Chapter Twenty
From the Carlton Miniot Allotments Facebook Page:
Could ALL allotment holders please note the current hosepipe ban and also try and be mindful of the number of times they fill watering cans from the central tap. Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated.
As the heatwave persisted (‘it’s with us awhile yet, folks!
’ the Look North weatherman had cheerily announced that teatime) the people of Thirsk and Ripon had grown accustomed to snatching at their outdoor jobs in the mid- to late evening.
It was between the hours of seven and ten that dogs were walked, gardens watered, strolls taken, albeit at a slower pace through the lengthening shadows and pungent smells of baked grass and pollen.
This evening, sometime before eight found Pat and Rod sitting on their teak love seat, watching the sun just beginning its dawdling descent over the distant Pennines.
Between them stood the remnants of a bottle of a particularly fruity Merlot.
Normally this was one of Pat’s favourite summertime things, feeling the sun-warmed teak against her back, savouring sips of red as she and Rod gently chit-chatted the day to rights, or just sat in a companionable silence.
Normally.
She glanced up uneasily at the window to the guest bedroom. It had been eleven minutes since the shouting had stopped and the curtains had been tightly pulled.
When they’d returned from Ingleby Barwick library around six, her son had been out in the drive, oblivious of the heat, waiting for them.
‘Hey up,’ Pat had said. ‘We’ve a welcoming committee.
’ She hadn’t felt especially alarmed, but Tiffany’s face had become set and tense, hands gripping the steering wheel as she negotiated the red Mini into the space between Pat’s Yeti and Rod’s pickup truck.
Justin had strode over, feet angrily scrunching on the gravel, face set behind his mirrored shades.
‘Where have you been?’ he said, eyes wide with unaccustomed anxiety.
‘Good afternoon to you too,’ said Pat pointedly.
‘Stockton,’ said Tiffany reasonably. ‘I did tell you, Justy.’
‘There’s roadworks on the A1 at Leeming Bar,’ said Pat. ‘That’s why we’re a bit later back.’
‘You need to be indoors,’ Justin said to Tiffany, eyes still wide. Looking at his face, wet and blotchy in the heat, Pat rather thought he was the one who needed to be out of the sun.
Tiff nodded. ‘I need to grab a shower,’ she said.
As they retreated into the house, Pat could hear her son talking – not the words, but the tone, stressed, almost panicky, quite unlike his customary easy voice.
He was obviously worried about something – but what?
Surely, he couldn’t be concerned about her in the heat – after all it was she, Pat, who had had the funny turn.
Tiffany was a lot healthier and younger than she was.
And surely if he was worried about infidelity, shouldn’t Justin have been reassured that his girlfriend was out with his mother? She looked after them, puzzled.
What on earth was going on?
About twenty minutes later Pat was distractedly preparing another non-meal for her and Rod (salad and farm shop burgers) when Justin came downstairs.
‘Tiff tells me you’ve been out doing your sleuthing.’ His voice was quiet and firm.
‘We were talking to a man—’ began Pat.
‘A man you think might have killed someone,’ interrupted her son.
‘Hardly.’ Long practice of dealing with emotional sons had taught Pat to keep her voice pleasant and neutral in such situations.
Inside, however, the butterflies were stirring.
She wasn’t sure she could remember Justin ever talking to her in this cold, steely tone.
She faced him, mind groping for the words and thoughts, refusing to have her child speak to her in this way.
But Justin was powering on in that awful, quiet voice.
‘I don’t care what you and your mates get up to,’ he said. ‘But don’t you ever involve Tiff in anything like this, ever again—’
‘I wasn’t—’ she began to say.
‘Ever again,’ interrupted Justin, anger warming the steel.
Rod had walked in in time to catch the tail end of the exchange.
‘Hey – don’t you speak to your mother like that,’ he rapped out in a tone that was a carbon copy of his eldest son’s.
Which was of course as it should be, but not particularly helpful as Justin simply ignored the pair of them and stormed back upstairs.
Tea was a largely silent meal but as she began loading the dishwasher Rod held her from behind.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Leave that. Let’s sit out for a bit.’
Outside in the love seat, as the first tang of red produced the stirrings of an uneasy peace, Rod said, ‘You were taking a bit of a chance though. Justin had a point.’
‘We were talking to a life coach in a public library,’ said Pat. ‘Not shadowing him down some dark alley.’
‘And you think he had something to do with Nev Hilton’s heart attack?’
Pat shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ she said. Now, in the warm peace of the evening the concept of Son Masters dressing as a woman and shouting in Nev’s face seemed as remote and far-fetched as a winter frost.
‘He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,’ said Rod. ‘But then you weren’t that clever yourself – dashing off doing your sleuthing when you weren’t well.’
Pat opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again.
Rod took her hand. ‘Hey,’ he said seriously, ‘I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.’ She smiled but said nothing; what was there to say? She let her gaze rest on his profile a moment. When had he got so grey? Time really did speed past at an alarming rate.
It was then that the shouting had started, three bursts from Justin, two from Tiffany. Rod and Pat had sat tense, looking up, instinctively holding hands as they had been when Liam was in the incubator that first time.
When the shouting had died down Rod said, entirely predictably, ‘Let them sort it out themselves,’ as if Pat had been on the point of running up the stairs and bursting in the bedroom.
There was a pause, with both of them holding their breath expecting the shouting to resume. But it didn’t.
‘I thought,’ said Pat eventually, ‘when they all grew up – all left home – I mean I knew it wouldn’t be plain sailing, but it would all be …’ She paused.
‘… not under our roof,’ finished Rod.
Pat nodded. ‘First our Andrew and now Justin …’
‘And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Liam doesn’t land back on us at some point,’ agreed Rod.
At this point the back door opened and Justin swept out, marching towards his car.
‘Son.’ Justin paused at his father’s voice. ‘Son, where are you off to?’
‘Out.’ The voice was terse and uncommunicative as he turned away.
‘Justin,’ said Pat. He stopped once again and faced them. Writ clear on his face was the upbeat motivator battling their scared, hurt little boy. ‘Justin, what on earth is it?’
The upbeat motivator won. ‘Er – nothing?’ he said brightly. ‘I’m just going to check in with Taj.’
Pat looked at him. She had no idea who Taj might be and what form checking in with him might take. ‘Is everything all right?’ she said.
‘Yes?’ The tone was classic Justin, upbeat with an element of surprise that anyone could think there could conceivably be anything wrong in his sunny world.
It was a response he’d grown adept at when faced by unfinished course work, sobbing girlfriends and on one famous occasion a used condom suspended from the tree by his bedroom window.
On the whole Pat thought she preferred his anger.
As the car drove off, Pat said, ‘I’m going upstairs and don’t tell me not to.’
Rod shrugged: anything building-related he was happy to sort, the messier aspects of Taylor family life he was equally happy to leave to Pat.
Tiffany opened the bedroom door on the second of Pat’s oh-so-tentative knocks. Her face was a flawless impenetrable wall. ‘Pat,’ she said in tones of warm surprise.
‘I just wanted to see if you were all right,’ said Pat.
‘You heard?’ Tiffany smiled ruefully. ‘Oh, I am so sorry!’
‘There’s no need to apologise,’ said Pat, ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay—’
‘We were just venting,’ said Tiffany in tones that might have been describing a game of table tennis. ‘And I’m so sorry about the way Justy spoke to you earlier. He should never ever have spoken to you like that and he’s very sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Pat. ‘Having sons vent at me is part of the job description.’
Tiffany’s smile widened. Was it about to crack? Pat had a sudden impulse to take the girl in her arms but didn’t dare.
‘Listen,’ said Pat. ‘It’s so lovely outside. Why don’t you come out and join me and Rod. Have a glass of wine. Or juice. Or water. I can even make a herbal tea – I promise venting will be off the topic of conversation—’
Again, that flicker was there, just briefly.
‘I’d love to!’ But there was regret in her voice. ‘Only I promised to treat myself to an early night! I’m pretty much done in!’
And the bedroom door shut.
Painting Billy’s bench that warm July evening was something Liz found immeasurably soothing, after the confrontation with Ffion.
The wet slaps of the brush calmed her sharp and agitated thoughts.
For once the pollen levels were low, almost negligible.
She felt only the slightest discomfort in her eyes and sinuses as she worked.