you don’t pay your keep, you don’t eat here. You don’t sleep here. Joan’s been paying her way for three years now. She ain’t going to carry you, sonny. Neither am I or your Auntie Win. And I know that you’ve already spent part of your last pay on that pansy theatre of yours. That’ll have to stop too.’
‘If I work hard, I’m entitled to spend some of it on something I like, or is there one rule for everyone else in this house, and another for me?’
‘Don’t tell me what you’re entitled to. You’re entitled to nothing till I see you muck in like the rest of us. You’ve got away without bringing in a pay packet for two years! But not any longer. You bring in a pay packet and you can join us at the table. Otherwise you can stay in your room and read your precious books.’
‘All but one!’
‘Oh, yeah, you heard, did you? Well, you can thank your ma that I didn’t tip the rest in.’
‘Let’s hope it wasn’t a library book, Dad. If it was they’ll be sending you a bill.’
‘Oh, no, sonny. If it was a library book it’ll be out in your name.’
‘You’d let me pay for you damaging it!’
‘You brought it into the house.’
‘It was in my room.’
‘In my house,’ he pointed out. ‘And I say what comes in ’ere and who comes in ’ere.’
‘So why were you so keen to get me back from Cornwall? I was happy where I was.’
‘Looks like I rescued you in time. You’re working class, and don’t forget it. Family is the most important thing in the world. You lose family, you lose everything. That’s where your first loyalty is. So you can drop that accent.’
‘Which working-class accent would you like me to speak, yours or Mum’s?’
For a moment his father stared dumbstruck at him. ‘Hertfordshire or London?’ Ralph continued.
‘I dunno!’ he said angrily. ‘Don’t twist my words.’ There was silence between them.
‘I did try,’ said Ralph eventually. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I,’ his father said bitterly.
‘Look, I’ve seen a job advertised. I’ll go and ring up about it now.’
‘What is it?’
‘Gardener and odd job.’
‘Odd job! You wouldn’t have a clue.’
‘I can learn.’
‘If you phone they won’t even bother to see you. They want a local lad. Your voice will put them off.’
He was right. ‘I’ll put on an accent, just to get me an interview.’
His father grinned triumphantly. ‘Which accent?’ he said.
Touché, thought Ralph. He hated this man so much, yet he was annoyed that he couldn’t bring himself to hurt him and say Hertfordshire. But if he said London to please him, he’d hurt his mother. And then he knew. ‘Cornish,’ he said simply.
It was a towering gothic-style Victorian house with odd wings sticking out of it. A large ornate gate, wedged between high hedges, led to a wide path to the front porch. There was a small gate at the side to a tiny path which, Ralph presumed, led to the tradesman’s entrance.
He opened it and wheeled his bike towards what appeared to be a dilapidated conservatory at the side. Peering in, he could make out bedraggled dead plants on shelves, and beyond, the kitchen door. Swiftly he sneaked past it to take a look at the back garden, and gulped. An enormous, unkempt lawn with waist-high grass sprawled past two sheds, trees and overgrown shrubs down to the river. The owners didn’t need a gardener, he thought, they needed a combine harvester.
At the back of the house was a large room with French windows in the centre and a bay window on either side. Outside it was a long veranda with a glass roof, covered in ivy which had reached there from ornate pillars supporting it. Stone steps covered in moss and weed led down from it to wide overgrown borders of what appeared to be mostly convolvulus.
He was returning to the kitchen door when a young man came flying out. He was about nineteen, taller than him, strong looking, muscular. Yet he couldn’t seem to get out of the door fast enough. Ralph watched him fly down the path like a frightened rabbit. He stepped into the conservatory and peered in through the window. A skinny disgruntled woman in an apron was moving around a large kitchen. Ralph took his cap off and knocked on the door. The woman glanced round and opened it.
‘Come for the gardener job?’ she asked in the local dialect.
Ralph nodded. He decided not to talk unless it was absolutely necessary.
‘The last victim,’ she muttered.
Ralph indicated the direction the youth had fled, opened his mouth, remembered his code of silence and then closed it again.
‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘He’s just been to see Mrs Egerton-Smythe. And I don’t think he’ll be coming back.’
A bell above the door rang. She gazed sorrowfully at him. ‘You’re wasting your time, lad. She’ll ’ave you fer breakfast. If you want to leave now I can always say you didn’t turn up.’
Ralph shook his head.
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
They walked out into an oak-lined hallway, with a massive hallstand along the wall by the kitchen door. Ralph gave an appreciative whistle. The woman grunted. ‘You don’t have to polish these floors. I tell her, she should get linoleum. Linoleum is the thing now. Give it a quick swab down and bob’s yer uncle.’ She led him to one of the doors. ‘Knock,’ she said, and then abandoned him.
Ralph knocked as hard as he could. ‘Think nineteen,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Think mature.’
‘Come in!’ yelled an irritated voice from the other side.
Ralph swung open the door and found himself in what appeared to be a library. Glass cabinets with shelves of books stretched up to the ceiling. Two leather armchairs stood solidly on either side of the laid, but unlit fireplace.
A handsome middle-aged woman of medium build in a tweed suit and brogues was standing by a massive table in the centre of the room. Her chestnut hair was gripped untidily back from her face. She looked tired and angry. Ralph’s first instinct was that she didn’t belong in the room. She scowled at him as if challenging him. ‘So you’re Mr Hollis,’ she snapped, looking him up and down. ‘More like Master Hollis to me. Still I did say gardener’s boy.’
She strode over to him. ‘Bend your arm,’ she commanded. He did so.
‘Oh,’ she said surprised.
