Part 12 (2/2)

But there wouldn't be any laughing today. She shouldn't have told all those lies. She hadn't meant to but they'd just kept slipping out. She was sorry she'd frightened Joel, but she wasn't sorry about the others at school. They deserved it. Hadn't they started it by asking if Mum and Dad had had their heads chopped off? How would they feel if it was their parents who were dead? Burying her face in Poppy's white fur, she let herself quietly cry, safe in the knowledge that no one was there to see. Grandma was downstairs with Joel and Granddad was out walking Toby.

With Toby off the leash and snuffling on ahead in the bushes, Bob followed slowly behind. It was only the second week of September, but already there was a hint of things to come. There was a soft gauze of mist hanging over the surface of the ca.n.a.l and the air was both sharp and damp. Either side of the path, gra.s.s glistened with early-morning dew, and a scattering of fallen willow leaves, yellow and wet, lay like a catch of slippery fish on the ground. Pausing at Will's house, Toby peered through the hedge as if hoping for something to eat - Will often gave Toby a t.i.tbit while he and Bob pa.s.sed the time of day. But there was no sign of Will this morning. It was Sat.u.r.day after all; he was probably at work. Disappointed, Bob pressed on. After the night he'd had, he would have appreciated the opportunity to talk to Will. He struck Bob as being a good listener. Perhaps they ought to have him over for a drink. Maybe invite Dora and the McKendricks too - knowing full well, of course, that only Harvey would turn up. They could put on a sort of belated 'welcome to the neighbourhood' do. Except that would mean fuss and bother, something he couldn't face. For now it was as much as he could do to keep treading water, his chin just skimming the surface. It'll change, he told himself. Things will get better. They had to.

Following the towpath as it curved away from the last of the houses of Maple Drive and through the patch of elderberry trees, their branches heavy with beads of s.h.i.+ny black fruit, Bob watched Toby chase a startled moorhen out of the undergrowth. Worried the dog might hurl itself into the water after the bird, Bob called him to heel. At the sound of chugging, he turned. Coming towards them was a traditional tug-style narrowboat, its small bra.s.s chimney chucking out puffs of sooty smoke. Toby barked at the boat, and when it drew level, a well-wrapped-up woman with an arm resting on the tiller waved at Bob. 'Beautiful morning,' she said.

'I suppose it is,' he said. He couldn't remember the last time he had thought anything beautiful.

'You wouldn't give me a hand, would you?' she asked. 'I want to moor up for a brew. If I could just throw you a rope, it would make things a lot easier.'

Surprised at the request, and that she was apparently travelling alone, Bob went on ahead to the prow of the boat and kept pace while the woman steered it towards the bank. She then cut the engine and nimbly made her way to the front where she scooped up a neat coil of rope and tossed it to him. While he held the boat firm, she returned to the stern, stuffed some mooring pins into her jacket pockets and hopped out with a coil of rope in one hand and a rubber mallet in the other. 'You okay to hang on while I bang this one in?' she called to him.

'No problem at all.'

Toby went over to investigate, keeping a cautionary distance as the mallet rose and fell. Bob watched the woman; she clearly knew what she was about and had a purposeful weather-beaten look about her. He wondered why she was travelling alone. Or maybe she wasn't. Perhaps there was a companion sleeping soundly on board. He wondered what the interior of the boat looked like. He knew they could be very smart these days, all the mod cons thrown in: hot and cold water, carpets, log-burning stoves, toilets, even showers. Peering through one of the bra.s.s-rimmed portholes, he could make out a cabin that looked invitingly snug. He had often been tempted to go on a ca.n.a.l holiday but somehow it had never happened. The children had either been too young and therefore in danger of falling in and drowning or they'd been too old and in danger of being bored. There had also been the busman's holiday element to take into account; having the Shrops.h.i.+re Union Ca.n.a.l on their doorstep it hadn't seemed that big or worthwhile a change. Instead, they'd spent most of their summer holidays camping in France. Remembering the many child-friendly campsites they stayed at, Bob felt a pang of compromise and regret.

'Right then, that's the back end sorted; let's see about relieving you.' The woman was by his side now, and with Toby in obedient attendance, she pushed a mooring pin into the damp earth, then hammered it home. In no time at all, she had the rope expertly knotted and the excess neatly dealt with.

'You look like you've done this before,' he said when she was finished.

Hot from all the exertion, she pulled off the woolly tea-cosy of a hat she was wearing and revealed a head of curly salt and pepper hair. 'Just once or twice,' she said with a broad smile, unzipping her bulky jacket. Without the hat, she was less weather-beaten than he'd first thought. Slimmer and younger too. Late fifties he reckoned. She looked like an old-fas.h.i.+oned games mistress, cheerful and robust. 'Thanks for the help, by the way,' she said. 'I appreciate it.'

'It's a large boat to manage on your own.' He was blatantly fis.h.i.+ng, curious to know if there was a companion on board who was too lazy to s.h.i.+ft his weight and help.

'It's not as difficult as you'd think. I can do locks on my own quite easily, which was my biggest worry initially. With the centre rope, it's not too bad.' She smiled again, revealing, he thought, a hint of pride. 'Although, being an opportunist at heart,' she went on, 'I'm quite happy to grab a useful pair of hands if they're available.'

'Then I'm glad I was around.'

A flurry of movement from the other side of the ca.n.a.l had them both turning. A pair of moorhens was scuttling noisily out of the bushes, but as if knowing they'd been spotted, they adopted a more leisurely pace, slipped into the water and swam sedately away.

'Well,' he said, 'I'd better leave you to your brew.'

She laughed - a happy, carefree laugh. 'I'm afraid that was a euphemism for wanting the loo.'

'In that case, even more reason for me to take my leave. Come on, Toby, stop sniffing round that rope.' The dog looked suspiciously like he too needed the loo and was about to raise his leg.

Normally Bob would walk Toby as far as the bend just before The Navigation, where there were official mooring places, but this morning, knowing that Harriet would be arriving home soon, he cut short their walk and within a few minutes was returning the way he'd come. 'It's got nothing to do with chatting to that woman again, then?' He asked himself.

The mist had cleared when he spotted the boat. It was still moored where he'd left it, but a different chimney, one in the middle of the boat, was now sending out a thin plume of smoke. Sniffing the air, he recognised it as woodsmoke. He hadn't noticed earlier, but there were gaily painted pots (decorated with the traditional narrowboat rose motif) of flowering chrysanthemums on the roof of the boat, which he now saw was named the Jennifer Rose. The flowers suggested that the woman was a live-aboard, as the boating fraternity described people who lived on the waterways, and not a casual holidaymaker. He pictured the curly-haired woman sitting in the cabin, cosily insulated from the outside world and planning where to go next. He suddenly wished he could do the same. Oh, to leave all those painful reminders of Felicity behind so that they couldn't hurt him any more. How much better it would be to pretend he was someone else, that he had never known Felicity. The thought was such a betrayal of his love for his daughter that he had to fight to keep his composure.

A tapping sound had him looking to one of the windows. Holding up a metal teapot and a china mug, the woman was inviting him to join her in a cup of tea.

'You'll tell her you haven't got time,' he said to himself, 'that you're expected home.'

But he didn't.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Harriet knew it was pointless to be so angry; it only made her feel worse. It was three days since her car had been broken into - it was now back from the garage - and she felt completely lost without her laptop. Rightly or wrongly, the theft had superseded her shock at the gruesomely sensational tales Carrie had been spreading at school. Maybe it was for the best, because who knows what she may have said or done to Carrie in the heat of the moment? It was still a mystery to Harriet and her parents why Carrie had felt the need to tell such lies - no amount of careful questioning could make sense of any of the muttered answers the girl gave them. In the end, Harriet had concluded that her niece didn't know why she'd done it; she had promised, though, not to do it again. After a brief telephone call to the headmistress at school, it was accepted that in view of the circ.u.mstances, no more would be said on the matter. However, the subject was not entirely closed; Harriet had been on the receiving end of some strange, not to say hostile looks from some of the mothers at the school gate.

This morning had been no exception, but with so much else on her mind, she didn't let it get to her. Back home, while she opened a letter regarding her motor insurance, she made the mistake of cursing the thieving b.a.s.t.a.r.d who had broken into her car. For some inexplicable reason it provoked her father to snap at her. 'This is what happens when you rely so heavily on modern technology,' he said. 'You become obsessed with it and think you can't manage without it. For G.o.d's sake, it was only a plastic box of chips and memory boards.'

'Thank you, Dad, for that helpful comment,' she said dryly, both annoyed and taken aback at his outburst.

'And as I've told you before,' he went on, 'you're more than welcome to use my computer.'

'No offence, but that would be like offering a kite to an astronaut to get him to the moon. Your machine's hopelessly antiquated.'

'Oh, well, if you're going to be like that, I'm off. Toby? Come here, boy. Let's go in search of more convivial company, shall we?'

'That dog's going to be worn out if you take him for any more walks,' Eileen had muttered from the sink, where she was trying to remove Biro ink from one of Carrie's school sweats.h.i.+rts.

'Nonsense. A dog needs plenty of exercise.'

Despite what her father thought, being without her laptop really was a major upheaval for Harriet. She regretted taking it down to Erin's; she'd only taken it because she had wanted to check her emails in case a job offer came through while she was away. But it wasn't just the ha.s.sle of buying a new one and dealing with the insurance company that irritated her, it was the loss of so much vital information and the sense of violation that really bothered her. It was the personal stuff that affected her most; all those emails she and Felicity had exchanged. It was like losing a precious photograph alb.u.m. In the weeks after Felicity's death, Harriet had spent many sleepless nights comforting herself by rereading the emails they had written to each other. Staring into the blue-white glow of the laptop screen, and hearing Felicity's voice brought vividly to life in the amusing exchanges, Harriet could almost believe that in the morning there would be a new email waiting for her.

In the meantime, before Harriet could buy a replacement laptop, she was using Felicity's computer in Carrie's bedroom. Harriet had helped her sister to buy it last autumn when her old one had become unusable, and had also installed all the software Felicity had needed for her translation work, along with games and pseudo-educational stuff for the children. Jeff hadn't been into computers; he'd used them at work but that was as far as his interest had gone. Felicity, on the other hand, freely admitted that she was an email junkie, that she couldn't go to bed without checking her Inbox.

Harriet switched on Felicity's computer to access her own emails, hoping to hear from one of the job agencies. In her heart, she knew that if there was a job going, they would be in touch by phone. Nonetheless she still felt disappointed when she saw there was no news from any of the agencies. She felt a failure. She missed work so much; it was her ident.i.ty, she supposed. She missed the office culture, the trade in put-downs and jokes. She also missed the way computers didn't answer back, unlike children. She used to tease Spencer that at worst, computers were like men: they just stared vacantly at you, waiting for an instruction.

Resigned to another week of scanning the pages of Computer Weekly and waiting for the phone to ring, she sighed heavily. 'Oh, Felicity, why did you have to die? Why did you leave me in this mess?' She sat for a moment gazing absently at the computer screen and, suddenly filled with longing to feel closer to her sister, she wondered if it would be so wrong to read an email Felicity had sent to her - just to hear her voice, to feel her presence. In her heart she knew it would be like poking around in another person's personal diary, but she justified her need by telling herself that it wasn't the same, that reading something Felicity had already sent to her was perfectly all right.

She knew Felicity's pa.s.sword and had no trouble accessing her sister's Outbox. The list of sent emails was in date order and Harriet felt a chill run through her when she saw the last email had been sent the day before Felicity and Jeff had died. She also saw that the email address was [email protected] She stared at the address and those preceding it. Scrolling back over the preceding weeks and months, there was an obvious pattern. And one which intrigued her. There were two names that appeared more regularly than any others. The [email protected] address and the address were about evens in frequency. A strange feeling crept over Harriet. She was all too familiar with who MissTechie was - it was her email address - but who was Felicity messaging under the name of Harriet Swift? She'd never had a Yahoo account.

There was only one way to find out, but should she do it? Her hand hovered over the mouse.

Click.

Whatever she'd expected, it wasn't this. The text was brief and made no sense. It appeared to be scrambled. But as Harriet scanned the block of text she saw it for what it was: a code. And not any old code. This one had been used by Harriet and her sister when they were children. She hadn't thought of it in years, but it all came flooding back and she recalled how the two of them had been sitting on Harriet's bed one rainy Sunday afternoon when she had devised the idea. Hardly up to Bletchley Park standards, the trick had been not to leave any gaps between the words or use any punctuation or capital letters. Also, the letters of each word had to be subst.i.tuted with the following letter of the alphabet - for instance, THE would be written as UIF. It had been an instant success and they had spent hours writing secret letters to each other.

Harriet knew, as she looked at the text, that there could be only one reason why Felicity had used their childhood secret code: she had wanted this kept private. She thought of Miles's words about her having a strong sense of right and wrong. 'Sorry to disappoint you, Miles,' she murmured, getting up from the chair and crossing the room to shut the door - she sensed this wasn't something her parents should walk in on. She helped herself to a pen and a piece of paper from Carrie's desk drawer and began the painstaking process of decoding the email. When it was done, she sat back in the chair and read it through.

I dreamt of you last night. We were wrapped in each other's arms but you were crying. You said your heart was breaking. That I was breaking it. Tell me that's not true. I couldn't live with myself if I ever thought I was causing you such unhappiness. You know how very much I love you - you always have - but you have to be patient. Trust me, please, it won't be long now. Just give me a little more time. You mean everything to me. EVERYTHING.

The sound of a door banging shut downstairs had Harriet snapping forward in the chair and closing the email. She then hurriedly switched off the computer and folded the piece of paper she had written on and slipped it into her pocket.

What a discovery. Felicity had been having an affair. It was inconceivable. Her very own sister, who she'd thought had never kept anything from her.

Harriet's first thought was that she should format the hard disk and wipe the computer clean. No one else must ever stumble across what she had. It would kill her father if he ever knew that Felicity had been leading this double life, that she had been less than perfect.

Her second thought was to wonder who Felicity had been seeing. She racked her brains to think of a name that might have come up in conversation more frequently than any other. But nothing came to mind. Knowing it went against her nature, Harriet knew she would have to read more. She wanted to know who had mattered so much to her sister. Who had meant everything to Felicity?

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