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Authors: Jenny Harper
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job?’
‘No! Of course not. I’d relish the challenge.’
‘I can’t believe you’re seriously worried about raising the cash, but I understand you’ll need to talk it over with your lawyer.’
Molly winced.
‘OK, not Adam, but you must have a lawyer. I do need an answer, Molly. Let’s see – this is Monday. Shall we say Friday for a decision? You understand that if you turn this down I’ll need to get moving on Plan B pretty quickly.’
‘Give me till next Monday?’
It wasn’t just about playing down her interest now. She’d have to work out how to raise the cash, and there was only one way she could think of ...
Barnaby said coolly, ‘There’s a queue.’
‘I imagine there is. But I will need to talk to a few people first. That’s fair, isn’t it?’
One corner of Barnaby’s mouth lifted.
‘I promise you’ll have my answer a week today.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll keep my fingers crossed that it’s the right one.’
They parted amiably, Molly to catch her train, Barnaby to go to his deep feathery mattress in the luxurious surroundings of the Balmoral Hotel. It had been an interesting evening.
Chapter Nine
––––––––
C aitlyn, laden with carrier bags, hobbled along Farm Lane wishing she were the kind of person who could nick a supermarket trolley without so much as a blush. But, leaving aside the certainty of being sacked, stealing anything was strictly against her principles.
The potatoes in one of the bags in her left hand weighed only fractionally less than the bottle of Coke in the heaviest bag in her right. The cucumber she’d thrown into the trolley (healthy, no calories, on offer) had nicked the polythene and was starting to slide out. Harris had demanded baked beans, Lewis had insisted on spaghetti hoops. Ailsa, on a health kick, wanted a melon. Thank heavens Isla May hadn’t made any demands and her mother was eating next to nothing.
When, fifty yards from number eleven, the end of the cucumber finally split the bag, everything spilled out – baked beans, spaghetti, melon and all. She came to an ungraceful halt.
‘Damn!’
Crotchety with tiredness, she lurched towards a tin that was rolling towards the gutter. If Kevin McQuade came past now, the shopping would be off the pavement and into the McQuade kitchen in a blink. She rammed the contents of the split bag into the surviving carriers and prayed she could make it along the road in one piece.
Lurching lopsidedly as she struggled to bear the weight of one bulging bag now with the potatoes, the melon and the bottle of Coke and holding it just off the ground in case it, too, decided to split, she rounded the last bend before her house. Someone was sweeping an electric trimmer across the hedge, left to right, right to left, sending leaves tumbling to the pavement in every direction. She arrived at the gate (or rather, the space where a gate had once swung), dropped the bags inside the wall with relief and studied the legs on the ladder above her.
‘Hello-o!’ she shouted towards the skies, trying to make her voice heard above the noise of the trimmer.
The face that looked down at her was an ocean of freckles, topped by hair the colour of a newly pulled carrot. Malcolm Milne. That ginger had made him a target for teasing all his life.
He turned off the trimmer.
‘Hi, Caitlyn.’
Malcolm, like Ricky McQuade, had been in her class at school, but where Ricky had been in the loud-mouthed gang of bullies who’d made the teachers’ lives hell and failed every exam, Malcolm had been one of the victims because – as well as the ginger mop – he’d worn his heart on the outside of his threadbare burgundy blazer.
Caitlyn learned when she was very young how to defend herself. You had to, when it was just you and your mum against the world. You had to, when your mum’s new partner turned out to be a spineless waste of space.
She’d never paid much attention to Malcolm Milne. Maybe she should have
‘No! Of course not. I’d relish the challenge.’
‘I can’t believe you’re seriously worried about raising the cash, but I understand you’ll need to talk it over with your lawyer.’
Molly winced.
‘OK, not Adam, but you must have a lawyer. I do need an answer, Molly. Let’s see – this is Monday. Shall we say Friday for a decision? You understand that if you turn this down I’ll need to get moving on Plan B pretty quickly.’
‘Give me till next Monday?’
It wasn’t just about playing down her interest now. She’d have to work out how to raise the cash, and there was only one way she could think of ...
Barnaby said coolly, ‘There’s a queue.’
‘I imagine there is. But I will need to talk to a few people first. That’s fair, isn’t it?’
One corner of Barnaby’s mouth lifted.
‘I promise you’ll have my answer a week today.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll keep my fingers crossed that it’s the right one.’
They parted amiably, Molly to catch her train, Barnaby to go to his deep feathery mattress in the luxurious surroundings of the Balmoral Hotel. It had been an interesting evening.
Chapter Nine
––––––––
C aitlyn, laden with carrier bags, hobbled along Farm Lane wishing she were the kind of person who could nick a supermarket trolley without so much as a blush. But, leaving aside the certainty of being sacked, stealing anything was strictly against her principles.
The potatoes in one of the bags in her left hand weighed only fractionally less than the bottle of Coke in the heaviest bag in her right. The cucumber she’d thrown into the trolley (healthy, no calories, on offer) had nicked the polythene and was starting to slide out. Harris had demanded baked beans, Lewis had insisted on spaghetti hoops. Ailsa, on a health kick, wanted a melon. Thank heavens Isla May hadn’t made any demands and her mother was eating next to nothing.
When, fifty yards from number eleven, the end of the cucumber finally split the bag, everything spilled out – baked beans, spaghetti, melon and all. She came to an ungraceful halt.
‘Damn!’
Crotchety with tiredness, she lurched towards a tin that was rolling towards the gutter. If Kevin McQuade came past now, the shopping would be off the pavement and into the McQuade kitchen in a blink. She rammed the contents of the split bag into the surviving carriers and prayed she could make it along the road in one piece.
Lurching lopsidedly as she struggled to bear the weight of one bulging bag now with the potatoes, the melon and the bottle of Coke and holding it just off the ground in case it, too, decided to split, she rounded the last bend before her house. Someone was sweeping an electric trimmer across the hedge, left to right, right to left, sending leaves tumbling to the pavement in every direction. She arrived at the gate (or rather, the space where a gate had once swung), dropped the bags inside the wall with relief and studied the legs on the ladder above her.
‘Hello-o!’ she shouted towards the skies, trying to make her voice heard above the noise of the trimmer.
The face that looked down at her was an ocean of freckles, topped by hair the colour of a newly pulled carrot. Malcolm Milne. That ginger had made him a target for teasing all his life.
He turned off the trimmer.
‘Hi, Caitlyn.’
Malcolm, like Ricky McQuade, had been in her class at school, but where Ricky had been in the loud-mouthed gang of bullies who’d made the teachers’ lives hell and failed every exam, Malcolm had been one of the victims because – as well as the ginger mop – he’d worn his heart on the outside of his threadbare burgundy blazer.
Caitlyn learned when she was very young how to defend herself. You had to, when it was just you and your mum against the world. You had to, when your mum’s new partner turned out to be a spineless waste of space.
She’d never paid much attention to Malcolm Milne. Maybe she should have
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