When there was something wrong with her eldest son, he’d invariably present his parents with one of two faces: either bright and chirpy or abandoned misery. His sunny appearance now didn’t fool Pat one jot, having seen it used over the years to mask exam disasters, a stolen credit card and any number of weeping girlfriends.
On the whole Pat preferred abandoned misery.
‘Justin,’ she said firmly. ‘Why have you two been rowing?’
There was a pause and Larson pointedly absented himself from the room.
‘Okay.’ He let out a breath. ‘Okay, I’m really sorry – and I’m sorry on behalf of Tiff as well.’ He made to move, as if this explained everything. Pat, however, did not shift.
‘Ma, we were just having a bit of a head-butt. Like you and Pa used to have.’
The attempt to widen out whatever was going on into an inevitable fact of existence was another of Justin’s tried and tested tactics, one that also failed to cut any ice with his mother.
‘What about?’ said Pat standing her ground. ‘This bit of a clash – what was it about? And don’t be saying “nothing”.’ The direct approach was always the best way with Justin; at least that way she could tell if he was lying.
Justin sighed, ran his hand through his hair in the way that reminded her so strongly of Rod.
‘Okay, Mother,’ he said. ‘So we’re both working really hard to make this thing work. Losing the job, the apartment – it’s not been easy – not that we’re both not massively grateful to you for letting us stay here. But we’re both busting a gut to get thingsback on track. And it’s bound to generate – a certain amount of friction.’
So, lying then.
At the back door he paused, as a warm gust of air and light flooded in from the baking morning.
‘Mum,’ he said seriously. ‘Promise me –promiseme you won’t say anything about this to Tiff.’
Watching him bounce out into the hard light, satchel jauntily over his shoulder, Pat felt her heart break just a little bit more.
Wearily she sat back at the table. What on earth was going on? Had one of them been unfaithful? Tiffany-Jane? She thought of her that day in Leeds, bare face set. Where had she been going? She didn’t look as if she was going to – or coming from – any sort of lover. Pat found herself remembering Thelma’s words:Just because someone has done something terrible, it doesn’t automatically make them a terrible person.
She opened the laptop to turn it off and found herself looking at the amiable face of Son Masters. Amiable he might look, but was there also a shrewd, almost watchful quality to that gaze?Jason Riley – Mr Butter-wouldn’t-melt –and something else, something lurking at the back of her mind … Whatwasit about that face that chimed off a faint chord of something?
A nudge on the ankles announced the presence of Larson, lead in his mouth.
‘Two minutes,’ she said focusing on the laptop. Where was that seminar again? Ingleby Barwick library? Where was that when it was at home? Pat brought up Way Finder on her phone … There was another, more pointed nudge.
‘Hold your horses,’ she said to Larson. ‘We’ll go for your walk, but it’ll be a quick one. I’m going on a bit of an expedition later on.’
She studied the route flashing up on the screen. Thelma wasn’t the only one who could take herself off detectivating.
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday 23rd July
Hambleton Council: Hot tips for hot weather:
In very hot weather, keep an eye on the elderly who may struggle to keep themselves cool and hydrated.
Carrying the laptop back downstairs, Liz was also reflecting on Thelma’s expedition, but for different reasons. Going to see Annie Golightly?With Teddy driving her?Whywas her friend suddenly so reluctant to drive? Had there been some sort of accident or something?
She pushed the speculations aside. Tonight was her pre-diabetes awareness class and she needed to fill her food diary in, a task she never relished, no matter how ‘good’ she’d been. There was something about seeing that sensible spreadsheet of low-sugar this and high-fibre that, that never failed to give her a feeling of grey flatness, despite the undoubted good it was doing her beta cells. She was glumly tapping in ‘low-sugar biscuit’ (right enough, it had tasted like cardboard) as Derek pottered gloomily into the kitchen.
‘It’s like a sauna in that back bedroom,’ he announced fanning his red face with a sheaf of papers.
Her husband presented an odd appearance: on the top half, a white shirt and red tie, which was very much his North Yorkshire County Council persona, witnessed by everyone on the Zoom meeting he’d just been in. His lower half, however, was altogether more summery – flip-flops and a pair of baggy shorts, red faded to pink, which Liz remembered him buying when their son Tim was at the paddling pool stage.
‘Good meeting?’ she asked.
Derek didn’t immediately answer, as he spooned coffee into his favourite Bispham mug; he wasn’t much of a one for multi-tasking. Eventually he spoke. ‘The usual,’ he said in tones of deep gloom. ‘Dishforth Lea.’
