Part 18 (1/2)

Gwen nodded. She took a sip of tea and tried to pretend that she wasn't a big, fat hypocrite.

'Well, she inherited it from her parents. Her mum went into a nursing home ages ago. Early dementia or something, but her dad was still living there when he got sick. Lily moved in to look after him and not long after he died.' Amanda sat back, her eyebrows raised. 'So, there you go.'

Gwen frowned. 'I don't quite-'

'She killed him,' Amanda said. Her tone was matter of fact. 'Everyone knows it, but the police inquiry didn't find enough evidence to convict her.'

'That's a very serious thing to say. How on earth does everyone ”know” it? Why would she even do that?' Gwen felt sick. She knew exactly what it felt like to be falsely accused of something so awful.

Amanda shrugged. 'Money? The house? She can't earn much from her job and you know what prices are like around here. Extortionate.'

'But to hurt her own father-'

'I heard that she didn't get on with him. He was a bit of tyrant by all accounts.'

'Poor Lily.' Pendleford was even more judgemental than Gwen had remembered. What was the phrase? Tried by a jury of your own peers. Just cut out the trial bit.

Amanda snorted. 'Hardly. She murdered an old man. Shoved him down the stairs and left him to die.'

'But maybe she didn't,' Gwen said reasonably. 'If the police investigated it, then why should we decide she's guilty? And if he was really ill, unsteady on his feet-'

'If you'd been living around here, you wouldn't be standing up for her. Trust me.'

Gwen decided to leave it. After all, she could look through Iris's journals and find out the truth. Or Iris's version of the truth, at any rate. She realised that she trusted Iris a great deal more than she trusted Amanda and that was a peculiar feeling.

As soon as Amanda left, the thoughts that Gwen had been avoiding came back with a vengeance. Cam leaning against the bar, looking like s.e.x in a suit, and offering her one last bite of the apple. She paced through the house, looking for a distraction. Something to stop her from running to Cam's flat and stripping. As had become her habit, she settled down with one of Iris's journals.

Mr Byres is still feeling pain in his feet.

Excellent, Gwen thought. Reading about Fred Byres' chilblains ought to be the perfect anti-aphrodisiac.

He's convinced it's poor circulation and I'm sure that doesn't help, but he won't listen when I tell him what he really needs. He has to let his wife go. He's carrying her around and the strain is playing merry h.e.l.l with his legs and feet. I can't tell him that though. He'd never visit again, and at least the salve gives him some relief.

Gwen scanned the recipe for the foot ointment and realised that she'd be able to make it easily. A practical project was just the ticket. If she was making ointment for Fred, then she couldn't be making mistakes with Cam. Sweaty, athletic, mind-blowing mistakes.

She stood up and gathered the ingredients. She measured olive oil into a pan, added dried marjoram and comfrey from Iris's stores, and put it on a low heat to infuse. The smell of the herbs as they warmed sent Gwen back in time. Suddenly she remembered Iris in this very kitchen. A tall woman with salt-and-pepper hair leaning back in one of the wooden chairs and smiling down at Gwen, holding out a sliver of apple. She turned to the table, half-expecting to find Iris there now. A p.r.i.c.kling sensation on her neck made her turn back to the open book.

He has to let his wife go.

Poor Fred. No wonder he looked so hunched over, so defeated. Then it came to her; if the pain in his feet was emotional, a little heart's ease might be helpful. Iris was so certain that Fred needed to let go, but Gwen wasn't so sure. Why shouldn't Fred hold onto the memories and the love from his marriage? Why was starting over again supposed to be so brilliant?

Humming to herself, Gwen pulled on boots and a coat and went out into the garden to gather the heart's ease. The purple flowers were gamely struggling on despite the early frost, and she picked a healthy bunch. She crushed the petals in a pestle and mortar and grated beeswax on top. After she'd melted the wax with the oil and poured it into a gla.s.s jar to cool, she felt a lightening of the atmosphere, like after a summer storm.

At Millbank Comprehensive, Katie trailed out of double physics and thanked G.o.d it was lunchtime. Imogen was waiting in their designated spot next to the lockers. Katie dumped her bag and turned automatically towards the cafeteria, her stomach growling in antic.i.p.ation.

'Not today!' Imogen's eyes were bright. 'Let's eat outside.'

'I haven't got anything,' Katie said, nonplussed. It was Thursday. The canteen had pizza on a Thursday.

'I've already got us stuff.' Imogen patted her coat.

Katie had been planning her meal for the last half an hour of double physics. She was going to have a slice of cheese, ham and tomato pizza and one of the chocolate flapjack things that you never saw outside of school.

Imogen had hold of Katie's arm and was marching through the corridor, a sea of smaller children parting in front of her.

'Why outside? It's freezing,' Katie said. 'Grey. Looks like rain. And I was going to have pizza and flapjack.'

'Consider your thighs saved then,' Imogen threw back, not slowing her speed.

'What's the rush?' Katie almost cannoned into a bench crammed with second years.

They pushed through the swing door and out into the open. Imogen let go of Katie's arm and stopped marching. She turned a vivacious smile in Katie's direction. 'We're going up the field today.'

'What?' This made absolutely no sense at all. Up the field was where the cool group hung out. They sat around on the cricket pitch, which was the furthest possible point from where the teachers patrolled the yard. The only more secluded place was behind the science blocks, behind a dip at the back of the gra.s.s, which was where the stoners smoked.

Katie stopped walking. 'What are you talking about?'

'We're going up the field. Exciting, no?' She gave Katie's arm another impatient little tug.

As they walked up the field, Katie slowed down again. She could see the group sitting ahead of them. The girls were sitting cross-legged, huddled together against the wind. The boys a so many boys a Katie felt her stomach flip in terror, were lounging about in their usual fas.h.i.+on. Some of them didn't even have coats on.

She reached for Imogen's arm. 'Let's not today. It's too cold.'

'We've been invited, Katie.' Imogen put extra emphasis on the word, dressed it in sparkling clothes and high heels.

'Still-'

'Come on.' Imogen moved ahead of her, was already smiling h.e.l.lo.

Katie followed, wis.h.i.+ng she could tell Imogen not to smile as much. The cool group were a pack and they smelled weakness in an instant.

'Hi, guys,' Imogen said, plonking herself down in between Rachel Davis and Jessica Gibson. Katie stood for a moment, feeling awkward, not knowing where to sit. She wasn't going to force herself into the minuscule gap between Jessica and Imogen.

'Hey, Kitty Cat. Sit over here.' Will Jones patted the gra.s.s next to him and leered. He was a year older, had been held back earlier on in his school career. When Katie had first heard this, she'd been surprised. Now she knew that academic prowess had very little to do with social success; Will Jones was built like a brick wall and was a s.h.i.+t-hot forward for the school rugby team.

Katie forced herself to walk over. She sat on the edge of the boy's half, Will reclining on one side, Sasha Morgan a little further to the other. Sasha gave her a nasty look and turned away.

Imogen was giggling at something Rachel had said. She wasn't looking at Katie at all.

Katie felt her skin go into gooseb.u.mps; the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Around her, people were talking and laughing; Gavin and Mark had got to their feet and were throwing a rugby ball back and forth; Imogen was showing off her earrings, but Katie felt an excruciating silence. I'm sealed in a bubble, she thought. Then, Oh G.o.d, I've totally lost the power of speech.

She felt a tap on her leg and looked in Will's direction. He was kneeling up, hands on his waistband. Then he unzipped his fly and out flopped a rubbery, flesh-coloured thing.

The boys burst out laughing. 'Will's got his tackle out again.'

'Jesus, man. You're so f.u.c.king proud of your d.i.c.k,' someone said.