Looking for Trouble

CHAPTER TWELVE

Maddie woke me with a swift elbow jab to the nose. I shouted at her. She burst into tears. I apologised, explaining how much it hurt. I wished it would bleed, to prove my point. I took her downstairs and left her with Ray and Tom.

‘You look awful,’ said Ray. ‘Any luck?’

‘Yes and no. I’ll tell you later.’

I snuggled back under the duvet and shut my eyes tight. Sleep wouldn’t come. I ran a hot bath, added scented oil and climbed in. Put a facecloth over my eyes. When the water cooled down, I topped it up. When the wrinkles on my fingers and toes began to look revolting, I climbed out.

At least I was clean. I had that spacey, see-through feeling that comes from too little sleep. Vulnerable. A cross word and I’d weep like a child.

I ate a huge breakfast. Digger lay in the hall, a spot he’d claimed as his own. He deserved a walk. I called him and he sprang to attention. Tail wagging, ears pricked up. I took him into the front garden first. If he was going to shit, I wanted it to happen in private, behind the tall privet hedges. The kids never played in the front. Was this how other dog owners managed? For years, I’d railed against dog dirt in the streets, the park, the playground. Now I had a dog. Thankfully, he did his business to order. I waited, squirming with embarrassment in case the next door neighbours were peering down at us. I recoiled at having to gather up the results and traipse down to the cellar toilet. Give me slug traps any day.

It was a warm, still day. Picture book clouds hung isolated in the blue sky. The scent of wallflowers and cut grass mingled as we walked the half mile to the park. I’d found an old tennis ball that Digger liked to fetch. I watched him run. He was a stereotype dog. Pointed nose and ears, brown fur, long tail. Having rescued the dog, I was now ashamed at my lack of affection for him. Was it something that grew with time, as happens with babies sometimes?

Ray had often talked of getting a dog. I’d always opposed him. All that responsibility, all that shit. It was Ray who sorted out dog food and bowls, leads and worming tablets in the first day or so while I still reeled around in shock.

Digger had quietly recognised Ray as his new master. Sitting in the cellar while Ray worked at his carpentry, emerging at his heels with a frosting of sawdust on his fur. The kids were all over him and he was tolerant of their prodding and patting, slinking away when he’d had enough.

The phone was ringing as we arrived back.

‘Is Clive there?’

‘No, he’s not. We were expecting him back last Thursday actually, but…’

The young man on the other end sighed. ‘Look, can you tell him Pete rang? Tell him the cheque bounced, will you? You don’t know where he is, do you?’

‘No, just said he was visiting friends.’

‘Great,’ he said. Didn’t sound like he meant it. So we weren’t the only ones having money troubles with Clive. And where the hell was he? Surely he could have rung to say he’d be away longer? I jotted the message down and left it with the pile of mail for Clive.

I made fresh coffee and debated when to ring Mrs Hobbs. Did she work? I could leave it till after tea. What if her husband answered? Did he know she’d hired me? Had he put her up to it, as Martin had suggested? I dallied around, watering plants, tidying corners, sorting newspapers and bottles for a recycling trip. Displacement activities.

‘Oh, get on with it, Sal.’ I spoke aloud. Checked the number in my phone book. She was in.

‘Mrs Hobbs, Sal Kilkenny here. I’d like to arrange to see you.’

‘Have you found him, Martin, have you found him?’ Eager, hopeful.

‘Yes, I’ve been in touch with him.’

‘Is he alright? What’s happened to him? How’s he managing?’ Her questions tumbled out, edged with relief and excitement. I was angry with her; gripped the receiver tight, spoke formally. ‘He’s alright. I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.’

‘Oh, it’s such a relief. If anything had happened…But he’s alright, you say. Thank God.’

‘She never cared before.’ Martin’s words.

I made an appointment with Mrs Hobbs for the following morning. Her effusive thanks rang in my ears as I slammed down the receiver and rubbed at the cramp in my fingers.

It obviously hadn’t occurred to her that Martin might tell me about the situation at home. Or had she repressed those horrible revelations for so long that they’d ceased to exist? Denial. What did I know? Martin’s leaving might have forced her to face the truth; perhaps she wanted to do all she could to make amends, even prosecute her husband.

It wasn’t fair to condemn her before I’d confronted her about it. But I don’t always feel fair. And I couldn’t shift the image of that small boy gathering the courage to tell, waiting for the right moment, watching her face contort as she whispered her own threats and denials. Knowing it would happen again and again.

In the precious time before the school run, I worked in the garden. I cut the grass with our old roller mower, emptying the grass box on the compost heap, savouring the crisp sweet smell. I watered tubs and window boxes. I thought about JB, re-running in my head our meeting, freezing the frame on my favourite moments. Before long those memories of him would be concentrated in one or two images. I’d forget what he actually looked like; those fine cheekbones, warm brown eyes, the olive complexion, the quality of his smile. I wondered if there was a photo or a self-portrait of him in the squat. What would happen to his pictures, his things?

I tidied up the rampant clematis round the back door. Mourned over the stumps of marigolds that the slugs had got to. The slug traps were brimming. It could have been worse. I’d killed a fair few of the buggers. There was satisfaction in that.

I hadn’t told Martin about the funeral. Would he like to be there? Would he be allowed to come? He wasn’t a free agent, I’d gathered that much. Though not the whys or hows of it.

I was eager to wash my hands of the whole affair. I wanted to forget about it. I’d tell Mrs Hobbs what I knew. And what I’d learned. Give her a rollicking for lying to me. Work out my bill and give her the change she was owed. Close my file on Martin Hobbs. Or so I thought. Just shows how wrong you can be.