Ninepins (2 page)

Over by the window the girl, Willow, had been staring out at the tired October lawn, but now she turned back to face the room. ‘I won't be cooking much.'

‘Well, you never know, once you're settled in.' The tone of Vince's remark took Laura by surprise: briskly encouraging but with an assumption of intimacy, more friendly uncle than housing adviser. ‘You could do a baked potato in that thing in just a few minutes. Bit of grated cheese on top – nothing simpler.'

‘Oh, yes,' agreed Laura. ‘It's certainly fine for things like that. The last girl used to swear by microwaved risotto. She made it in a cereal bowl.'

Willow regarded her without comment.

‘But you'd also have use of my kitchen up at the house for cooking your meals, if you so wish. You'd have your own key for the house, as well as for here.' In fact, her lodgers had almost always ended up sharing meals round the family table – not to mention watching her television, and babysitting for Beth.

‘Sounds a pretty good arrangement.' Vince was looking at Willow, who nodded and shrugged.

‘I don't have a lot of rules, really. No candles is about the only thing – because of the fire risk. What's good about being separate down here is there's no need to worry about noise, and comings and goings. Though the last bus back from Cambridge is at ten pm. It stops at the end of the drove at twenty-five past.'

‘Yes,' said Vince. ‘We looked up the buses, didn't we, Willow? Not a bad service, considering.'

Laura laughed. ‘Considering it's the butt-end of nowhere.'

‘Considering all the cuts there've been to the rural bus services,' came the dignified reply. Then he cracked a grin: ‘Although, yes, that as well, now you come to mention it.'

Willow had turned back to the window again. Laura moved over to stand beside her. ‘It's not much to look at, is it, the garden? I don't have the time for it really.' There was just the lawn and the straggly rose hedge and the tree house that Simon had built for his new son or daughter, with all kinds of misplaced optimism, when Laura was pregnant. It was six years before Beth even mounted the ladder. ‘You'd have the use of it, though, of course. It's not bad for sitting out in the summer, when the sun comes round in the afternoons.'

‘Can you see the river, from up in the tree house?'

Laura glanced sideways at the girl, slightly thrown. ‘I – I think so.' It must be three years since she'd crouched inside, drinking Ribena from doll-sized plastic cups. If Beth went up there at all these days, it was to be on her own. ‘Though it's not a river, exactly. Just a drainage cut, built to take groundwater from the soil. Without it, we'd all be submerged.'

‘I thought you'd be able to see it from the room. It looked that way in the photo.'

‘Oh, yes. I'm sorry. I never thought.' When she'd been asked for pictures with the particulars she'd just sent a snap of the inside of the pumphouse – and then one of the front of the house, taken from across the lode.

Behind them, Vince cleared his throat. ‘I don't think you need concern yourself too much about trade descriptions. It was just a whim Willow had.'

But the girl still frowned without turning. ‘I wanted to see out over water.'

‘Well, anyway,' said Laura, ‘would you like to come back up to the house, if you've seen enough here? I can show you the tenancy agreement.'

‘Yes, great. Thank you,' said Vince, looking hard at Willow, who finally moved away from the window and muttered, ‘Thanks.'

They climbed the concrete steps in silence. Some of them were crumbling badly at the edges; one more winter's frosts and Laura would need to have them done again. On top of the dyke, they paused a moment while Vince and Willow gazed down at the thick dark water, which turned slow circles as it passed, or across to the bank opposite, of a height with the one on which Ninepins stood, and beyond, to the flat, black, hedgeless fields.

‘It seems pretty full,' was Vince's comment.

She nodded. ‘It's rained quite a bit this week.' After all, it was October: in most years, the level in the lode was higher than the surrounding land from September to May.

‘How deep is it?' Willow wanted to know.

‘Oh, goodness – I don't really know. Seven, eight feet, perhaps, at the moment.'

‘So, deep enough to swim?'

‘In theory, I suppose so, yes. But I don't really imagine anyone would want to go in there, do you?'

Even in summer, Elswell Lode was hardly an attractive spot for bathing. Or a safe one, come to that.

‘Not in October they blooming well wouldn't,' said Vince. ‘I'm freezing my monkeys off just standing here. It's not the most sheltered spot in the world. Didn't you say something about going inside and looking at a contract?'

‘Yes, of course. Sorry. Come on in.' Laura dug the key from her bag and opened the front door, showing them into the kitchen.

‘Nice.' Vince ran his eye over the Rayburn and the oak-topped units with evident appreciation. Did he cook, she found herself wondering? ‘Willow, I'm going to have to buy you a recipe book.'

‘Oh, you'd be welcome to borrow mine,' Laura told the girl, indicating the bookshelf. But it did seem an odd thing for him to say; perhaps he actually was a relative, as well as being from the council.

Moving over to the shelf, he scanned the row of spines. ‘Thai,' he said, ‘and
Flavours of Morocco
. Not sure these are quite the place to begin.'

‘There's an old Marguerite Patten somewhere, too. And Nigel Slater's nice and simple.'

She had found the file, now, in the drawer.

‘Here's a copy of the tenancy,' she said, taking it out and handing it to Willow. ‘It's very much a standard agreement, but you'll want to take it away and have a read.'

‘Thanks.' The girl gave it barely a glance before passing it to Vince.

‘And then I'm sure you'd like some time to think about it. I dare say you have other places to view.'

She made to show them to the door, but Vince smiled and stood his ground. ‘Perhaps we can have a bit more of a chat first?'

‘Er, yes, of course. Why don't you both sit down?' They might have more questions; Willow had scarcely asked anything yet. ‘Perhaps you'd like a cup of tea?'

They both accepted this offer, with graceful thanks from Vince and a nod from Willow. As she put on the kettle and reached down the mugs she thought of what else she ought to say.

‘The rent's inclusive of electricity, like I said, and water and council tax, too. There's a separate phone line to the pumphouse, so you can plug in your own phone if you want, so then obviously you'd have the bills to pay for that. And there's broadband, for the internet.'

‘ 'S'OK,' said Willow. ‘I've got a mobile. And I don't have a computer.'

It was difficult to imagine a teenager not on the Web; Beth would chat all night on Facebook if she were allowed. But – of course – how would a client of Housing Aid afford a fancy laptop? Laura felt herself colouring and was glad to be facing the worktop, squeezing teabags with a spoon.

‘I've always let to students, before. Postgraduates, usually. So of course they need their laptops and internet access for work. I had someone lined up this year, in fact, coming from India to do an MPhil, but her funding fell through at the last moment and she had to drop out.' She knew she was babbling now but, having begun, she couldn't seem to stop. ‘And by then the university term had started and I knew there weren't likely to be any students still looking for accommodation, not that late. They'd all be fixed up. So that's why I decided to advertise more widely.'

Turning, she placed their mugs on the table in front of them, followed by the milk and sugar. ‘Help yourselves. Biscuits? I think there are some Hobnobs in the tin, if my daughter hasn't pigged them all.'

Both of them looked up at that.

‘You have a daughter?' said Vince. ‘How old?'

‘Beth. She's eleven – twelve next month. She's just started at Elswell Village College.'

Willow smiled. She had an artless, lopsided smile: it made her suddenly less daunting.

‘Now then,' said Vince, as she took a chair opposite them. ‘You're aware, aren't you, that Willow is only seventeen?'

Laura glanced at the girl's thin, goosebumped arms, the pale concavities in her elbows. Even seventeen was hard to credit.

‘I hope it won't be an obstacle. The rent will be paid directly by the department. We can set up a direct debit.'

‘Oh?' Laura had no direct experience with benefit claimants, but it sounded a surprising arrangement.

‘And there will be a small enhancement, too, an additional payment on account of Willow's age and circumstances.'

‘Really? Is that usual?'

‘Pretty much so, yes – with young people like Willow who are still looked after.'

‘Looked after?' Her thoughts flew back first to the kindly uncle, before light began to dawn.

‘In care,' he explained. ‘It's the term we use for children and young people who are in local authority care.'

Local authority.
Of course: he'd said Cambridgeshire on the phone. She had assumed he meant Housing Aid.

‘You're from Social Services.'

‘That's right. From Children's Services. I'm Willow's social worker.'

‘I see.' Seventeen. In care. With a social worker.

‘I'm sorry if I'm rather springing this on you. Usual practice is to consult about prospective placements in advance, but I've encountered some reluctance when I raise it on the phone. A lot of landlords look askance at kids from the care system. Won't even consider them, sometimes.' Vince caught and held Laura's gaze. ‘There's a lot of prejudice about.'

Prejudice? Perhaps. But a lot of landlords didn't have Beth.

‘I prefer to come and speak to people face to face. Introduce the young person.'

‘May I ask – ?' But it was impossible, with the poor child sitting there. ‘I mean, where has she – ?'

‘I've been in the bin.' It was the first time Willow had spoken since they'd all sat down. Her eyes were a penetrating green. ‘That's what we call it. Children's home, to you.'

Vince laid a hand on her arm. ‘Willow came into care when she was thirteen. She was in various foster placements at first, and then, most recently, in a residential facility. But at seventeen we like to get young people out of institutional care and into independent accommodation, if they're ready for it. And Willow is absolutely ready.'

Independent accommodation
. She still looked such a child: fragile, despite the startling eyes, which were now once more cast down and away.

‘Will there be any support?' Laura asked. Would Vince be in and out, keeping an eye on his charge? Or would Laura herself be expected … to do what? Whatever it might be, she was certainly ill-equipped for it.
And there was Beth
.

‘Oh, yes. Don't worry – we shan't be cutting Willow completely loose. There'll be regular contact for as long as it's required. But it needn't be intrusive, as far as you're concerned. I'm based in Cambridge three days a week; Willow can drop by and see me there.'

‘Wouldn't a bedsit in town be more appropriate, then? In Cambridge, I mean – closer to your offices?'

It was Willow who answered. ‘I saw the picture. I wanted to live by the river.' She pushed back her chair and walked over to the kitchen window. From this angle, the water would be invisible, but she stared out anyway; what Laura could see of her profile appeared entirely impassive.

‘Well, I think we've seen enough.' Vince put down his mug and picked up the tenancy agreement. ‘Unless you have any more questions for us?'

Laura shook her head. There were dozens of questions – but none she could ask.

‘In that case, we'll be on our way. And I'll give you a ring in a day or two, if that's all right – or do ring me if there's more you'd like to know. Thank you very much for your time, Laura. And for the tea.'

On the way out through the hall, Willow dawdled behind, looking at some old, framed photographs that hung along the wall. Laura came back to see what had caught her attention: a black and white snapshot of Ninepins with the lode in spate, water swirling close to the top of the dyke.

‘Is it often like this?'

Laura laughed. ‘No, thank goodness. This was well before my time. It must be taken in the 'fifties, I think.' Though there was little enough to date it. The low horizon and the towering fen sky; the square-built, grey brick house; the top of the pumphouse chimney, jutting up above the dyke: the passing decades scarcely left a mark. ‘They seem to control the levels much better nowadays …'

But Willow wasn't listening; she drifted on towards the door.

‘Goodbye, then,' said Vince, extending his hand. ‘We'll be in touch.'

Five minutes later, when the mugs were washed and dried and hung back on their hooks, Laura had not heard an engine start. Glancing sideways through the window she saw the red saloon still parked outside her door. In the front seats, Vince and Willow were deep in conference, their heads bent close together.

Changing her work clothes for jeans and jumper always made Laura feel more at home. Not to mention warmer; the heating wasn't set to come on until five o'clock, which was the earliest time at which either of them was normally home. Half past three now: it was far too soon to think about starting the supper, and she couldn't face her study and the files in her bag.

Beth. She'd drive to school and pick her up early from homework club for once. She hooked down from the peg the black and red striped scarf and wound it round her neck. The product of a primary school knitting craze, it was Beth's first full-sized effort, bevel-edged and lumpy. Knitting was in Year 6, right after Scoobies and before the squashy juggling balls; they didn't seem to have crazes in the same way at the college.