Precious Time (2 page)

‘Shall I look after Mermy today for you?’ Clara asked, wanting to scoop Ned up and get him out of this place and away from bigger boy superiority.

He shook his head, and pushed Mermy back into his pocket. With her heart fit to break she watched him square his shoulders ready to brave the day ahead.

That day, she had worried about Ned constantly. She didn’t care a jot about the production of the latest infertility drug, nor about the rumours that, once again, Phoenix Pharmaceuticals USA were thinking of selling their UK division in Epsom, Surrey, to a French company. From their offices on the floor above her, Guy and David had emailed her with what was allegedly going on. Both suggested that she brush up on her French: ‘Zut alors! Avec les Frenchies, nous will be out of le pan et clans le feu,’ Guy had messaged, which had probably stretched his linguistic repertoire to its limit.

She left as early as she could and drove like the wind, dreading to find Ned in a crumpled heap of misery.

What she found was a tired-looking little boy sitting cross-legged on the floor with a group of glassy-eyed children watching a cartoon on a large-screen television. She was approached by one of his teachers who said she wanted a little word.

‘He’s been all right, hasn’t he?’

‘Oh, he’s an absolute delight,’ the woman said. ‘He’s fitted in just fine. But - and I know it’s only his first day with us - goodness, what a disorganised little boy he is. A head full of clutter. And he never stops talking. But don’t worry, I’m sure that between us we’ll soon have him licked into shape.’ There was laughter in her voice and Clara could see that she wasn’t speaking unkindly. Even so, she could have slapped her face. For heaven’s sake, he was four years old. What did she expect? A personal organiser tucked into his briefcase? Looking around her and seeing the orderly rows of blazers, satchels and plimsoll bags hanging from their hooks Clara felt angry. This was the future for Ned. At the age of four he was already on a conveyor-belt of uniformity. His next stop would be an office where he could hang his jacket and the rest of his life.

It was while she was driving home, with Ned almost asleep, his head tipped to one side, his hands wrapped around Mermy, that Clara made her decision. It was now or never. She had until September to give Ned what he deserved. She would use the precious time available and give him her undivided attention and, hopefully, a little adventure into the bargain.

More than two hundred and fifty miles away, in Deaconsbridge, a small market town in the Peak District where luscious hills of tranquil beauty gave way to peaty moors of savage wildness, a man sat brooding restlessly on an uncomfortable orange plastic chair. His name was Gabriel Liberty, and at the age of seventy-nine he believed he had earned the right not to be kept waiting.

Half an hour he had been stuck here, confined in this airtight room, exposed to any number of germs. He stretched out his stiff legs and knocked over a tower of building bricks, which an ugly, snivelling brat had just spent the last five minutes constructing.

‘Watch it, can’t you?’ the child’s mother said. She put down her magazine, shuffled a handbag and a small baby on her lap, and bent to the brat who was now producing an annoyingly loud wail.

‘It serves him right for being in my way,’ Gabriel said. ‘And while you’re down there, wipe his nose. It’s disgusting.’

A shrill ring sounded, followed by an even shriller voice announcing that the doctor was ready for patient number sixteen.

Gabriel hauled himself out of his chair. ‘And about time too,’ he muttered.

T think you’ll find I’m number sixteen,’ said a hesitant voice from across the room.

Gabriel glared at a pasty-faced man in a flat cap, daring him to mount any kind of a real challenge.

‘Oh, let him go,’ said the mother of two, ‘give us all some peace.’

Without bothering to knock, Gabriel entered Dr Cunningham’s surgery. ‘Humph, not seen you before,’ he said, sitting down in front of the fake teak desk with a computer on one end and a shiny brass statue of a dancing woman with too many hands at the other.

Sandwiched between the two was a spry little Indian man in his shirtsleeves.

His name was Dr Singh, if the engraved plaque in front of

him was to be believed. ‘What happened to Dr Cunningham?’ asked Gabriel.

‘He died.’

‘Mm … that doesn’t surprise me. He never did strike me as a good advertisement for his profession. Always looked overworked and underfed. Clearly wasn’t practising what he preached. What got him, then? Every doctor’s weakness, the booze and fags?’

‘No. A car crash in Portugal while he was on holiday with his family. Did you not read about it in the local paper?’

‘I’ve no time for local rags. Nothing but a load of old cods about jumble sales and potting-shed breakins. The Portuguese are the worst drivers on earth, aren’t they? Mind you, your lot aren’t much better. I was in Delhi once, never seen anything like it. Just passing through, are you?’

Dr Singh gave him a thin smile. ‘No, I’m here for the duration.

How about you?’

‘All depends.’

‘On anything in particular?’

‘Yes. On how soon I can get out of here. I’ll either die of boredom being cooped up in this surgery a moment longer, or I’ll catch something fatal.’

‘Well, let’s see if I can oblige you and send you on your speedy way.’ Dr Singh turned and stared into the computer screen. ‘I see it’s some months since you last paid us a visit, Mr Shawcross. How’s that lazy bowel of yours?’

Gabriel bristled at the man’s effrontery. ‘I’ll have you know my bowel is in perfect working order, nothing remotely lazy about it.

And the name’s Liberty. Gabriel Liberty. You could at least get that right.’

Dr Singh frowned and tapped away at his keyboard. T thought Mr Shawcross was next on my list.’

‘Oh, him - he wasn’t fast enough. Probably that lazy bowel of his holding him back.’

Gabriel snorted at his own joke, but Dr Singh attacked his keyboard once more. ‘Ah, here we are. Gabriel Liberty of Mermaid House, Hollow Edge Moor, Deaconsbridge. Is that you? Have I got that right?’

‘It’ll do right enough.’

Another glance at the screen gave Dr Singh his next question. ‘So how are you getting on with your diet? Still keeping an eye on your cholesterol?’

‘A weather eye at all times,’ Gabriel answered. He almost licked his lips at the thought of the steak and kidney pudding with chips that he would be tucking into as soon as he got out of here.

Another glance at the screen. ‘And your arthritis?’

Gabriel waved his distorted large-knuckled hands. ‘I’m giving them a rest, decided to ease up on the fiddly work of brain surgery.

Truth is, I can’t find the brains. Not round here anyway.’

Dr Singh rested his elbows on the desk. ‘So what can I help you With?’

‘I was wondering when you’d get to the point. It’s this …’

Lunch wasn’t proving as enjoyable as Gabriel had hoped it would be.

For a start his usual table was occupied by a couple of day-trippers, and then there had been no steak and kidney pudding on the menu; he’d had to make do with egg and sausage instead. He didn’t like change. And he didn’t like having to make do. Besides, egg and sausage he could do at home. Nothing to it. But steak and kidney pudding was another matter.

He was sitting in the Mermaid cafe overlooking the square where Friday’s market was in full flow - local people were going about their business while tourists, brought out by the warm spring weather, .were getting in their way. He sprinkled extra salt on to his chips, folded the newspaper that the cafe supplied and prepared himself for a satisfying assault on the crossword. To his annoyance someone had beaten him to it. He pushed it aside. The day was not going well.

and As pathetic as it was, coming into Deaconsbridge had become the high spot of his week. It was the only day that had any structure to it.

He came here every Friday to browse in the antiquarian bookshop, pick up the odd item of food - kippers for his supper that evening and to go to the bank and the post office. And, of course, to have his lunch cooked for him.

He munched a mouthful of sausage slowly and wondered at the tedium of his life. It wasn’t an easy confession for him to make, but he was bored. Other than his younger son, Jonah, who did the bulk of his shopping for him, he rarely saw anyone during the week. And only ever made a fleeting visit. As for Caspar and Damson, if it hadn’t been for Val’s funeral, he might not have seen them all these last couple of years.

It was strange, but since the death of his second wife eighteen months ago, he had thought more and more of Anastasia, his first wife. The memory of her had grown sharper as Val’s faded.

Anastasia had been the mother of his children and had died thirty four years ago.

He had been away on business in Nigeria when it happened and had missed her death by twelve hours. In those days communication wasn’t what it is today, and he had arrived home to be told that he was the widowed father of three children - Anastasia had died giving birth to Jonah. Help was brought in to take care of the children, but nothing was ever the same again. As the years passed, it was clear that the children, in particular the twins, Caspar and Damson, who were growing wilder by the day, needed a mother. So he married Val.

It was a union of convenience on both sides: he had needed someone to organise the house and his family so that he could devote himself to the running of Liberty Engineering, and Val had wanted the security a husband could offer. They never deluded themselves that the arrangement was perfect, but he liked to think that it had worked well for the most part.

His plate had been cleared away some time ago and he was ready for his dessert now. He banged his spoon sharply on the table and caught the eye of a waitress. Fellow diners looked his way and he returned their stares disdainfully. Someone muttered how rude he was, but the waitress came over with his bowl of apple pie and custard, just as she always did when he summoned her with his spoon.

‘Everything all right?’ she said.

She asked this every time she served him. He supposed it was her equivalent to ‘Have a nice day’ and went with the ridiculous outfit she and the other waitresses wore - silly red baseball caps with short red overalls, which made them look as though they belonged in a theme park.

‘No,’ he said, ‘everything is far from all right. I’m at the wrong table, there was no steak and kidney on the menu and what’s more,’

he thrust the paper at her, ‘someone has completed my crossword.’

‘We’ll have to see if we can do better next Friday,’ she said breezily. ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘You know I always have tea.’

He spent the rest of the afternoon doing his errands before awarding himself an hour of browsing in the bookshop.

Eventually he drove back to Mermaid House in a foul mood. He had had to abort his first attempt because he had forgotten to call in the chemist’s. With Dr Singh’s words echoing in his ears he had “turned the Land Rover round and gone back into town. The man was probably overreacting but he had said it was imperative that he started the course of antibiotics as soon as possible. He had also said that Gabriel would have to come into the surgery again in a couple of days to have the dressing changed.

A lot of fuss and bother about nothing.

Even so, it wouldn’t hurt to take the quack at his word, seeing as the pain in his arm had been getting worse. It had been so bad the last two nights he hadn’t been able to sleep.

‘That’s a very nasty burn, Mr Liberty,’ the doctor had said, when Gabriel had rolled up his sleeve. ‘It’s also infected. When and how did you do it?’

‘Some time last week. I … I was careless with the kettle.’

‘And you didn’t think to get it seen to?’

‘I thought it would heal on its own.’

‘Do you live alone, Mr Liberty?’

‘What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?’

, Once again the doctor’s eyes had scanned his computer screen.

“Your wife died not so long ago, didn’t she?’

ŚShe might have. What else have you got stored on there about me?’

‘You’d be surprised. Now, push your sleeve right back as far as it will go and let me have a good gander.’

‘You know, for a foreigner your English isn’t bad.’

‘And for a man with a burn the size of a chapati, you’re lucky you’re not in hospital. Any family to keep an eye on you?’

‘Mind your own business.’

The approach to Mermaid House was almost a mile long and the track made for hard going; it was a toss-up whose suspension would give out first, the ancient Land Rover’s or Gabriel’s. Cursing each bump jolted his arm, he knew he would rather die than be made to move. What was a little discomfort when he had perfection on his doorstep?

Perched high on Hollow Edge Moor, and about a thousand feet above sea level, his home was surrounded by unrivalled scenery.

The best in England, for his money. From the front of the house, and beyond the expanse of moorland, Deaconsbridge nestled in the shallow plateau of the valley with its old mill and factory chimneys just visible, but turn to the right, to the south, and you had the swell of the dales of the White Peak. Walk round to the side of the house, and on a clear day, the windswept hulk of Kinder Scout dominated the skyline.

When he let himself in, Gabriel saw that Jonah had been and gone.

There were three carrier-bags of shopping on the table with a note saying he had put away the perishable items in the fridge and freezer.

Damn the boy!

It had become Jonah’s habit to call when he knew his father was out.

The nature of Archie Merryman’s work meant that he saw more than his fair share of bereavement. A house-clearance job usually meant that he was tidying up the loose ends of someone’s life and death, and it never failed to touch him. Stripping a property of its furniture and possessions, hearing the echoing footsteps on floors where once there had been carpets, always made him feel that he had personally removed the heart from the house. No longer was it a home: it was an empty shell. It was only the thought of the next family moving in that kept him from becoming maudlin. He liked to visualise them taking up residence, children crashing down the stairs, doors banging, chairs scraping, cutlery rattling, the radio playing.