining. Don't worry. Just try to make the most of the course.'

‘Yes,' she said, sounding despondent. ‘I will. You know … it's not as if I was particularly happy with my life.'

She turned to the window again, and he did not dare enquire further.

Neither said anything.

The rain eased up a little.

As they turned off in the middle of Cloughton towards Staintondale, a gap appeared in the clouds and the evening sun burst through.

He suddenly had a tingling of excitement; a certain alertness. It was a feeling that something new was about to happen to him. It might have to do with this woman sitting next to him.

It could also be something else entirely.

He told himself to stay calm. And to be cautious.

He could not afford to make too many more mistakes in his life.

2

Amy Mills needed the money that her job as a babysitter brought in. That was the only reason she did it. But she had to pay for her studies more or less on her own, so she could not be picky. Not that it was unpleasant to spend her evenings in someone else's living room, reading a book or watching the telly, just keeping watch over a sleeping child whose parents were out. But it meant she got home late, and she hated the trip home in the dark. At least in the autumn and winter. In the summer the evenings were light until late, and often the streets of Scarborough were full of overseas students coming to the East Yorkshire coast for summer English courses.

This evening was different. The storm and the afternoon's heavy rain had driven everyone inside and cleared the streets. What was more, after a very hot day it had cooled considerably. It was unpleasant and windy.

No one will be out, thought Amy uneasily.

On Wednesdays she was always at Mrs Gardner's place, taking care of her four-year-old daughter Liliana. Mrs Gardner was a single mum, supporting herself and her daughter with a number of jobs, and on Wednesday evenings she taught French in the Friarage School. The class finished at nine, but then she always went out for a drink with her students.

‘Otherwise I'd never get out,' she said to Amy, ‘and at least once a week I'd like to have some fun. Is it all right by you if I'm back by ten?'

The problem was it was never ten when she finally got in. Half-ten if Amy was lucky, a quarter to eleven more likely. Mrs Gardner apologised profusely each time.

‘I have no idea where the time went! By ‘eck, once we start chattin' …'

Actually Amy would have liked to ditch this job, but it was her only more or less stable work. She looked after the children of other families too, but only irregularly. She could rely on the Wednesday money, and in her situation that was priceless. If only she did not have that trip home …

I'm such a coward, she often said to herself, but that did not do anything to lessen her fear.

Mrs Gardner had no car in which to drive her babysitter home quickly, and she was over the alcohol limit in any case. She had drunk a fair few this Wednesday and it was later than ever before – twenty past eleven!

‘We said ten o'clock,' said Amy in annoyance as she packed up her books. She had spent the evening studying.

At least Mrs Gardner showed a rueful face. ‘I know. I'm terrible. But there's a new lady in our class and she bought us a couple of rounds. She had a right few stories to tell. By time I thought ‘bout leavin' – it were already so late!'

She handed Amy the money and was decent enough to give her an extra five pounds. ‘Here. Because you really had t' do overtime today … Everythin' OK with Liliana?'

‘She's asleep. She didn't wake up once.' Amy said goodbye to tipsy Mrs Gardner and left. On the street she hunched her shoulders against the cold.

Almost like autumn, she thought, but it's just mid July.

Thankfully it had not been raining for a few hours. The way home took her along the street, part of the way down St Nicholas Cliff, past the rather dilapidated Grand Hotel and then over the long iron bridge which connected the centre of town to South Cliff and went over a main road that was busy during the day. At this late hour, however, the road down there was deserted, although it was still bright under the blazing street lamps. The silent sleeping town was creepy, but Amy still had her fear under control. The stretch through the park would be worse. Down to her left was the sea and the beach, high up above were the first South Cliff houses. In between were the Esplanade Gardens, which snaked upwards along terraces. They were densely planted with bushes and trees and a multitude of little paths cut through them. The shortest way through it was up the steep steps that led directly to the Esplanade, the wide road on whose western side the hotels stood, one beside the next. This was Amy's way home, and the dark steps were the tricky stretch. As soon as she reached the Esplanade, she would feel better. Then she had to go a good little bit further up the road and just after the Highlander Hotel she would turn into Albion Road. An aunt of hers owned a narrow terraced house here and had given Amy a place to stay while she studied. The aunt was old and lonely and happy to have company, and Amy's parents weren't well off and found the offer of a free place to live very welcome. Furthermore, from there she could easily walk to the campus. She was glad that some things had turned out better than she might have expected. Where she came from, a working-class estate in Leeds, no one would have believed that Amy would make it to university. But she was intelligent and hard working, and for all her extreme shyness and her fearfulness, she was determined. She had passed all her exams with good marks until now.