42
J aney is completely furious once more as Lowell picks up.
‘Where are you?’
‘Hiding in a hayloft. Long story.’
‘Did you get it?’
Essie fingers the deeds to the cottages. ‘I did.’
‘Good. Now we need to let the Land Registry know. You’ve got a cooling-off period. It should just make it. And very, very quickly, before the police start going through the paperwork.’
‘You can’t call them,’ says Janey, staring at the website disconsolately. ‘You can’t email them either. There’s a form. It needs a signature. And then a copy of the deeds, initialled. That’s the withdrawal procedure.’
‘You need Dwight to sign a form and initial the original deeds?’
‘That’s what it says here.’
There’s a pause.
‘But we don’t have time !’ says Essie, in agony.
‘Can’t we get Dwight down there?’
‘There isn’t another flight today,’ says Janey in a low voice.
‘Bring the deeds back here,’ says Lowell. ‘Can you make the return?’
‘If I run,’ says Essie.
‘Well, do that. We’ll figure it out from here. It’s already good you’ve got the deeds.’
‘Okay,’ says Essie, then hears a siren in the distance and abruptly hangs up the phone.
‘So if we have the deeds, and withdraw the property transfer instruction from the Land Registry . . . ’
‘It might work,’ says Lowell. ‘Unless they realise it’s missing from a police point of view first. In which case it will go into the bankruptcy pot . . . ’
‘And pay the earliest investors back first.’
He makes a noise of agreement.
Janey stares down solemnly. ‘Oh, Christ. Come on, Essie.’ She looks up at him. ‘And you recommended she do this?’
‘No!’ says Lowell immediately. ‘She was absolutely going anyway. Her plan was to punch everyone in the face. I just suggested . . . something that might be more useful.’
Janey searches his kind, shrewd, unapologetic face. ‘But won’t they track her down?’
‘Why would they? Nobody knows the deeds were there except for Tristan, who will be expensively advised not to say a word, and Dwight, who won’t if he knows what’s good for him. If the withdrawal note is in and we have the deeds, it won’t be worth their while to chase it down.’
‘I need to get to Dwight.’
Lowell nods. ‘He needs to sign the withdrawal letter.’
‘And then . . . ’ She can’t let herself believe what this might mean if Essie doesn’t make it. Or even if she does . . .
‘We’ll see,’ says Lowell. ‘Don’t . . . let’s just wait and see for now.’
She can’t help it. She hugs him, his big scratchy jumper, the comforting heft of him; the pleasant smell of graphite and flowers from the garden, and just a trace of puppy.
He puts his arm around her. It is suddenly alarming to them both how comfortable and comforting this is; not embarrassing, not strange.
Not strange at all. And suddenly something shifts in the air between them as she rests against the large bulk of him she has dreamed of, the adrenaline still in their bodies, caught up in the excitement of the moment, and for once she isn’t thinking about her wrinkles or her breasts or her to-do list or her family.
She isn’t thinking about anything apart from how much she wants to kiss this man’s soft lips, and she wants to kiss them now.
The laundry door opens without a sound. A small, exasperated person is standing there signing furiously. ‘What are you doing?’
They both freeze. Janey disengages herself, as the puppies run up to Verity to rasp at her with their little tongues and bite her shoelaces. Verity’s giggle is curious; startlingly loud and deep. It is lovely to hear it.
Janey steps outside and opens up her hands.
‘Your dad,’ she signs, even as he moves ahead and opens the door and they all tumble out into the garden, the sea in the air, the early afternoon sun with warmth in it, as the meadowsweet blows. ‘Your dad did something very brave and kind to help my daughter.’
‘Essie?’
‘Yes. It was brave and kind and possibly a bit stupid.’
Verity lets out a giggle again, eyeing her dad curiously. Then she pulls Janey down so Lowell can’t see them or make out what she’s saying.
‘Is he a good dad?’
Janey nods. ‘I think he is a very good dad,’ she signs as emphatically as she can. ‘And I think he loves you very much.’
‘Mum says . . . ’
‘Your mum is a very clever person. But also . . . ’
This is a lot to sign. She’s more used to discussing treatment options, or discussing Frisko the Bear with very small patients.
But somehow, in this other language, she feels freer. Her hands can express so much more, than even saying it. As she says it to Verity, this solemn child caught in the middle of something nobody understands, she wishes she were saying it to Essie – realises she should be.
‘Sometimes if people love a child but not each other . . . it can make things very difficult.’
‘Like when Daddy gave Felicity away because he was so sad?’
‘Exactly like that.’
‘Does Mummy hate Daddy?’
Janey thinks back to her own feelings. Well. Yes. Maybe. But children don’t need to know that; shouldn’t have to inherit it. They should be protected in every way possible.
‘She’s just sad. Sad that you don’t all live together and that it has all happened. Sad. That’s what it is.’
Verity nods. ‘It makes me sad too.’
‘I know.’
‘Does it make Daddy sad?’
Janey thinks of him in the bluebells. ‘So sad.’
‘Does he hate me?’
‘Never. You are his best thing in the world.’
Verity looks at her, frowning. ‘Should I cuddle him?’
‘You don’t have to,’ says Janey. ‘It’s up to you. You don’t have to cuddle anyone you don’t want to. But I should say he would like it.’
Verity nods.
Then she stands up, the imperious little figure, like a tiny queen with her long hair, the noble dog never leaving her side, and walks up to her dad, who is extremely happy to be overwhelmed for the second time that day.