Precious Time (15 page)

‘You’re not my priest, I don’t have to confess everything to you.’

Dr Singh shared a conspiratorial smile with Miss Costello. ‘Your father is a very unusual man. His sense of humour is not to everyone’s taste, I think.’

‘Oh, he’s always been a quirky old devil, but that’s his charm.

Affectionately curmudgeonly, is what we say about him. Isn’t that right, Dad?

She’s enjoying every moment of this, thought Gabriel, with a half smile. But then, truth to tell, so was he. It was particularly satisfying knowing that he was getting one over on this interfering quack. ‘If you say so, dear.”

‘He tells me that you’re coming to stay with him,’ Dr Singh said.

‘Yes, that’s right. I thought I’d take him in hand, you know, tidy the place up a bit, maybe even encourage him to find himself a housekeeper.’

Dr Singh smiled again. ‘I wish you luck in those tasks.’ He cast his eyes meaningfully around the kitchen.

‘Oh, I think I’m more than up to the task of whipping my rascal of a father into shape. No worries on that score.’

‘Well, if you’ve both finished discussing me as though I were a dimwit,’ Gabriel said tersely. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to show the doctor to the door, Damson. There’s a whole world of terminally ill people out there who must be desperate for a good dying scene in the arms of their local GP.’

‘Yes, Dad, of course.’

Thinking how easily they’d got away with it, Gabriel watched the doctor being lead out of the kitchen. He heard the back door open and was on the verge of a congratulatory pat on the back when the doctor reappeared. Gabriel froze. Damn! Had the wretched man merely been playing along with them?

‘Dear, oh dear,’ the doctor said, ‘you would think I’d know better by now.’ He came towards Gabriel and reached for his medical bag, which he’d left on a chair beside the table. ‘I’ve been told so many times that I would lose my head if it were not joined to the rest of me.’ He laughed brightly.

Gabriel forced himself to join in. ‘Got everything now?’ he asked.

‘I do hope so. I certainly don’t want to have to make another trip out here today. Your drive is murder on my little car’s suspension.’

‘You’d better keep away, then.’

Despite the rain, Miss Costello walked the doctor to his car.

Through the window, Gabriel could see that they were deep in conversation. No need to ask who or what they were discussing.

Doubtless the good doctor was pumping the prodigal daughter about her pathetic old father.

‘Well?’ he said, when she came back into the kitchen.

‘Well what?’ she asked, shaking the droplets of rain from her hair.

‘Did we get away with it?’

‘For the time being, yes.’

‘Uh?’

‘You’ve earned yourself a reprieve until next week. He said he’s going to try and pop in on Monday to make sure your eye has recovered.’

‘This is victimisation,’ Gabriel roared. ‘I won’t stand for it. It’s outrageous!’

‘A lot of people would give their back teeth for such a caring doctor.’

‘Well, I’m not one of them! I’ll - I’ll pretend I’m not in. Or, better still, I’ll go to the surgery. That’ll show the stupid little man.’ Then, in a less acerbic tone, ‘Why can’t people understand that I just want to be left alone? Is that really too much to ask?’ He slumped into a chair at the table.

With her hands resting on Ned’s shoulders, Clara observed him from across the room. The poor man made a desolate picture. And for the first time since meeting him, she saw not a growling, teeth baring tyrant but an elderly man who wanted to preserve his dignity.

It was just that he was going about it in the wrong way.

The modern world didn’t work by the old rules of dictatorship.

Nowadays it was run on different lines, by compromise, tact, guile, and subtle manipulation. She should know: she had used them well enough during her time with Phoenix. She had lost count of the number of management training courses she had been on where she had been told that there is no such thing as a problem: problems are challenges, and challenges are to be shared.

But how could this old man ever adapt? How could he ever wise up to the great universal truth that it was all about give and take?

There was nothing else she could say so Clara took Ned’s hand and turned to leave. ‘Why is Mr Liberty so sad?’ Ned asked, his voice too loud and too clear.

‘I’m not sad,’ rumbled Mr Liberty, his head still his hands. ‘I’ve never been sad in my life.’

Pulling his hand out of Clara’s grasp, Ned went back to the table, stood next to the old man and peered at him. ‘Why are you hiding behind your hands?’ he asked. ‘Are you playing a game? Granda does that with me. He sits very still, makes gaps in his fingers, then suddenly goes, boo! It makes me jump every time. Shall I show you?’

Before either Clara or Mr Liberty could stop him, Ned let out an almighty boo! Mr Liberty jumped, but Clara could see that he was trying to pretend he hadn’t. ‘Do you want to play that game with me?’ asked Ned. ‘It might cheer you up.’

‘Ned, I don’t think Mr Liberty wants to play anything right now.

He’s not in the mood. And, anyway, we’ve got to keep our part of the bargain.’

At this, Mr Liberty raised his head. ‘Bargain?’

‘You generously gave us a place to stop for the night on the understanding we wouldn’t cause you any trouble and that we would be gone first thing.’ She looked at her watch. ‘First thing was several hours ago, but by lunchtime we should be out of your way.’

Mr Liberty seemed to pull himself together. ‘Of course. Well, I mustn’t keep you. An agreement is an agreement. Where are you going? Have you sorted out a campsite?’

‘Not yet, but I thought we’d go into Deaconsbridge and stock up on supplies. I also need to find a launderette.’

‘You’ve as much chance of finding one of those round here as tripping over a crock of gold.’ He was sounding much more his indomitable self. ‘We used to have one, but it was turned into a fancy art gallery selling tacky paintings to dumb tourists who wouldn’t know art if it jumped up and bit them on the nose.’

Clara smiled. ‘We’ll make it our first port of call, then.’ Once more she turned to go, then hesitated. ‘Would you like us to fetch you anything? It wouldn’t be any trouble.’

He regarded her uncertainly. ‘You’re coming back in this direction?’

‘Not

specifically, but I don’t mind making the trip. You’re not that far out of the town, are you?’

‘That’s good of you,’ he said gruffly. He took a ballpoint pen from Ned, who was making an irritating noise by repeatedly clicking the top of it with his thumb. ‘But there’s nothing I need.’

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You’re not used to kindness, are you?’

He squared his shoulders and straightened his back. ‘At my age, kindness and charity become indistinguishable.’

‘So you’d be much happier if you believed my offer was born out of a desire to interfere, rather than accept it as a genuine offer to help?’

He didn’t say anything, but removed from Ned’s hands a

magnifying-glass he had unearthed from an overflowing shoebox of junk on the table. He had been using it to inspect Mermy at close quarters.

‘Look,’ she said, trying to be conciliatory, ‘I’m sorry things didn’t pan out better with your tenacious doctor, but the only way you’re going to get him off your back is to meet him half-way. Clean the place up and prove to him you can fend for yourself. Can’t you enlist your real daughter’s help?’

Mr Liberty brought the magnifying-glass down on the table with a sharp bang. ‘Damson doesn’t show her face here unless she has to.’

His voice was hard, scornful.

‘Damson’s an unusual name. I meant to ask you about it earlier.’

‘Sounds more like a cat’s name, doesn’t it? Which is quite appropriate. Damson can be as sleek and cunning as any feline creature I’ve ever known. Scratchy too, when she wants to be.’

‘Was the name your idea?’

He shook his head. ‘The credit goes to my first wife. She had a fondness for the eccentric’

Clara realised that this was the first time he had referred to his family. ‘Do you have any other children?’ she asked.

‘A pair of sons who are both two shades of stupid. Caspar is a con man with as much head for business as a watermelon. He’s a chippy brat who, like Icarus, hasn’t yet learned the hazards of flying too close to the sun. My other son, Jonah, is a weak-willed idealist.’

‘And what terrible crime did he commit to gain such familial approval?’

‘That, Miss Costello, is none of your business. And while we’re on the subject, why have you started asking me so many questions? I thought you said you were going.’

‘I was simply wondering why you don’t ask for their help. And you’ve given me the answer. You’ve scared them off, haven’t you?

But, like you said, it’s none of my business so I’ll say goodbye. It’s been an education meeting you.’ She held out her hand.

He stared at it hard, rose to his feet, and took it in his large distorted paw. Then he withdrew it, looking as if he was about to say something important. ‘Tell me, Miss Costello,’ he said slowly, ‘you strike me as a woman who enjoys a challenge. Am I right?’

‘It has been said of me, yes.’

‘And you told me over breakfast that you don’t have any real plans, that you and your son are just drifting from one place to another. Is that so?’

‘Absolutely nothing wrong with your memory. Your point being?’

‘I’d like to make you an offer. Help rid me of that interfering quack by pretending to be my daughter for a while longer.’

‘Are we talking more lies? And perhaps you’d elaborate on what a while longer actually means. Another day? Another two days?’ She watched him swallow and sensed that he was hoping for more than that from her.

‘It depends on how long you think it would it take to sort out this mess.’ He indicated the kitchen.

Clara was stunned. He couldn’t be serious. ‘Whoa there, I’m not sure I like where this is going. What on earth makes you think I would be remotely interested in dealing with this little lot? Ned and I are on holiday. Cleaning up after somebody else doesn’t feature on our itinerary.’

‘But you do owe me a favour.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since I rescued you from those goons when you were trespassing on my land.’

The breathtaking cheek of the man! ‘Oh, nice try,’ she said derisively. ‘You think you can toss that one in and hold my conscience to ransom. Well, think again, buddy, because you’ve got me all wrong. Anyway, I’ve already carried out one favour for you by lying to Dr Singh about being your daughter.’

‘If I can’t appeal to your good nature, then maybe your purse will be a better option.’

‘Sorry, still not interested. Try flaunting your money at the Yellow Pages.’

‘I’d sooner flaunt it at a person I know and trust.’

‘How can you be so sure I won’t fleece you?’

‘I pride myself on being a good judge of character.’

‘The flattery, even from you, won’t work. Get hold of a firm of contract cleaners with a good reputation.’

‘I don’t want strangers in my house. Please, won’t you even consider my offer? I’m willing to pay you whatever it takes.’

She held her ground. ‘Look, you might be used to bullying people into doing what you want them to do, but you can’t do the same with me. And, for your information, I’m not for sale.’

‘Come, come, everything is for sale, surely you know that. And just think of the challenge.’

‘The answer is still a resounding no.’

It was the most monstrously ludicrous idea Clara had ever heard, and as she and Ned packed up Winnie, she didn’t know whether to feel flattered by Mr Liberty’s proposal, that he clearly approved of her, or downright insulted that he had thought she might want to waste her holiday cleaning up his mess.

‘Completely off his trolley,’ she muttered under her breath, as she moved about Winnie, putting packets and jars into their respective cubby-holes and slamming the locker doors. ‘Just who does he think he is?’

It was a power thing, she suspected. Old Laughing Boy needed someone he could treat as a skivvy. That was what this was about.

Well, not this girl. She was nobody’s skivvy. No sirree. And how dare he think she could be bought off? She hadn’t given up a well-paid job to become a cleaner for that miserable old goat!

Gabriel watched the campervan trundle slowly along the drive until it was out of sight. He turned from the rain-lashed stone mullion window in the tower, angry and disappointed: angry because he had been reduced to the humiliating level of begging somebody to help him and disappointed because he knew he was going to miss having that Costello woman and her son around. They hadn’t been with him long, but there had been something about them he had liked, something about their company that had appealed to him.

The woman’s forthrightness had been a refreshing change from the patronising sycophancy with which he was frequently treated, and the boy had been as bright as a button, not missing anything that was going on around him. He had forgotten how honest children could be. How they could put their finger on a raw spot and prod it mercilessly. Sad, was how the youngster had described him. Well, yes, in that moment he had felt sad. Weary too. Worn out. Shrivelled up. A husk of his former self. Old, and ready to throw in the towel.

He knew he was bucking against the system, which held all the trump cards. It was only a matter of time before Dr Singh and his kind would have their pernicious way with him. It was his greatest fear that the time would come when he would be carted off to live the remainder of his life among a crowd of insufferable strangers whose only excitement would be a change of incontinence pad after a game of bingo. It was, he knew, a fear that was bordering on the pathological, and not one based on personal experience of these places. But he had read enough horror stories in the papers to know that dreadful things went on in retirement homes. Last year, before the television had broken, he had watched an appalling series of programmes about a bunch of poor old dears and ageing Jack the Lads living out their lives to the tune of ‘It’s A Long Way to Tipperary’ and ‘The Hokey-Cokey’. Sometimes he had nightmares about this from which he woke in a sweat, heart pounding, terrified that he would end his days with sickeningly motherly women calling him ‘dear’ and offering to take him to the lavatory. Dear God, he’d rather take one of his shotguns to his head.