Alison Fraser - Tainted Love

‘He hasn’t been rude to you, has he?’ Marchand directed at Clare.

Before she could answer, the boy put in, ‘I was just talking to her...wasn’t I?’

Clare nodded and volunteered, ‘About his life in America.’

The boy shot her a look, half-plea, half-threat, and a small smile played on her lips as she kept him on tenterhooks for a moment, before she gave a slight shake of her head.

The man’s eyes switched from one to the other, picking up messages but unable to interpret them.

‘Well, Miles, I haven’t finished interviewing Miss—er—yet,’ he finally said. ‘Your aunt has tea ready for you in the kitchen.’

‘OK.’ The boy shrugged, then said to Clare, ‘Catch you later, maybe,’ as he slouched from the room.

Clare wondered what he meant, what the grin on his face promised. Nothing good, she suspected.

Marchand looked bemused, saying with near wonder, ‘He seems to like you.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Clare suspected the boy liked noboby right at that moment—including himself. She didn’t know if he was disturbed, but he was certainly mixed-up and unhappy.

‘No, well...he can be a handful,’ Marchand admitted in something of an understatement, before he poured tea into two cups and left Clare to help herself to milk and sugar.

Clare did so as he went on, ‘You see, Miles has been through a difficult time. His mother...she and I parted seven years ago. Miles stayed with me for the first three years, then he went to live with her... She died in an accident six months ago.’

Marchand relayed this information reluctantly, and Clare realised there was a whole lot more he wasn’t saying. But she showed no curiosity and didn’t invite him to continue. The truth was she didn’t want to know about Miles Marchand’s problems. She had enough of her own.

‘He’s not the easiest of children in consequence,’ Marchand concluded, ‘and needs careful handling. However, I should be spending much of my time round the house until autumn term begins and I intend to organise activities for the boy. I would expect a housekeeper to supervise him occasionally, along with the normal household duties... So, any questions?’

‘No.’ Clare saw no point in asking questions. He wasn’t going to employ her. Why should he?

‘None?’ He frowned at her apparent uninterest, and, when she remained silent, added shortly, ‘In that case, if you leave your address, I’ll let you know, Miss...’

‘All right.’ She stood up, placed her half-finished tea on the tray, and surprised him by offering her hand to shake.

‘I’ll show you out,’ he said, when she started to turn and walk from the room.

‘That’s OK.’ Clare would happily have found her own way to the front door, but he followed behind her.

They’d reached the doorstep before he asked, ‘How did you get here? By car?’

‘No, train, then bus,’ Clare answered him.

‘In that case—’ he took a set of keys from his pocket ‘—I’d better run you into Oxford.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Clare had decided that, all in all, she didn’t particularly like Fenwick Marchand.

‘I know I don’t,’ he responded, ‘but nevertheless I will. Wait here till I tell Louise.’

Clare wasn’t given the chance to argue as he retreated back into the house. She was left standing on the doorstep, wondering which car was his—the Jaguar or the Mercedes. She was putting her money on the Jaguar when Marchand junior reappeared.

‘Why didn’t you tell him?’ he asked with narrowed eyes.

‘Tell him what?’

‘That I was rude to you.’

‘Were you?’ Clare gave him a look of mock-surprise. ‘I didn’t notice.’

‘You must know some incredibly rude people, then,’ he threw back at her.

‘Incredibly,’ she agreed, her smile ironic as she thought of her companions over the last few years. It was true. Manners had been in short supply in Marsh Green Prison.

The boy smiled a little, too, before saying, ‘They’re arguing about you in the kitchen. Him and Aunt Lou.’

‘Really?’ Clare said flatly. It wasn’t an invitation for him to go on.

But he didn’t need one, taking pleasure in confiding, ‘They sent me to watch TV in the lounge, but I hung around and listened at the door. Aunt Lou says you’re really desperate for this job and he has to give you a chance. But he says you don’t strike him as especially desperate and that a girl with your talents will have much more luc—luc-ar-tive prospects lined up...I guess he means you’re too smart to just be a housekeeper,’ Miles interpreted for her.

But Clare could think of an entirely different interpretation, and it was nowhere near that flattering. Inwardly seething, she muttered at the boy, ‘Something like that,’ then told him to inform his father she had chosen to walk.

She left without waiting for a response from the boy but he caught up with her on the drive and fell into step beside her.

‘Are you mad with me?’ he enquired guilelessly. ‘I thought you’d want to know what they were saying. I mean, if you told Dad you were desperate, perhaps he’d change his mind.’

‘I doubt it.’ Clare decided that, for all the worldliness he affected, Miles Marchand had a boy’s outlook on life. She wondered if she might have liked him, had she been given the chance.

‘You could try,’ he insisted as they reached the gates.

Clare shook her head. ‘Don’t worry about it, kid. It’ll save you the trouble of scaring me off,’ she said with a wry smile.

‘But you wouldn’t be,’ Miles responded. ‘ You’re not scared of me, are you?’

Clare shook her head again, saying, ‘No. Should I be?’

‘The rest were,’ he claimed. ‘Mrs Brown, the last woman, she told him I needed locking up. In a loony-bin, she meant.’

Clare frowned, not sure if the boy was exaggerating, boasting or just seeking her opinion. ‘What do you think?’ she asked in return.

The boy stared at her for a moment, deciding if she could be trusted, before he confided, ‘I scare myself sometimes. I feel so angry I want to hurt people. Him especially.’

‘Your dad?’ Clare drew a nod, then found herself admitting, ‘I used to feel that way at times.’

‘So what did you do?’ Dark blue eyes looked to her for an answer.

Clare had none to give. All the people close to her had gone, out of reach of hurting, and she’d resolved her anger with the world by retreating from it. But this boy still had a chance to come out of the shadows.

‘I’m nobody to take advice from, kid,’ she finally said, and felt a twinge of guilt when his expression became hostile once more. He’d opened up to her, just for a moment, and what did she do? Turn her back on him.

She did it literally, as she slipped out through the gates and started walking back along the country road to the Old Corn Mill. However, she didn’t get very far before the Jaguar drew up beside her.

The driver’s window slid down and Marchand senior’s dark blond head appeared. ‘If you’re intending to catch a bus, there isn’t one for a couple of hours. So, I suggest you get in,’ he said with a bored air.

It put Clare’s back up. ‘I’d sooner walk, thank you,’ she replied heavily.

He arched a brow. ‘Twelve miles? You must be joking. You won’t make three. Still, if you insist...’ He turned on the engine and put the car in gear, then waited for Clare to forget her pride and be sensible.

But she remained where she was, waiting in turn, until finally he put his foot on the accelerator and shot off down the road.

Clare felt triumphant until she reached the pub at the crossroads and saw the sign that indeed said it was twelve miles to Oxford. Then she wondered if she could walk all that way on new court shoes that were already beginning to pinch.