Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [80]
Deborah watched as he picked his way through the rubble. He yelled, “Hey, Joe! What d’we hear from that stone mason?”
Deborah wandered in the direction of the large tent, identified by a sign in front of it reading Eat and Meet. Inside, a bearded man in a knitted cap and heavy coat— too heavy for the weather, but he seemed to have no body fat at all to insulate his bones— was setting up for a meal. He had positioned large pots over spirit warmers, and a fragrance came from them, redolent of red meat and potatoes. He saw Deborah, and his eyes lit on the camera in her hands.
Deborah said pleasantly, “Hello. Not to worry. I’m just having a look round.”
“Th’ always are,” he muttered.
“Lots of visitors?”
“Always someone comin’ hereabouts. Himself needs the funds.”
“Oh. I see. Well, I’m not a potential donor, I’m afraid.”
“Nor was the last. Doesn’t matter to me. I get food and the meetings and ’f someone wants to ask me do I think this’ll work, I say it will.”
Deborah approached him. “But you don’t believe in this process?”
“Didn’t say that. And doesn’t matter what I believe. Like I say, I get food and the meetings and that’s enough for me. Don’t mind the meetings as much as I reckoned I would, so that’s not half-bad. Dry place to sleep as well.”
“During the meetings?” Deborah asked him.
He looked up sharply. He saw her smile and he chuckled. “Anyway, like I said, they’re not half-bad. Bit much with the God bit, bit more with the acceptance bit, but I can cope. Maybe it’ll sink in. Willing to try it. Ten years sleeping rough… it’s enough.”
Deborah joined him then at the serving table. He had a large box on a chair next to it, and from this he began taking out cutlery, tin plates, plastic drinking glasses, cups, and a mound of paper napkins. He began to arrange these on the table, and Deborah helped him.
“Teacher,” he said quietly.
She said, “What?”
“That’s what I was. Secondary comprehensive in Lancaster. Chemistry. I bet you didn’t reckon that, did you?”
“No. I didn’t.” Her words were equally quiet.
He gestured towards the outdoors. “All shapes and sizes,” he said. “We got a surgeon, a physicist, two bankers, and an estate agent out there. And those’re just the ones willing to say what they left behind. The others…? They’re not ready yet. Takes time to admit how far you’ve fallen. You don’t have to make those table napkins so neat. We’re not the Ritz.”
“Oh. Sorry. Force of habit.”
“Like Himself,” he said. “Can’t hide your roots.”
Deborah didn’t bother to tell him that her own roots came from the soil of what in another century would have been called “being in service.” Her father had long been employed by the St. James family, and he’d spent the last seventeen years of his life caring for Simon while pretending not to be caring for Simon. It was a very delicate balancing act that had him referring to his own son-in-law as Mr. St. James. Deborah made a murmur of quasi-agreement and said, “You sound fond of him.”
“Himself? Decent bloke. Bit too trusting, but good to the core.”
“You think he’s being taken advantage of? I mean, with these gentlemen here.”
“Not hardly. Most of them know they’ve got something good going and ’less they’re too far gone with the drink or with drugs, they’re going to hang on here as long as they can.”
“Then who?”
“Taking advantage?” He eyed her directly, a very meaningful look. Deborah saw that he had a cataract forming in his left eye and she wondered how old he was. With ten years of life on the street as part of his C.V., it would be nearly impossible to determine his age from his appearance.
“People come round with promises and he believes ’em. He’s naïve that way.”
“It’s to do with money? Donations?”
“Sometimes. Other times, they want something off him.” Again, that meaningful look.
Deborah realised that he was placing her in the category of people wanting something from Nicholas Fairclough. It wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion, considering who she was supposed to be. Still, she said, “Such as?”
“Well, he’s got