Never Close Your Eyes (41 page)

Bill snorted. ‘Does she really do that? Shocking.'

Evie felt herself blush. ‘It only happened once,' she insisted. ‘Well, maybe twice . . .'

Bill took another sip of wine, draining his glass. ‘OK,' he said, leaning forward, ‘I can see I'm going to have to have my wits about me if I'm going to thrash Evie. I'll be Reverend Green. I've always rather fancied myself as a country vicar.' He looked at her. ‘Are you sure we've got time to play? I mean, I don't know when you're planning to eat?'

Evie put a hand on his. ‘The turkey's going to be hours yet. Honestly. It's lovely to have you here.'

Michael stood up. ‘I'll be Colonel Mustard,' he shouted.

Freya raised her eyebrows. ‘Honestly, he always gets over-excited like this when he plays Cluedo.'

Michael glared at his sister.

‘I refuse to be boring old Mrs White stuck in the kitchen,' Evie said firmly. ‘I'll be Mrs Peacock. Now, who's going to go first?'

Bill wiped his mouth on his napkin, put it on the table and leaned back in his chair. ‘Delicious,' he sighed, patting his stomach. ‘The best Christmas pud I've had in years.'

It hadn't taken much to persuade him to stay for dinner. Evie couldn't bear the thought of him all alone on Christmas Day with only his books for company. But she wasn't just being charitable. It was much more fun having him there anyway. His green paper hat was perched at a jaunty angle on the top of his head and he had bits of silver streamer from Freya's party popper round his neck.

‘I'm stuffed,' Michael announced, burping.

‘Don't do that,' Evie scolded. ‘It's rude. Anyone for dates or chocolate brazils?'

Bill, Michael and Freya groaned.

Michael found a spooky film for them to watch on TV called
The Orphanage
. Evie turned up the heating a little and drew the curtains. It was still drizzling outside: cold and black and miserable. She realised that she hadn't been out all day but she hadn't missed it; to her surprise, they'd had what she could only describe as a pretty perfect Christmas, despite Neil's absence. In fact she couldn't remember a Christmas when there'd been so much laughter.

‘Sit down, Bill, please,' she said, motioning to the sofa, from where you had the best view of the TV screen.

‘No, no.' He pointed to the rather battered green Lloyd Loom chair in the corner of the room, ‘I'll sit there. It's perfect.'

Freya, who'd already nabbed the prime spot on the sofa, got up. ‘No, you take the sofa,' she insisted, ‘I prefer that chair.' She plonked herself down on the Lloyd Loom.

Her tone of voice was so commanding that Bill didn't argue. Evie was surprised at her daughter's good manners; she didn't know what had come over her. But she decided not to say anything.

She sat down between Bill and Michael. It was a bit of a squash, but it didn't seem to matter. She slipped off her shoes and wiggled her toes. Michael brought his bare feet up on the sofa and put one on her lap. ‘Aren't your feet cold?' she tutted, putting her hand over his toes to warm them. ‘Where are your slippers?'

He reached up and managed to click the standard lamp off, so that the room was in darkness. Evie shivered. She loved a good ghost story, but she was glad that she wasn't alone; she'd have been a nervous wreck. She furtively slid her tortoiseshell glasses out of her pocket and put them on.

The story was about a woman who bought her beloved childhood home, a creepy old derelict mansion, with dreams of restoring and reopening it as a home for disabled children. But she became worried when her small son began playing with an invisible friend. Their games become increasingly disturbing, and then the boy vanished.

There was a crash of music. A door slammed, trapping the woman inside. Evie screamed. She leaped off the sofa.

‘It's only a film,' Michael said, pulling his foot away in disgust.

Bill reached out and put his arm lightly round her shoulder. ‘You can hang on to me if it gets too much,' he said, his eyes fixed on the screen. ‘I'm pretty scared myself.'

‘Thanks,' she whispered back, allowing his arm to remain there. It was slightly embarrassing, but she liked it all the same. She hoped that he wouldn't think she'd misinterpret his gesture; she knew he was just being nice.

A window shattered. She squealed again and edged closer to him. There was just the faintest whiff of wood smoke on his woolly jumper – they'd probably had a bonfire at the allotment. Freya looked at her mother. She must have spotted that Bill had his arm round her but she didn't seem fazed.

‘This is the scariest film I've ever seen,' she said, pulling her feet up on the chair and resting her chin on her knees.

‘Come over here, will you, Freya?' Michael begged. He was petrified, too, but wouldn't say so. Freya rose quickly and sat down on the floor at her brother's feet.

‘Pooh, your feet smell,' she said, leaning back against the sofa.

‘Shut up,' he hissed. ‘D'you think the mother's going to get killed?'

The phone rang. ‘I'll leave it,' Evie said. It stopped ringing then started again. ‘Blast. Who on earth can that be?'

Reluctantly she started to rise. Bill moved his arm away. ‘I'll only be a second.' She pulled the door to behind her so as not to disturb the others. She felt cold without the warmth of Bill's body next to hers. The harsh, overhead light in the hall made her squint. She padded down the hall in her stockinged feet and reached the phone just as it stopped ringing. Typical. She dialled 1471 and her heart stopped. It was Steve.

She thought for a second. She could leave it. Wait for him to call again tomorrow, or never. She punched his number in.

‘Hi, babe,' he said, cool as anything.

‘Where the hell have you been?'

‘Sorry, there was a problem with Jacob,' he said. ‘His mum needed me to babysit.' He didn't sound at all sorry.

‘I needed you to babysit,' she said. ‘You left my kids on their own all night without even telling me.'

‘I thought they were old enough.'

Evie thought her head might explode. ‘Michael's only nine, Steve,' she hissed, ‘something might have happened!'

‘Look,' he replied, ‘we can't discuss this on the phone. I'll come round and we can sort it out.'

‘No, you won't come round,' she began to say, but he'd already hung up.

Bill came down the hall towards her. He looked concerned. ‘Everything all right?'

She sniffed and wiped a tear away with her sleeve. ‘Not really. It's just, you know, this man I've been seeing.' She felt embarrassed; she couldn't look Bill in the eye. ‘It's a bit complicated,' she went on. ‘He let me down badly and now he says he's coming round to sort things out but I don't want him to.'

Bill looked at her steadily. ‘You can always say no, Evie.'

‘I guess it would be good to say goodbye properly, to draw a line under the whole thing,' she replied quickly.

Bill glanced at his watch and frowned. ‘I'll be off.' He hesitated. He looked as if he wanted to say something.

‘What is it?' she demanded.

‘There's something I've been meaning to ask you for a while. It's been on my mind but I didn't want to say it in front of the children. Have you got a moment before I go?'

She was surprised. ‘Of course.'

‘Can we go somewhere private?'

She had no idea what this was about but she led him into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. ‘Sit down?'

‘No,' he said, ‘it'll only take a second.' He scratched his head. ‘I hope you don't think I'm interfering. You'll probably think it's none of my business, but I wondered . . . is Freya all right? She's been fine today but it occurred to me that she seems troubled a lot of the time, more than the usual teenage angst, you know? She doesn't look all that well either.'

Evie swallowed. She wasn't expecting this. ‘You know she's very upset about Neil and the baby . . .'

He nodded. ‘Do you think it would help if she talked to someone? A counsellor, I mean? There's probably someone attached to the school who could help.'

Evie crossed her arms in front of her chest. ‘I don't think she'd take kindly to the suggestion. She'd be appalled.'

Bill shifted slightly on his feet. ‘I've come across quite a lot of young people in my time, as you can imagine, and I've always tried to point my students in the direction of a counsellor if they're having problems . . .'

Evie looked at her feet. ‘I appreciate your concern,' she said, pursing her lips, ‘but I don't think she's having problems. And she knows she can always talk to me if she needs to.'

Bill nodded. ‘You know best, of course.'

He headed back down the hall and started to put his Barbour on.

‘Why don't you stay and watch the end of the film?' she asked. She didn't really mean it. You could have too much of Bill.

He shook his head. ‘Thanks for a lovely day. And say goodbye to the children for me, will you? I don't want to disturb them.'

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Carol left her bike at Richmond Station and walked down the two flights of steps to the platform. She held tightly on to the rail as she did so; she didn't want to stumble. She had her bag on one arm and a copy of the
Daily Mirror
under the other. She was rather looking forward to the journey. She didn't usually take the tube.

Luckily she wouldn't have to change. It was straight through on the District Line to Bow Road, then she'd walk to Griselda's place using her battered old
A–Z
for directions. It was years since she'd been there, so many years that she couldn't remember the last time. When she stepped out of the station everything felt alien: the buildings were completely different; even the people looked – and sounded – different. It could have been a foreign country. She couldn't imagine why Griselda had chosen to move so far away.

She decided to cut through Victoria Park to get to her sister's house. It was a crisp, bright December day between Christmas and New Year, the kind of day that Carol loved. There weren't many folk about. They should be taking the children for rides on their new bikes or kicking footballs about, she thought glumly. Probably stuck indoors in crowded shopping centres, every one of them, shopping being the new national pastime.

She skirted the lake feeling guilty that she hadn't any bread for the ducks and swans. She didn't feel sorry for the Canada geese though, horrible things. They were so pushy. She was in no rush, it was still only 10.30 a.m.

It took her half an hour to get to Griselda's and when she arrived, she stopped on the pavement outside and stared. The house was in a real state: the door and windows were all peeling and there were weeds growing through the black railings. A big green wheelie bin in the front garden was overflowing with rubbish. She took a deep breath and knocked, hoping the inside wouldn't be as bad. But she reeled when Griselda opened the door into her little flat; the stink of tobacco smoke and old food was overpowering.

Carol looked around. There was a brimming ashtray on the dark wooden side table next to Griselda's tatty old armchair, which she'd pulled up in front of the electric fire. Carol nearly trod in a bowl containing the remains of what looked like tomato soup. There were blobs of greeny-blue mould on top. It must have been there for days.

The curtains were torn and sections had come away from the pelmet. There should have been a lovely view of Victoria Park, but the window was so grimy that you could hardly see out. Carol covered her face with her hands. This was her little sister's room she was standing in.

‘Oh, Griselda,' she gasped. ‘I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me?'

Griselda frowned. ‘Dunno what you're talkin' about,' she said, shuffling over to the sink in the corner of the room and filling the kettle. ‘Why have you come anyway?'

‘To wish you Happy Christmas, of course.' Carol pulled herself together, fished in her bag and produced a shiny gold parcel with a card stuck on the top.

‘Here,' she said. ‘Your present.'

Griselda's eyes widened. She always did love a present. ‘Can I open it now?'

Carol nodded.

Griselda tore at the parcel and a woolly red scarf and pair of matching gloves fell out. She picked them up, put them on and did a little waltz round the room. ‘How do I look?'

‘Lovely,' Carol laughed. ‘You always suited red.'

Griselda stopped twirling and stared at her sister. ‘No I didn't,' she said, taking the scarf and gloves off and putting them carefully on the windowsill. ‘You were the one they said suited red, don't you remember? Mother said you looked really nice in that red cape when you were young. She said I could never wear red because of me skin tone.'