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?
