she could explain to him in layman’s terms what on earth was going on.
Strangely enough it was Harvey who acted as if nothing had happened. He never mentioned the letter; not to Ambrose, not to Stein, and by all accounts not even to Andrea. He had made his point, it seemed. Ambrose had been called to order, job done. Stein kept the original, Pet stored a photocopy in an envelope in her knicker drawer, where she assumed no-one would ever look, and everyone did their best not to remember the incident, as if by naming it again it would suddenly leap back to life.
Even stranger was that from that moment on Harvey treated Ambrose more kindly. He abruptly stopped ambushing him during his off duty hours, the ridiculous jobs were dropped, and even Ambrose’s errors were tolerated to a certain degree. The official warning had been like a punch in the face from the tough but fair sheriff. Ambrose was supposed to take it like a man and get on with it. The status quo had been established, there was no need for more. At least that’s how they saw it at the time; it was the only interpretation that made sense.
As if the letter incident wasn’t enough to confuse all concerned, it was round about that time that Harvey started to show a timid interest in little Sydney. At first they were small gestures, almost imperceptible to outsiders, but very welcome to Andrea and Sydney himself. A little more patience when listening to the boy’s stories, a brief holding of hands while they waited for Andrea to finish getting ready, the occasional ‘my’, as in ‘how’s my boy this morning?’ Perhaps the ice was beginning to melt? Perhaps Harvey would learn to accept and even love the boy after all. There was hope, thought Andrea. And it was the memory of that possibility, the chance of a true relationship developing, that she clung to through it all, like a lifeline. She would never be able to believe the cynics, because that would be too much, that would be unbearable.
Harvey’s change of mood meant that for a long year the atmosphere at Haute House returned to something very much like it had been before his arrival. The settled routine allowed them all to relax, to loosen up and live a little. The place ticked over with professional ease, with hardly an incident worthy of note. The family, because now it could be called a family, appeared to be united and growing in strength day by day. Andrea was still infatuated by her new man, who in his turn had not for a second unattended her. He still sent flowers every so often, perfectly out of the blue, and she never knew when she would wake up to find a perfume or a trinket by her pillow. But what really made her feel happy was that he had taken to going for a stroll through the grounds with Sydney at weekends, if the weather allowed, and every so often sat with him through some cartoon fantasy, pretending to be fascinated by the infantile plot. She knew how much effort on his part this required, and she was very grateful to him for attempting to bond with the boy. Because Sydney was, as the saying goes, difficult. She realised now that she had spoilt him, and that what he now needed was not only love and affection, but a clear routine, a touch of discipline. Above all the child needed to learn to respect his elders, to learn some manners, to understand his place in the order of things. It was a task she did not feel able to see through on her own, as she knew she would capitulate at the first tear. Anyway, educating a son requires coherence, and Andrea was not the most stable of mothers. She would chide him for his behaviour one day, and laugh at it the next. She would put up with tantrums, but sharply snap at him over the most trifling affair. She would set up ultimatums, but let them pass without a fight. Sydney did his best under such circumstances, which meant looking after number one and getting away with as much as possible without suffering too much. By the time he was five he was considered by all to be a spoilt brat.
Andrea had hoped that Pet could help her out, and Sydney was often to be found in the kitchen or the laundry room with her. But Pet was not a mother, she was a hired hand. So she looked after the boy, but she did not feel it was her duty or her position to educate the lad. As long as he behaved himself in her presence, as long as he stayed out of trouble so she could hand him back safe and sound, that was enough. It was not her job to teach the child manners, that was Andrea’s task.
‘He needs a brother. Or a sister,’
Pet pronounced one day to Andrea. She made sure that it sounded jolly and jokey, even a little risqué, but she said it with a purpose. The comment was not lost on Andrea. It was a possibility that had crossed her mind more than once, to the point that she had even mentioned it, again casually, carefully, to Harvey. He had not been amused.
‘Do you really think the time, the timing, is right? That it’s the right time?’
Seeing the disappointment on her face he continued.
‘I mean, it’s not that I think it’s a bad idea, no, of course not. It would be fantastic! But not yet, not so soon, not with little Sydney being such a .. handful.’
Once more he asked for patience, once more it was granted. As he always said, first things first.
Still, she thought that his influence would help straighten out young Sydney. Harvey was always in control, very constant, very correct. He had perfect manners when required, knew how to behave in every situation, understood that an education is vital. And having been a little brat himself, he knew all Sydney’s tricks and tactics, and could outwit him every time. So to notice that for the first time Harvey was taking an interest in Sydney filled her with immense joy. Perhaps when he saw that the boy was less of a handful, then... Everything would work out, she was sure. For now, enjoy the present.
It was a period of peace and tranquillity. In the cyclical nature of things, the lull before the storm.
4
The day Ambrose left prison he was led to an open plan office in the administrative building where he was made to sign for his meager belongings. One electric shaver, Phillips, one mobile phone, Nokia, one radio, Puretone, with earpiece…. He could have sworn that there had been a watch, too, but maybe Pet had taken it with her. Anyway he had a new one now, Swatch, so he said nothing. These items were handed to him on a plastic tray like those used at airports or for sterilizing scalpels in operating theatres. He picked them up and started to stuff them into his pockets. The warden, Peters, one of the most popular guards along with young Mudda, watched Ambrose wonder where to put his shaver.
‘Just a second, Mr. Ork’
He rummaged around under a desk and produced a plastic shopping bag.
‘Here, best use this. Didn’t you think of bringing a bag?’
He watched as Ambrose clumsily transferred the objects to the shopping bag. Obviously not.
‘Thanks.’
They escorted him through a number of locked doors to the main entrance. It was a new prison, with a modern design of sheet glass, open spaces and highly polished floors. Pot plants added a warmer touch. It was the joker style of the moment, and served for museums, hotel lobbies, tax offices and crematoriums alike.
He was relieved to see that nobody was waiting for him. ‘Nobody’ meant Pet, of course, who else was there? Unless she had nipped outside for a quick cigarette. He decided to check. The automatic doors slid open, and a blast of heat greeted him as if he had opened the door to hell. The taxi stand was empty, and apart from the shuttle bus which would take him into civilization, the place was understandably deserted. Who wants to be hanging around in that heat outside a provincial prison in the back end of nowhere? He strolled over to the mini bus, but it was empty, the doors closed. Time for a cigarette. So she had fallen for it. He felt slightly proud of himself for that. He had never been good at lying, and he’d feared that she would see through his ruse and turn up anyway. He had fooled her into thinking that his release had been delayed for some bureaucratic reason or other beyond his grasp, and she had apparently been happy to believe that.
The prison bus eventually took him into town, free of charge, and then turned him loose into the summer heat. What he was supposed to do next was not explained, or if it had been he had not understood a word of it. There had been chats by social assistants about reinsertion and reo
rientation and rehabilitation, words far too similar sounding for him to be able to distinguish, let alone retain. Now he was stranded, dressed in, or rather stuffed into, his best suit, swinging a plastic bag and sweating profusely. A free man. Luckily he had a plan of his own.
Which was why he had to spare Pet, had to keep her at arm’s length. Although truth be told he had not seen much of her over the last few years. She had hitched up with a man called Doug, someone Ambrose had never seen, not even in a photo, and this Doug character had hauled her off to Wollbury where she was now working as a waitress. That made it increasingly more difficult to visit, what with the distance and the unearthly hours of the bar. At least that was how she had excused herself back then. Was it true, or was Doug to blame? He imagined him sometimes as a burly pimp, balding, greasy and pot-bellied, bossing his sister about and snatching up her wages to blow on whatever vices were in fashion. But no, she had looked apologetic and sincere, and always spoke well of Doug. He had to trust Pet; she was all he had left. So they limited themselves to phone calls, once a week in theory, more like once a month in practice, and the odd letter. He had preferred to lie to her on