I gazed at the narrow window. A fern and a couple of sturdy dandelions cut out most of the meagre light, but they couldn’t obscure the fact that it was sunny out there. The walls needed painting. My garden needed attention. No contest. Walls would keep, bedding plants wouldn’t.
It was a good decision. I weeded and trimmed, staked and tidied. Dug over a bed for planting, chatted to my perennials, filled an old chimney pot with verbena, pansies and lobelia. I even changed the slug traps, gagging at the stench as I carried each one gingerly to the cellar toilet and flushed the slimy contents away. The rhythm of the work, the scent of the earth, the sun on my back left me feeling pleasantly tired and relaxed.
It was nearly six when I put the tools away and rang Mrs Hobbs.
‘Mrs Hobbs, Sal Kilkenny here.’
‘Yes,’ she spoke quickly, ‘have you found him?’
‘No, I’m sorry. But I do know he came to Manchester and I’ve met someone who put him up for a while. Another…’ I groped for a label; homeless person, runaway, boy, young man, ‘…lad. He hasn’t seen Martin for a couple of weeks but he’s going to ask around and get back to me. So far, that’s all I’ve been able to find out.’
Silence.
‘Mrs Hobbs?’
Snuffling. ‘I’m sorry. I thought, I hoped…’
I spent a couple of minutes blathering on about how hopeful I was, how lucky we were to get any lead at all, reassuring her that Martin had been fine when last seen, etc. I’d be in touch as soon as I heard anything more. All the time I was wondering how I was going to tell her the truth, if it was the truth, that Martin was alive and well and on the game, or shacked up with a sugar daddy, at best. If that ever happened to Maddie…
Now what?
I played pirates with the kids for a while and when Ray gathered them up for bed, I went and sat in the garden. Surveyed my handiwork. Ray joined me there. He handed me a glass. ‘Cocktail?’
‘What’s this in aid of?’
‘Nothing.’
I sipped it. ‘Mmm. What is it?’
‘Daiquiri. Rum, ice, lime, sugar.’
‘Nice. So?’ I turned to him.
‘So?’ He was a lousy dissembler. Eyes shifted like jumping beans and even his moustache couldn’t hide a twitch of embarrassment round the mouth. Ray’s of Italian descent but, unlike your Italian stereotype, he’s not prone to extravagant displays of emotions or outbursts of generosity. Cocktails were more than a friendly gesture.
‘C’mon Ray, I know you. The cocktail has a deeper meaning. Now, as far as I’m aware you’re not about to move out or have a baby or get married, so what is it?’
