The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [132]
By the time I reach his cottage, the weather has done one of those conjuring tricks it likes to pull in June and unexpectedly hauled out a steamy sun. Raindrops are sparkling on the summer jasmine outside the door.
He looks tired: he’s wearing his old glasses, instead of contact lenses.
‘So, did Adele have anything useful to suggest about Frannie?’ I ask, as he makes tea for us.
‘Yes.’ His voice through the kitchen door is unusually wary.
‘And Frannie was OK when you left?’
‘Not too bad.’ He comes back in carrying two mugs. I’d swear that’s guilt on his face.
‘You said on the phone she was fine.’
‘Yes, of course, that’s what I meant.’ His eyes slide away towards the brick hearth. ‘Sorry, fire’s a bit miserable. It’s been so damp today I thought it worth getting one going. I’ll stick a log on.’
‘So she seems OK now?’
‘Well…’ He throws some kindling onto the embers, then kneels to hold a sheet of newspaper across the fireplace to improve the draw. ‘You know what she’s like. Weather conditions variable on Planet Fran.’ He seems to be spending an inordinate amount of time building an elaborate pyramid of coal and repositioning the newspaper.
‘John. What’s going on? Did you find out something else about what happened yesterday?’
‘What?’ The newspaper catches fire. ‘Ouch.’ He lets the flame take it up the chimney in a roar of sparks, and finally turns to face me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve never seen you this tense.’
‘Sorry.’ Getting to his feet, he wipes a hand across his face, leaving a black smudge on one cheek. ‘This is a bit difficult.’
My heart’s thundering. ‘What is?’
‘I told Adele I thought you needed help. That it’s too much to ask you to cope with Frannie by yourself. I told her about the helicopter crash, and how badly it affected you…’
The bastard. How dare he?
I storm straight out of his cottage, leaving the tea undrunk, slamming the front door so hard the window panes rattle. The door opens again behind me before I’m more than a couple of yards down the path. ‘Don’t flounce off with your arse in your hand,’ roars John. ‘This isn’t about you, it’s about what’s best for Frannie.’ The front porch frames him with pink sprays of summer jasmine, like a parody of an old-fashioned Valentine card.
‘I was managing fine until you and sodding Social Services stuck their oar in.’ I lash out at a molehill on the lawn, which disintegrates in a shower of damp earth. The garden gate has warped in the rain, and I have to struggle to open it.
‘Indy’ He’s holding out a sprig of jasmine. ‘Peace offering? I agree, we shouldn’t have let them take her to the day centre. But…’
‘There is no but,’ I say. ‘I have to look after her because she took me on after…after…’ The words are sticking in my throat. ‘When Mum didn’t want me any more.’
His hand tightens on the framework of the porch. ‘Life’s not a series of emotional IOUs,’ he says. ‘Frannie’d hate you to crucify yourself on her behalf. Besides, it wasn’t that way, you know it wasn’t. Jesus, I’ve been stupid. I should never have suggested you came back to Avebury after the crash. Didn’t take into account this place has other memories for you. I should’ve understood that’s unfinished business too.’
‘Yeah, yeah, time wounds all heels, et cetera,’ I say, with pressure building up in my chest. ‘But I was eight. I got over it. Gone, done, forgotten.’
‘Forgotten?’ He throws the piece of jasmine onto the damp Tarmac of the path. ‘If you’re not limping, ask yourself why you hit the bottle every night. Why you can’t convince yourself you weren’t responsible for that lad dying in the chopper, why you still see his eyes every night when you go to sleep…’
‘How do you know about the eyes?’
‘…why you won’t let anyone talk about what happened in Tolemac to Mick Feather.’
My throat closes up completely. ‘I don’t know what happened to Mick Feather,’ comes out as a croak. ‘I don’t. Want. To hear.’ I turn and run down