The Drop Off

My husband saw her first.

I’d been facing backwards, twisted uncomfortably in my seat with my fully-extended seatbelt digging into my shoulder. I had been trying to prevent Henry from prodding his little sister. I’d succeeded by creating a barrier between them using the cat box. As a consequence, Henry was glaring at me with that sullen “how dare you stop me from doing what I want” expression of his.

‘Blimey,’ said Mike admiringly. ‘D’you think that’s real?’

As I turned to face forwards I caught a glimpse of the object of his appreciation. The woman was not tall; she wore tight denim shorts and a white t-shirt. A twisted rope of bright red hair was tied with two black bows. One was at the nape of her neck. The second was a little above the small of her back and it danced and swayed as she walked. She was holding a small boy firmly by the hand and pushing a buggy. The boy was wearing grey shorts and a turquoise sweat shirt, the same sweatshirt that Henry was wearing, the uniform of Harbottle Primary School. I doubted that Mike had even noticed him.

‘The bum?’ I asked, knowing my husband. ‘Definitely real.’

‘I was talking about the hair,’ Mike protested as we drove past.

‘No idea,’ I replied.

I turned and looked back; the buggy was a double. The woman was striding determinedly down the road towards Harbottle and the village school. She was a stranger, a newcomer to our little corner of the hills, but I instantly decided that I wasn’t going to like her. She had no right to a figure like that after three kids.

The Alwinton to Harbottle road is narrow, and there are no footpaths until you get into the village. The woman had been walking down the road, facing the oncoming traffic. Not that there was anything coming. We don’t see many cars on our roads and anything larger than a car is very unusual, unless the army are on the ranges.

We’d been crossing the River Coquet when Annie had started protesting about her brother’s prodding. We’d reached the castle car park when Mike spoke. I wondered where the woman had come from. I know everyone on our side of the river, in Alwinton and the surrounding farms. On this side, the south side, we had only passed two properties and I know who lives there, too. There was nowhere else.

Unless … unless someone had actually bought Drakeshaugh. The old farmhouse had been derelict for years, but as I considered the possibilities I realised that there was nowhere else she could have come from. Drakeshaugh was a mile and a half from Harbottle, up the track alongside Drakestone Burn. If she was from Drakeshaugh she had walked along the old and rutted track, and then along this road, while pushing two kids and holding the third.

‘Anyone mentioned any newcomers to you?’ I asked.

‘You keep up with the gossip, not me,’ said Mike. ‘We’ll find out soon enough; she’ll be taking the lad to school. He was in uniform.’ My husband had noticed the boy. Sometimes I underestimate him. After nine years of marriage I should know better.

We swept around the bends and into the single street that is Harbottle village. The stranger was lost in the distance behind us.

‘I could drop you off at the school, go back, and offer her a lift,’ Mike suggested.

‘Michael Charlton,’ I told him as we slowed down. ‘You are here for your son’s first full day at school, not to pick up curvy redheaded strangers.’

‘I could combine the two,’ he said with a grin.

‘What’re you talking ‘bout?’ Henry asked us from the back seat.

‘We’ve just seen a lady who we don’t know walking towards the school, Henry,’ I informed my son. ‘She has a little boy with her; he might be a new friend for you. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

‘No,’ Henry told me firmly.

I kept the sun visor down at all times. By using both the vanity mirror in the sun visor and the door mirror I could watch my children without them realising what I was doing, Henry was convinced that I did have eyes in the back of my head. My son was close to tears this morning, poor little lad. He was worried, nervous. It was a big day, his first full day at school.

Henry had been going to school for half days, mornings only, since Easter. He had settled in nicely, even made friends with a couple of the older children, but the six week summer break had been long enough to make him forget all about that. We’d had tears and tantrums from the moment we’d roused him this morning and I was extremely thankful that my husband had insisted on helping. Mike had arranged to start work late, so that he could be with Henry for the start of his first full day at school.

‘Here we are, Henny,’ Mike announced as he pulled up behind the line of cars already parked on the street outside the school.

‘Hen-ry,’ Henry corrected his father crossly.

‘You used to say Henny when you were a little boy,’ Mike reminded him. ‘Aren’t you still a little boy?’

‘No!’ announced Henry importantly. ‘I’m a big boy, I’m nearly five.’

‘A big boy who’s going to school for a whole day, like big boys do,’ said Mike knowledgeably.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ I told my husband. He grinned and winked at me.

I took my time getting out of the car, allowing Mike to walk around to lift Henry out from his seat onto the path. I leaned across Henry’s car seat and unbuckled Annie from hers. Settling her on my hip, I watched Henry take his daddy’s hand. Mike was doing a good job; he was playing the ignorant fool, keeping Henry’s mind on other things.

‘Is it this way?’ Mike asked, leading Henry in the wrong direction, away from the school gate, and allowing our son to scold him and lead him into the school yard. Mike says that sometimes acting daft is the most sensible thing to do; it certainly works with Henry most of the time. I smiled as I watched them walk through the gate and disappear.

I checked the back seat; Henry had left his school bag on the floor. I picked it up and cursed; it was dripping. The carton of fresh orange juice I’d packed for him was leaking, that was obvious from the smell. I swore under my breath, lifted the bag out from the car and dropped it onto the path. The bag was a sticky mess, and now, so was my hand.

‘Wassamatter, Mammy?’ my daughter asked.

I lifted her into Henry’s car seat and ordered, ‘Don’t move, Annie; I need to clear this up.’

I squatted down on the verge and began to unzip the bag.

‘Need any help?’ someone asked. Her accent gave her away instantly, it was definitely southern; West Country I thought. A few more words and I’d be certain.

I looked towards the voice. There was the boy in the school sweatshirt. He was auburn-haired and freckle faced and he was looking rather worried, not unlike Henry. There was the buggy, a muddy three-wheeled off-roader. Two children sat side by side in the buggy. The younger was a toddler, eighteen months old I guessed; a girl with hair as bright a red as her mother’s and tied into two bunches. The older child was perhaps three, and completely unlike the other two, he had a mop of unruly jet-black hair and bright green eyes.

Behind the buggy was a pair of pale, freckled and well-muscled legs. The woman’s faded denim shorts were quite long, three or four inches above her knees and they did not seem so tight from the front, but as her white t-shirt was low-cut, my husband would probably find something else to attract his attention; two something elses.

Oblivious to my uncharitable thoughts, the freckle faced and red-headed stranger looked at me, smiled, and then waved at my daughter who sat patiently in the car seat. The woman’s children looked at me as though they’d never seen another human being before.

‘Are we there yet, Mummy?’ the boy in school uniform asked her as I opened Henry’s bag.

‘Yes, James, we’re there,’ she told him.

Juice had dripped from Henry’s lunch box and onto his coat, which was wet and sticky. Under the silent scrutiny of the woman and her three children I pulled out the coat and dropped it on the path before opening the lunch box and checking the contents. Henry’s apple could be salvaged, if it were washed and dried it would be fine, but the rest of his lunch was ruined.

They were still there, watching and waiting. I glared at the woman; then remembered that she’d asked me a question; she’d offered to help, and I hadn’t replied. It was me, not her, who was being rude.

‘Sorry, I don’t think that you’ll be able to help, but thanks for the offer,’ I apologised to the woman. ‘My son’s orange juice carton has leaked and his lunch is ruined.’

‘Lunch?’ The young woman looked worried. Her children simply continued to watch me. ‘Isn’t lunch provided? I thought that lunch was provided.’

‘It is, if you’ve paid for it,’ I told her. ‘Have you?’

‘I don’t know,’ the woman looked confused. ‘Harry – my husband – made all of the arrangements. He was supposed to be here with me, but there’s been a crisis at work and he had to go.’

‘Want Daddy,’ the dark-haired boy announced. His ears had pricked up at the word “Harry”.

‘He’s at work, Al,’ the woman said exasperatedly.

‘We can talk to Mrs Wilson, the early-years teacher,’ I reassured her. ‘She’ll know whether … James (I struggled, but remembered what she’d called the auburn-haired boy) … has his name down for school dinners, and I’ll need to buy Henry lunch, too, now.’

‘Thanks,’ the woman gave me a pleasant and very grateful smile.

‘Would you like me to dry your son’s coat?’ she asked. ‘I’m Ginny Potter, by the way.’

She held out freckled hand. I picked up Henry’s coat, which now had grit sticking to it, too, and shook the hand she’d proffered. She had a surprisingly firm grip. I’m a farmer’s daughter; my grip is good, but hers was better.

‘Jacqui Charlton,’ I told her my name. ‘I’ve heard all of the jokes, so don’t bother.’ She looked at me blankly. She’s a Southerner, I remembered, so she’s probably never heard of Jackie Charlton.

‘I don’t think that you’ll be able to do anything with this,’ I told her. She simply smiled, reached under the buggy and pulled out a magenta towel. Taking the coat from me, she wrapped it inside the towel and rubbed vigorously. When she lifted the coat out it was clean and dry, and it wasn’t sticky.

‘How on earth did you do that?’ I asked.

‘This …’ Ginny Potter stopped and thought carefully before starting again.

‘George … my brother … one of my brothers … is a bit of an … inventor. His son, Fred, is the scruffiest, stickiest kid in the family, and he’s got a lot of competition, especially from this one.’ She ruffled her eldest son’s hair affectionately. ‘George … invented … this towel. It’s … specially treated … and a sort of test version.’

‘I’d buy one,’ I told her.

‘Don’t be so sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if everything I clean with it suddenly turns magenta later.’ She smiled, then realised what she’d said. She looked horror-struck at her words and covered her mouth with her hand.

‘Oh, shi… da… bother,’ she exclaimed, moving from one uncompleted swear word to another and doing the “not in front of the children” word shift I often do myself. ‘If it does, let me know and I’ll replace the coat. I’m sure we’ll see each other at the school gates again.’

‘Oi!’ my husband shouted.

‘Coming, Mike,’ I called.

‘My husband,’ I explained. ‘It’s our son’s first full day so he decided to take time off work.’

‘So did Harry, but something came up,’ Ginny told me. She was looking rather bewildered and I felt sorry for her.

‘Come with me, Ginny, I’ll introduce you to some of the other mums. This …’ I lifted Annie out of the car, ‘…is my daughter, Annie.’

I put Annie down, grabbed her hand tightly, and we toddled slowly towards the school gates alongside the Potters.

‘Say hello to Mrs Potter, Annie,’ I suggested.

‘Ello,’ Annie mumbled shyly.

‘Hello, Annie. These three are James, Al, and Lily. Say hello to Mrs Charlton and Annie, kids.’

‘Hello,’ the two younger ones chorused.

‘Hello to Mrs Charlton and Annie.’ James scowled.

‘James, behave yourself,’ Ginny scolded.

‘Don’t wanna go to school!’ James told his mother.

‘Neither does my son, Henry,’ I told him, ‘Perhaps you could keep each other company.’

‘That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ Ginny asked.

‘No,’ James announced.

Before Ginny could speak we’d reached the gates, where my husband and son stood waiting. I performed the introductions. Mike was on his best behaviour, thank goodness, and he graciously agreed to look after Annie, Al and Lily while Ginny and I took our sons into school.

James and Henry were assessing each other carefully. James was looking wonderingly at the impressively painted school yard and, as we strolled up towards the school, the two boys began talking quietly to each other. Henry, I noticed, was explaining things. Suddenly my son wasn’t the new kid. He had found someone even newer.

‘It’s quite an old building,’ Ginny observed.

‘More than a hundred and fifty years old, early Victorian, but it’s been well modernised, don’t worry,’ I reassured her.

‘The school I went to was a lot older,’ she smiled.

‘Really?’ I began, but my son interrupted us.

‘James’s having school dinners,’ Henry announced.

‘Would you like school dinners, too?’ I asked, praying for the right answer.

‘Yes,’ he announced.

‘Well, if that’s what you want, Henry, we’ll organise it now.’ I winked at Ginny, who smiled a knowing reply.

So we took our sons into the school, spoke to Mrs Wilson and watched her settle the boys into the small class of four-, five- and six-year-olds.

It did not take long for Mrs Wilson to set them to work with paint and paper. When they turned their backs on us and started to mix paints, we left.

‘We can’t offer you a lift, sorry, Ginny,’ Mike said when we left the school. ‘Five seats for six people, I’m afraid that you won’t all fit. Have you been here long? Just moved in? Where are you living? What does your husband do?’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Mike, don’t be so nosey. How can she answer all of those questions?’ I glared at Mike and he shut up. I could see that Ginny was on her guard the instant he began firing questions at her. I’d not find anything out now, so I decided to tell her about us.

‘Mike works in Morpeth, he’s a solicitor and land agent,’ I told Ginny. ‘I was born and bred up here. Mike’s the newcomer, originally from the big city, Newcastle. Eight years and he’s still not used to our quiet country ways.’

We were passing the huddle of other Mums at the school gate when I spoke. Mary Saville called across to me. She was looking curiously at Ginny and would want to know “absolutely everything, darling” about her.

‘Just as well we are out here in the “quiet country”,’ boomed Mary, waving a newspaper, ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to be in Sheffield at the moment.’

The headline read: “Werewolf Killer Writes: I’ll keep killing.”

Ginny frowned grimly and walked on, ignoring Mary.

‘Daddy gone Se’feed,’ Al Potter announced, looking up in interest at the mention of the city.

‘Yes, he has, Al. He’s there on business,’ Ginny said. ‘Thanks for your help, Jacqui, but I’d best get these two home. We have a lot to do today.’

‘Thank you,’ I told her. ‘Henry has a clean coat and, I hope, a new friend. He was very nervous this morning.’

‘So was James. It will be nice if he can mix with some Mu… some children who he isn’t related to.’ She looked a little sad as she spoke. I knew how she was feeling.

‘Kids have got to go to school. It’s good for them, even if they are a miss around the house,’ I reassured her.

‘That’s what Harry says, too, I hope that he’s right. Bye, Jacqui, bye, Mike. I’m sure I’ll see you again.’ With that, she turned and pushed the buggy containing her two younger children back down the road.

I didn’t have a chance to discuss Ginny Potter with Mike because Mary bustled over.

‘A mysterious stranger, tell me everything, darling,’ she began. I was a severe disappointment to her and I was glad when, after a couple of minutes, Mike helped me to escape by reminding me that he needed to take me home in order to get to work.

The Pick Up

That afternoon, while Annie was sleeping, I carefully reread the newspaper article about the Sheffield murders. I sat in the armchair beside the bay window, drinking my coffee. It is not something I normally do; daytime television (especially the property programmes) are my vice, but my interest was piqued, probably because of Ginny Potter’s conversation with her younger son, whose Daddy was “In Se’feed”. Ginny had said that he wasn’t with her because there had “been a crisis at work”. Her remarks had intrigued me and I’d even watched the midday news.

According to both the papers and the television news, late last Friday night, or early Saturday morning, there had been a brutal murder in Sheffield. The body of a young woman had been found in a suburb called Grimesthorpe. She had been torn to pieces “as if by a wild animal”, according to the reports in Mike’s copy of The Independent. The later editions of the Saturday papers had been full of the story. Then on Sunday the News of the World broke the news that there had been a similar murder in a different part of Sheffield, Nether Edge, about four weeks earlier.

The first body, a middle-aged man, hadn’t been found for several days apparently. But the News of the World was already claiming that both victims had been killed on the full moon night. They had even rounded up a few “witnesses” who claimed that they had heard a wolf howling at the moon. The police had confirmed that Friday had been the night of the full moon, but the police spokesman pointed out that the time and date of death of the other victim had not been reliably established. Nevertheless, the paper had called them “The Werewolf Murders” and the name had stuck.

That was yesterday. This morning the television news had been full of reports of a letter, purportedly from “The Werewolf”, who threatened to continue to kill on every full moon night “until Greyback is freed.” South Yorkshire Police had initially dismissed the reports, but “The Werewolf” had sent a copy to The Sun newspaper in addition to the copy he’d sent to the Police and eventually, they had confirmed that they had received a letter. They claimed to have no idea who “Greyback” was. There was a lot of speculation about whether this was true.

I read a lot of crime fiction; too much, Mike says. But I’d rather read a meaty murder mystery than a dreary and boring romance. Who cares what happens to a stupid and self obsessed girl and her arrogant and wholly unsuitable beau? My mind had been running riot. This morning, news broke about the mysterious “Greyback Letter” and also this morning Ginny’s husband was called to Sheffield on urgent business. I wondered if he was somehow involved with the murder investigation. Exciting new neighbours; now that would be news for Mary!

I picked up my cup and discovered that my coffee was almost cold. I checked my watch. It was time for me to leave to pick up Henry from school. I had been engrossed in my wild speculations and forgotten the time.

I was a few minutes late leaving the house and I was made even later because Annie was still asleep. It is always a struggle to get her into her car seat without waking her. Fitting her seat into the Micra isn’t easy, either. Fortunately, I’m usually at the school gate at least fifteen minutes before school closes, so late simply meant that I was ten minutes early, rather than quarter of an hour.

I drove past the school, turned around in Drakestone View and drove past for a second time. It was obvious that I was the last to arrive. Mary and her friends were already standing just inside the gates and the taxi buses for the kids from the outlying farms were all parked up, too. I pulled in and parked at the end of the line of cars and mini-buses. I was furthest from the school gates.

Annie was still asleep in her car seat. That gave me an excuse not to go and chat to the other mums. Waiting in the car meant that I wouldn’t be interrogated by Mary and her friends, and they wouldn’t realise how little I knew about the newcomers. I certainly wasn’t ready to share my crazy suspicions with them.

It was then that I realised I had not passed Ginny. One glance at the school gates told me that she wasn’t there. That hair of hers was unmistakeable and was obviously absent from the crowd. James would be out soon, and his mammy wasn’t going to be waiting. I was surprised, because, after my initial hostility (which, I had admitted to myself, was entirely because of her looks) I’d decided that she seemed to be a nice young woman. I stared through my windscreen, looking back up the road. She should have been approaching the school, but there was no sign of her.

I sat for a few minutes and tried to decide what to do. I had just met Ginny, I didn’t know how she would react if I went to find her. If she’d simply been delayed for a few minutes, then I’d be a busybody. If, however, there was a problem…

I had just resolved to drive up towards the lane which led to Drakeshaugh, to see if she needed any help, when the motorbike arrived. It roared up the road from behind me and pulled up to park directly in front of my car. It was a big, black and very noisy machine, an old Triumph, I thought, although it didn’t have a name badge. The rider dismounted quickly and in a fluid and obviously well-practiced motion he pulled the bike up onto its stand. This was even more mysterious than this morning’s encounter. I watched with interest.

The rider was wearing blue jeans and a leather jacket of a peculiar green-black colour. I watched him unzip the jacket to revealing a faded green t-shirt with the letters -RPI- on the chest; I couldn’t see the entire word. He finally took off his helmet, a bright red thing with a lion rampant painted on the side. This was Harry Potter, I realised, and he knew how to make an entrance.

While he was busy fastening his helmet to the bike, I got out of the car and smiled at him. The muttered conversation at the school gates behind me had stopped. I did not turn around, but I could sense the enquiring eyes of the school-gate mums behind me. I wondered if they, too, had recognised him.

‘Hello,’ I said rather breathlessly.

The second he’d removed the helmet I knew that this was definitely Ginny’s husband and Al’s dad. There could be absolutely no doubt about the latter, the jet black hair and bright green eyes proved it. As my dad would say, Al Potter was a dead spit of his father. Though, unlike Al, his father’s eyes were hidden behind glasses.

He was about average height and he looked young, very young, but he was probably in his late twenties. He wasn’t skinny, but he wasn’t muscular either, he was lean and slim and his hair was tousled and untidy. I prefer more meat on my men, but he was rather cute. He had a strange boyish charm which made me (and some of the mothers behind me, I suspected from the excited murmurs which I could now hear) want to look after him.

‘You must be Jacqui,’ he said, smiling as he held out a hand in greeting. ‘Ginny’s told me about you. I’m Harry Potter, James’s dad.’ There was so much pride in his voice when he spoke those last two words that I wanted to hug him. But I resisted the temptation and simply shook his hand.

‘Hello Harry Potter, James’s dad,’ I burbled stupidly.

I cursed inwardly at my ridiculous greeting. I was talking to a nice looking bloke and suddenly I was acting like a love-struck teen. He just grinned.

‘Call me Harry, please. Thanks for helping Ginny out this morning, I rather left her in the lurch … James, too,’ he added sadly.

‘I do hope that you’re not thinking of taking your son home on that thing,’ Mary Saville boomed from behind me. Harry Potter looked at her in surprise.

‘Of course not. We’ll be walking home; I’ll come back and collect the bike later,’ Harry told her abruptly before turning back to me.

‘So you’re obviously from further up the valley, Jacqui. Ginny told me that you drove past her on the road, from Alwinton?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said, aware that by helping Harry to ignore Mary I was taking a dangerous path. School-gate gossip was the main form of communication in the valley, and Mary was the mistress of tittle-tattle. ‘We live in Alwinton village, and you must have moved into Drakeshaugh, because there’s nowhere else.’

He raised an eyebrow in surprise and I caught a glimpse of a scar on his forehead.

‘I thought no one would notice us around here,’ he said. I laughed and risked patting his shoulder in what I hoped was a friendly gesture.

‘Everyone will notice you around here, Harry. There are so few of us on this road and we all know each other, even if it’s just a polite nod as we drive past. But we don’t know anything about you. We didn’t even know that someone had moved into Drakeshaugh. All I know is that you’re a southerner, but you’re not from the West Country like Ginny.’

‘How do you know that?’ he asked, looking at me in surprise.

‘Accents. They’ve always been a hobby of mine, and Ginny drawls more than you. You’re closer to Estuary English, not London, but close, I’d say.’

‘You can tell that just by hearing me speak, and Ginny, too?’ he asked. He sounded amazed.

‘You’re from the Home Counties – probably Berkshire, Hampshire or Surrey,’ I guessed.

‘Surrey,’ he confirmed, ‘and Ginny?’

‘Possibly Cornwall, but probably Devon,’ I told him.

‘Impressive,’ he said, and he actually looked like he was impressed.

‘So you’re from Surrey, you live in Northumberland and you work in Sheffield. You must lead an interesting life.’ I smiled.

‘Who said I work in Sheffield?’ He asked his question rather sharply and I saw a disconcerting flash of sharp steel behind those smiling green eyes.

‘Your younger son, Al. Somebody mentioned Sheffield, because of those werewolf murders and he said “Daddy’s in Se’feed,” so I assumed that’s where you work.’

Harry Potter relaxed.

‘I try to work from home when I can, but my office is in London and I sometimes get called away elsewhere. This morning I was called to Sheffield,’ he said.

‘The murders?’ I asked abruptly, taking a chance and looking into his face. He hesitated. I knew that he was trying to decide whether to lie or not, which obviously meant, yes, the murders. He stared into my eyes and I suddenly got the crazy idea that he was reading my thoughts. He probably simply read my guess in my face, because he nodded grudgingly.

‘Yes. My office … my office provides specialist services for the government and the police. At the moment I’m working with South Yorkshire Police,’ he told me.

‘Specialist services?’ I asked.

‘Yes … offender profiling … that sort of stuff.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ I said.

‘Usually it’s deadly dull office work and that’s the way I like it,’ he said with a wistful smile. ‘But it has its moments.’ He was absent-mindedly scratching his chest as he spoke.

I didn’t get the chance to ask him anything else because the children were screaming out of the school gates. My mother’s ear caught Henry’s high pitched yells among the confusing cacophony.

‘Mammy!’

I searched for my son and saw that he and James were together and running towards us, each proudly holding a curled up sheet of paper.

‘Daddydaddydaddy,’ James squealed. I looked round, then down. Harry had hunkered down onto the balls of his feet to greet his son at his own level.

‘Jamesjamesjames,’ said Harry, laughing. ‘Have you had a good day?’

‘‘esitwasgreatI’vedrawdapicher,’ he said proudly and rapidly.

‘You’ve drawn a picture, wow!’ Harry said, then Henry was on top of me and his excited and insistent shouts required my full attention.

Henry had drawn a picture, too. It was of his family: Mammy, Daddy and a shapeless little pink blob which he dismissively assured me was his sister. He proudly pushed his picture under Harry’s nose, and Harry, bless him, made all the right noises of appreciation at the confusion of smeared poster paints.

James then insisted on showing me his “picher”, too. It was, I noted jealously, rather better than Henry’s.

‘’sMummy’n’Daddy’n’Al’n’Lililoo,’ James announced.

He paused for breath. Lily-Lou, I noted. That was an unusual name, not like ordinary James. I wondered whether Al was an ordinary Alan, or, I smiled to myself at my flight of fancy, an Alphonse.

Ginny was basically red. She was a crimson circle for a head, crimson hair, crimson smile and a face spotted with crimson – not measles, I realised – but freckles. Harry was a black scribble of hair, glasses, green eyes and a smile; there was something else, too a red zig-zag between glasses and hair.

‘It’s lovely, James,’ I told him, ‘I’ll give it to your daddy to keep safe, okay?’

I handed Harry James’s painting, which he took very carefully as if it was a valuable masterpiece (which, of course, it was). As he took it, I looked curiously up at his forehead. He sighed in exasperation and lifted up a tangled lock of hair to reveal a faint zig-zag scar.

‘James is fascinated by it,’ he told me, ‘My parents died in a car crash when I was fifteen months old. I survived unscathed, apart from this.’

‘I’m sorry…’ I began automatically.

‘I have some photographs, but I don’t really remember them. When I was younger they used to haunt my dreams all the time but they haven’t since … well, not for more than ten years now.’ Harry’s words came out in a rush, his interruption making it clear that he had told me as much as he was going to about his parents. I wondered who had raised him, but I didn’t ask.

‘I like to think that I’m more than just an unusual scar…’ he began with a smile.

‘I’m sure you are, you’re a mysterious stranger, too,’ I told him jokingly. His face fell.

‘After Ginny dropped James off this morning she warned me that I hadn’t really thought this through. I thought that finding a nice quiet school in a remote area was the best thing for my children. Ginny and I like to lead a quiet life, but we’re going to be gossiped about, aren’t we? Just turning up and moving into Drakeshaugh and then arriving at the school unexpectedly is a big thing in a little place like this isn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ I admitted.

‘We’d probably have been more anonymous if we’d stayed in London. We’d have been lost in the crowds. But Ginny and I wanted our kids to have some space to grow up in, woods and streams and fields, not a London townhouse without a garden.’

‘If you didn’t want to draw attention to yourselves, you’ve done a spectacularly bad job. That bike of yours will be a talking point, too,’ I told him.

‘Perhaps I should take James out of school…’ he began.

‘No!’ James and Henry spoke together. Both Harry and I looked down at them in surprise. They had been listening in silence to our conversation. James looked close to tears.

‘Have you found a friend already?’ Harry asked his son. James looked at Henry, and my son gave a quivering-lipped confirmatory nod.

‘Yes,’ James said firmly.

‘Well, that’s settled then. We’re staying and we’ll simply have to put up with the unwanted attention, again,’ Harry said with finality. ‘We’d best get home Jamesy, and you can tell Mummy all about your day at school, and show her your beautiful painting, and you’ll see Henry at school again tomorrow.’

‘Do you want a lift to the end of your lane?’ I asked. ‘My car isn’t big, but I can squeeze you both in. The only problem is that I don’t have a booster seat for James to use.’

‘Thanks for the offer, Jacqui, but I’d like to walk back, to hear all about James’s first day at his new school. We’ll see you tomorrow. Bye Henry, bye sleepy-girl,’ Harry waved at Annie who had, fortunately, woken up happy and was watching us in still-half-asleep silence.

‘We’re not bad once you get to know us, and you’ve probably given me enough to keep the local busybody happy for a while,’ I replied quietly.

‘The big dark-haired woman who didn’t like my bike?’ Harry asked.

‘Mary,’ I said, nodding.

‘I’ve had worse people than her snooping about,’ said Harry. ‘Bye, Jacqui, and thanks again for helping Ginny.’

‘Bye, Henry,’ James whispered.

‘Taraa, James, seeya termorra,’ said Henry, strangling the English language to within an inch of its life.

‘See you tomorrow, I corrected him.

‘S’what I sed,’ Henry told me.

Behind me, car doors were slamming as everyone prepared to leave. I watched Harry walk up the road, hand in hand with his son, before lifting Henry into his seat.

When we drove past them a few minutes later, James was sitting on his Daddy’s shoulders. I tooted my horn and waved as we passed. Harry gave a quick wave, but had to stop as James was waving so wildly that he almost fell of his father’s shoulders.

‘It looks like you’ve found a new friend, Henry,’ I said.

‘’es,’ Henry said happily.

Misty Morning

The dawn mist lay stubbornly unmoving in the hollows of the fields as I drove Henry down to school. The clouds overhead were thick and grey, and they sapped the strength of the sun, ensuring that its rays were too feeble to shift the mist. Fingers of fog drifted out from the little lakes of white, which sat in the hollows in the green fields, and the slithering white tendrils hung eerily in the air across the lowest points on the road. By the time I reached Harbottle I had driven into the low-lying morning mist.

As usual, I turned the car around before returning and parking outside the school. I carried a happily burbling Annie on my hip and grabbed Henry firmly by the hand. Mike had not taken a second morning off work, but despite his teasing warnings over breakfast, there were no mishaps. No spilled juice and no sticky coats.

We walked through grey air to the school gates. The clouds would probably break later, and there seemed to be the prospect of some sunshine, but at that moment, as we approached the school it was a dull day.

When I walked into the classroom with Annie and Henry, I discovered that Ginny had beaten me into school. She was busy making James comfortable in the classroom when I arrived. There was no sign of either Al or Lily.

James was looking very unsure again, but he smiled uncertainly when Henry and I arrived. I said a quick hello to Ginny, which she returned, but I then concentrated on Henry, as he suddenly seemed nervous too. I stood Annie on the floor, watched her toddle curiously around the classroom and helped Henry take off his coat. The moment he pulled his arms free from it, my son strolled slowly across the classroom to where James stood.

‘‘Lo, Henry,’ James said quietly.

‘‘Lo, James,’ my son replied.

And that was it. They circled shyly around each other for a few silent seconds, then, by mutual agreement, they concluded that they still liked each other and began chattering happily.

Ginny stood up and smiled at me.

‘Hello, Jacqui. I was beginning to worry again, but they seem to be okay,’ Ginny said.

‘They do, Ginny. Henry was looking forward to seeing James again this morning,’ I told her. ‘Bye, boys.’

‘Bye,’ they chorused.

‘Bye, James, bye, Henry,’ Ginny said.

I chased after Annie, who was investigating a box full of letter cards, scooped her up into my arms and followed Ginny into the cloakroom. I still had Henry’s coat and was struggling to hang it up while holding Annie, who was protesting squeakily about having been picked up.

‘Let me,’ said Ginny, taking the coat from me and putting it on the peg next to James’s coat. As she did so, I noticed that she examined the coat carefully.

‘The coat is fine, thanks, Ginny, and the boys will be fine, too, I’m sure,’ I told her. We exchanged understanding glances. It really is a wrench, taking your firstborn to school.

We were about to leave when a confusion of children piled into the cloakroom and continued through into the classroom. Ginny and I were forced to stand aside as they entered the school. The buses had arrived, and with them the majority of the pupils. The volume rose as over a dozen children squeaked and squealed their way to their seats. Ginny and I turned to ensure that our sons weren’t worried by the noisy influx. But neither of them even gave us a glance. Instead they looked to each other for reassurance and simply stood side by side watching the tumult flow around them. They would be fine, I decided.

As we walked outside into the moist grey air, Ginny thrust her hands into the pockets of the faded and dirty jeans she was wearing. She was a lot less tidy than she had been the previous morning. Her hand-knitted sweater was a worn and scruffy old red thing with a familiar-looking yellow lion on the front, the same design as Harry’s motorbike helmet, I remembered. The sweater clashed violently with her hair.

‘Do you knit?’ I asked her as we walked out of the school.

She looked down at her sweater and smiled depreciatively.

‘I can, and I do, sometimes. But I’m not as good as Mum. This is one of hers; she knitted it for Harry years ago, but he grew out of it. It’s my dirty-work sweater now. I need to get home as I still have a lot of tidying up to do. Mum is looking after Al and Lily while I finally finish moving us in. I hope that we will…’ she rolled her eyes dramatically, ‘finally be completely unpacked and tidy by tonight.’ Ginny sighed and looked a little downcast.

‘Moving house is a stressful time, Ginny,’ I assured her as we walked towards the school gates. ‘When we moved here the removal men broke two Lladró figurines. It took almost two years, and the threat of legal action by Mike, before they accepted responsibility. And then there was the dirt! At least our place had been lived in, though the previous owners left the place a real mess. Your house has been empty and derelict for years. It must have been a huge job getting it ready.’

I watched Ginny carefully as I spoke and sensed that the move wasn’t the only thing was worrying Ginny; from the way she reacted to my words, I realised that something else was bothering her too.

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ I asked. We stopped, just inside the school gates and Ginny turned, looked up at me and nodded.

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ I told her. ‘Just tell me not to be nosey, I don’t mind.’

‘Harry was supposed to be off work, helping, but he can’t, at least, not for a few more days. He said that he’d told you…’ said Ginny.

‘Yes, he told me about his job yesterday afternoon when he collected James. Can’t he pass the Sheffield case on to someone else?’ I enquired. Ginny’s face fell at my suggestion and she heaved a deep, sad sigh.

‘Usually, Harry would delegate. But everything seems to be happening at once. He has a werewolf …  a specialist in that sort of thing … he would use for this case. But Lavender … the specialist … had … is … was … pregnant.’ Ginny’s words came out in a rush; she simply wanted to tell someone, anyone, about her concerns, and she’d chosen me.

‘She had her baby unexpectedly, late on Friday, more than a month early. Lavender lost a lot of blood and they couldn’t do much for her until Saturday morning because … well, for various reasons. She has a … condition. The baby, a girl, isn’t very well either. They are both in Saint … in hospital and will be for some time,’ Ginny told me.

I patted her arm understandingly. A new mother and baby, both in hospital, is terrible. Though from her garbled reply I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, or why the baby was premature. I was murmuring some sympathetic response and trying to figure out how to find out more when Ginny glanced past me.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t stop and chat any longer; I’ve got to go, bye, Jacqui,’ she said suddenly.

With that she turned on her heels and strode rapidly ahead and out of the school gates. She appeared not to hear Mary shouting ‘Mrs Potter! … Ginny!’ from behind me. She marched hurriedly up the road and into the fine white swirling mist.

I began to ponder the latest snippets of information about our newcomers. Poor Ginny. From her anxiety, it was obvious that she knew and liked this Lavender woman. My musings were, however, interrupted.

‘Well,’ Mary said to me as we watched the dark shape which was Ginny vanishing into the mist. ‘Very strange, don’t you think?’

‘She’s busy, they haven’t finished moving in yet,’ I said.

Mary snorted in disbelief. ‘Do you really think that they’ve bought the place, darling?’ she asked me. ‘They certainly don’t look like they could afford to live here. Did you see that sweater she was wearing? And he wasn’t much better yesterday. A motor-bike, of all things! I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re simply a bunch of layabout hippy squatters. Perhaps you should call the police, Jacqui.’

Perhaps I should call the police? The bare-faced cheek of the woman! She was trying to persuade me to do her dirty work. Unknown to Mary, Mike had owned a motor-bike when we’d started going out, a dozen years ago. We’d travelled the country on it and we only sold it when Henry was born, just before we moved here. I had encountered anti-biker prejudice before, and I didn’t like it. I clenched my teeth and kept calm.

‘I’d be dressed like that if I was still unpacking,’ I said, somehow managing to keep my voice mild and reasonable. ‘And Harry works in London, apparently.’

‘Doing what?’ Mary sneered. ‘A motorcycle courier?’

‘I don’t really know, but I got the impression that he was a manager of some sort. He wasn’t here yesterday morning because there was a crisis at the office,’ I told her neutrally. Mary was really beginning to annoy me, so I decided not to tell her what little I knew about Harry’s job. ‘Perhaps they simply want to keep themselves to themselves,’ I suggested.

‘Perhaps they don’t want anyone to know where they are hiding,’ Mary replied. ‘Are you going to call the police?’

I was desperate to get away from the woman. But saying no to Mary was never easy, so instead I avoided answering.

‘My husband is a land agent,’ I reminded her. ‘I’m sure that if there was anything dodgy about the property deal Mike would have heard. He could easily find out about the sale if he needed to.’

Mary nodded and I saw an idea spark in her eyes. Happy that it did not involve me, I made my excuses and left.

As I drove home I thought carefully about the most recent pieces of information I’d discovered.

There are no hospitals which have the name of “Saint…Anything” anywhere near us, so this Lavender woman wasn’t local, but then neither were Harry and Ginny. Lavender and her baby were both still in hospital and Ginny was miles away, unable to visit. As a mother myself I could only sympathise. I wondered how they were, and how the dad was coping; if there was a dad, as these days you could never be sure.

I supposed that this colleague of Harry’s would have been expected to work the case if she was the expert. Did our government employ people who were experts on werewolves? That was a ridiculous idea! But a profiling office would probably have someone who knew how the weirdoes who believe in werewolves and flying saucers and other such nonsense, think.

I wondered what this Lavender woman was like. From her name I imagined her as an older mum, a bespectacled and skinny professorial type. She was probably in her early forties and just getting around to having her first baby. That would certainly explain the facts as I knew them.

Also of interest was the news that Ginny’s mum had knitted Harry a sweater which he’d “grown out of”. From the size of the sweater he’d have been in his early or mid teens when it was new. The sleeves were still the right length for Ginny, though the sweater was rather tight on her. I wondered how long Harry and Ginny had known each other and smiled to myself as I tried to imagine Harry as a skinny little thirteen-year-old.

I filled my morning with housework and Annie-minding and put the events of the morning school run from my mind. I had little choice in the matter as Annie had decided that she had reached “the terrible two’s” and it was one of those days when I couldn’t afford to leave anything within her reach. When he’d been her age Henry had attempted to destroy anything he could grab. Annie tried to eat it.

At about one in the afternoon I was standing in the nursery, swaying from side to side and trying to settle Annie for her afternoon nap. She would not be napping for much longer; Henry had not lasted as long, but Annie had exhausted herself with her antics during the morning.

She was almost asleep when the phone rang. I quickly carried Annie into the main bedroom, shifted her into one arm and picked up the phone. I wasn’t quick enough. Annie twisted and squirmed and began to howl.

‘What?’ I snapped angrily down the phone.

‘That’s not very nice,’ my husband told me.

‘You’ve woken Annie,’ I hissed. ‘Why phone at this time?’

‘You shouldn’t have set Scary Mary on me if you didn’t want a phone call, Jacqui.’ Mike sounded hurt and rather anxious.

‘What?’ I asked. Then I realised what Mike was saying.

‘Don’t hang up,’ I ordered. ‘I’m going to try to settle Annie.’

I shushed Annie, put her on the floor, dropped the phone on the bed and dashed through into the nursery. I picked up Rag-Doll and Freddy-Teddy and was about to head back when I heard Annie say “Daddy.” She could hear Mike’s voice. I picked up the battered old play phone which had once belonged to Henry and took that with me too.

I placed the two cuddly toys on the floor, but Annie ignored them and reached eagerly for the toy phone. I handed it to her, watched her begin talking into it and then picked up the real one.

‘Talk!’ I demanded, urgently.

‘Mary phoned up this morning,’ Mike began. ‘She said that you had suggested that I check up on the Drakeshaugh sale, that you wanted to be sure that it was all legal. I asked why she was phoning and not you…’

‘Good man,’ I interrupted. ‘She thinks they’re squatters. I said that you would know. But I did not suggest that you check up, I simply told her that you could.’

‘Damn! Well, she told me that you were busy and asked me to check out the sale and call her back.’ said Mike. ‘So I phoned up Joe from Patterson’s Estate Agents and asked what he could tell me about the purchase of Drakeshaugh. He said he’d check the files. He phoned me back quarter of an hour ago and I decided I’d better tell you before I phoned Mary. Joe said that the house was bought for cash, at least as good as cash. It was a direct bank transfer into the vendor’s account from a private bank Joe had never heard of … Gringotts. I made him spell it. My question had made him curious, so he decided to check up on the bank but couldn’t find them. They don’t seem to have a phone number or a website or anything, so he called the Financial Ombudsman Service. They hadn’t heard of them, either. The guy he spoke to said that he’d investigate and call back.’

Mike paused, whether for breath or dramatic effect I wasn’t sure.

‘And?’ I prompted him anxiously.

‘About half an hour ago Joe got a phone call from a young woman who claimed to be from Gringotts. She asked why he was enquiring about the bank. He told her that he’d been curious, because he had never heard of them. She said that they were a small private bank and asked him how he had heard of them. He told her about the Potters buying a house. Joe said that that this woman suddenly sounded really scary. She asked why he was making enquiries about the Potters’ bank. He panicked and told her the truth, that he’d been doing it as a favour for me. She said that she would be letting the Potters know. He phoned me straight away, and I phoned you. I thought that you’d want to know before the school run tonight.’

I sighed.

‘Thanks, Mike. If the bank contacts the Potters then they will think we’re nosey neighbours, prying into their finances. Don’t phone Mary and don’t tell her anything if she phones you back. Damn!’

‘Damn,’ Annie parroted. ‘Damndamndamn.’

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

‘Sorry, Jacqui, it’s my fault, I should have ignored Mary, but I thought...’ Mike began.

‘It’s not your fault, Mike, it’s mine. I gave Mary the idea, sorry. Harry and Ginny seem like a nice couple, and Henry and James have hit it off. I don’t want to fall out with our son’s new friend’s parents. I’m going to drive down to Drakeshaugh now, to see Ginny and apologise and try to explain everything. I don’t want a scene at the school gate. Thanks for letting me know.’

‘It’s not really your fault, either, Jacques, it’s Scary Mary Saville,’ said Mike. My husband was worried and unhappy because he’d done the wrong thing. I knew that, because that’s the only time calls me Jacques.

‘I should have guessed what she would do. Mary can be a right bi…’ I saw Annie looking at me curiously and fortunately stopped short. ‘She can be rather unpleasant, sometimes,’ I concluded lamely.

‘Drive carefully, Jacqui. And apologise to the redhead from me, too.’

‘I will, thanks for letting me know, Mike, bye.’

‘Bye, Jacqui.’

I hung up the phone, lifted Annie from the floor and hugged her.

‘Well, Annie, we’re going for a ride in the car,’ I told her. ‘We’re going to see Ginny at her new house. What do you think about that?’

‘Damn!’ said Annie happily. I sighed; the day was turning into a disaster.

Sunny Afternoon

The sun shone brightly and the remaining clouds were being blown down the valley by a busy breeze as I drove down towards Drakeshaugh. The day was certainly sunnier than it had been in the morning, but neither sun nor wind had managed to drive away my foggy and overcast mood.

Henry had been so excited and excitable last night. “James’n’me mixed colours and then me’n’James painted, ‘n then Sarah said my picher was rubbish n’James went like this,’ Henry shot out his arm straight forward in what almost looked like a fencing move, ‘an’e poked Sarah inna tummy wiff his brush and said “Stupidfly”.’ Henry hesitated, realising that in his excitement he’d accidentally told a tale on his new friend. “Miss stoptim’n’said that he shouldn’t of dunnit,” he’d admitted.

“Shouldn’t have done it,” I’d corrected, smiling.

On balance, I decided that James had been sticking up for Henry, which wasn’t really a bad thing. Though poking a classmate with a paintbrush probably hadn’t been wise. When he saw my smile Henry had staunchly said “But I think he should of dunnit!” I despaired at my son’s grammar, but allowed him to enthusiastically tell me about the rest of his day, which seemed to consist entirely of what “me’n’James” did. It was almost as if they were one person

I really did not want to fall out with the parents of my son’s new friend, especially not because of the actions of a busybody like Mary Saville. I glanced at my daughter in the rear view mirror as I drove. Annie’s head was lolling from side to side and her eyelids were heavy. She was still fighting sleep, but she was obviously too tired to win the battle. Nevertheless, she struggled valiantly. She was finally defeated by the Sandman just as I slowed down to turn onto the Drakeshaugh track. I felt a momentary tingle of anxiety as I pulled off the main road and stopped in front of the gate. I would be arriving uninvited.

The rusty old field gate I remembered was gone. Now, hanging from the weathered granite gateposts was a stained-timber five-bar gate. The adjacent timber stile had been renewed too. I quietly got out of the car, unbolted the gate, drove on to the track which led up the hillside, stopped and closed the gate behind me. Miraculously, I managed to do it all without waking Annie.

In my memory the track was little more than two wheel ruts. Fortunately, the track I drove along was different. The potholes had been filled with gravel and the journey was much easier than I expected. It should have been familiar to me; this was also the public footpath to the Drake Stone and I’d walked along it many times, but somehow it felt strange and new.

It was probably because of its proximity, but I hadn’t walked up to the stone for several years. It felt almost as if I was travelling the route for the first time. As I drove slowly up the bank I was suddenly struck by the wild beauty of these familiar hills.

The Drake Stone was almost directly ahead, its prominent profile perched conspicuously on a ridge. The “Draag Stane”, as my dad called it, was a splinter of sandstone erratic, deposited in some ancient ice age. It loomed, lonely, atop Harbottle Crag and from this distance it seemed to be no more than a strange pimple on the landscape. In fact the stone was over thirty feet tall.

According to legends, the Stone had healing properties, was a prehistoric druidic site, or was a lookout post in the days of the Border Reivers. The last of those is almost certainly true, because you can see for miles from the top of the stone.

To my right, sheep were busily cropping the rolling green pasture. A post and wire fence kept “the stupidest creatures on God’s earth” – as my Dad would say – from straying onto the track.

To my left was a dry stone wall, behind which a gnarled and unkempt old hedge shielded my destination from inquisitive eyes. The hedge was mostly hawthorn and blackthorn, with a scattering of holly. The thorns and holly consorted with a tangle of dog rose and bramble to create a thick and prickly barrier, enough to deter even determined visitors from entering Drakeshaugh by any means other than the gate.

Red rosehips and thick brambles tumbled wantonly over the wall. Some of the berries on the brambles were already darkening, and in a couple of weeks they’d be ripe for picking. Beyond this barbed boundary lay the thirty or so acres of weathered woodland which surrounded Drakeshaugh. The old house was almost invisible from the track. It was hidden within the woods and nestling in a hollow next to Drakestone Burn. I was now approaching the only entrance to Ginny’s home.

I crested the rise slowly. Very occasionally Forestry Commission Land Rovers use this track to reach their forests and the foresters often travel faster than they should. About a hundred yards ahead of me on the left hand side, exactly as I’d remembered, was a gap in the dry stone wall. This was my destination.

Drakeshaugh lay just beyond the gate. It was, however, unreachable. The gate was open but I could not enter. A gleaming black Range Rover was parked only just inside the entrance, completely blocking it.

I pulled my car as far off the track as I dared and stopped. The verge alongside the track carried an overgrown drainage ditch and I didn’t want to get stuck. Before abandoning the Micra I made certain that any other vehicles would get past, though I knew that it was unlikely that anyone else would travel this way. A few hundred yards further uphill, the track into the forest was barred.

By some miracle Annie was still asleep. Not wanting to wake her, I simply unbuckled the seatbelt and adjusted the carry-handle on her car-seat. I lifted the seat, with my slumbering daughter still in it, from the car and carried it with me. It was a struggle. Annie was not a particularly petite two-year-old and the chair was awkward to carry.

As I approached the gate, I heard voices. I stopped, peered through a small gap in the overgrown hedge and saw three people standing in the gravel yard. One of the three was Ginny. She was still in her scruffy jeans and sweater and she looked harassed. She was facing two strangers. At least, they were strangers to me. Both wore long black trench coats.

The man was a couple of inches over six foot in height, broad shouldered and burly. His thinning brown hair was shaved close to his scalp. He looked like a rugby player; big, beefy, flat-featured and rather thuggish, just like a prop forward. The black coat added to his already threatening appearance and he certainly didn’t look like the sort of man you’d want to mess with.

The girl (and she wasn’t much more than a girl) towered over Ginny too. She was barely out of her teens and had a wild mane of tawny brown hair. She was about Harry’s height, slim, willowy and unconventionally attractive.

‘Are you here about the bank?’ I heard Ginny ask. She knew already! I remained motionless and listened anxiously.

‘Gringotts?’ asked the man. He looked puzzled by Ginny’s question. His voice was deep, pleasant and surprisingly gentle. ‘No, we just wanted to let you know that Mark called into the office this morning with some news about…’

I had just identified the man’s accent as Nottinghamshire when Ginny interrupted him.

‘Lavender! How is she?’ asked Ginny urgently. The man hesitated, considering his words carefully, and the girl took his silence as an invitation.

‘She’s recovering well,’ the girl said. ‘Mum went to see her after we saw Mr Moon … Mark. He said that it would be okay. Her old wounds reopened on Friday, just as she was changing. But Mum has checked the wounds and she thinks that Lavender will be out of hospital in a couple of weeks. Unfortunately, there’s no chance of Mr … of Mark and Lavender having another baby as her abdominal scars won’t take another pregnancy.’

‘Poor Lavender. How did they take that news?’ Ginny asked.

‘Lavender was devastated. Mark … well when he was in the office I thought that he was just happy that Lavender and the baby were both going to be all right. The baby is doing well, she was four pounds…’

‘And fourteen ounces, I know that, but it’s all I know,’ Ginny interrupted. The girl nodded.

‘He told us that they’ve decided on a name. They’re going to call her Violet Lillith Moon; she’s got Lavender’s eyes, apparently,’ the girl continued.

Ginny was smiling, ‘Well, at least they are all okay. That’s one bit of good news, which makes a refreshing change. Thanks for letting me know; do you and Amber have time for a cuppa, Terry? I’d like to talk to you about a problem neighbour.’

I decided that it was time to move. I had been listening for a dangerously long time and I definitely could not afford to be discovered eavesdropping on this conversation. I continued along to the gate, squeezed past the Range Rover and walked into the yard. I stepped out from behind the car as Ginny was opening the door to Drakeshaugh and I announced my presence by deliberately kicking the gravel in the yard. The trench coated duo whirled around at the sound and their hands darted inside their coats. For a crazy instant I thought that they were going to pull guns on me!

I screamed!

Time seemed to stop. The two stood motionless, each with a hand still inside their coats. My mouth suddenly dry, I looked at Ginny, then at her two companions. Annie, startled by the noise I’d made, had a shocked and unhappy awakening. She began to cry. Ginny’s expression, when she first saw me, had been one of anger. But that look lasted only until Annie’s wails echoed around the yard, when it was instantly replaced by a look of motherly concern.

‘I’ve come to apologise, Ginny,’ I said hastily, trying to make myself heard over Annie’s cries. I put my daughter’s car seat down on the gravel drive and began to unbuckle her. I needed to calm her before her screams reached their eardrum-shattering peak.

‘Let me explain, please,’ I begged, raising my voice to be heard over Annie’s wails. ‘My husband can be an idiot sometimes.’

To my relief, Ginny grinned.

‘We can all have that problem occasionally, Jacqui,’ she said. Both she and the tawny-haired girl had started to move towards me when Annie began to cry, but Ginny stopped. Her face was suddenly anxious.

‘I’ll let you get Annie calmed down, Jacqui. I’ll just go in and tidy up the kitchen, and then you can come inside and we can talk.’

The scary-looking man glanced questioningly at Ginny. I got the impression that he was waiting for orders and worryingly, that he’d have carried them out whatever they were. I lifted Annie from her chair and held her tightly as Ginny spoke.

‘It’s okay, Terry. This is Jacqui Charlton, she’s the mum of James’s new best friend,’ Ginny told him.

The man finally took his hand out from inside his coat.

‘Jacqui, this is Terry Boot and Amber Skoll. They both work for Harry,’ said Ginny. ‘They’ll look after you for a minute while I tidy up.’ With that, Ginny turned and dashed into the house.

It appeared that she wanted to tidy up for me, that was understandable, but it immediately struck me as strange that she had been prepared to invite two of her husband’s colleagues into her kitchen without worrying about the state of her house. I wondered what she wanted to hide from me.

I looked at the two trench-coated individuals and knew instantly that I would not be going inside until Ginny allowed it. I watched them closely. Could they really be carrying concealed guns? Surely that was illegal, even if they were police. If they were armed, then what did Harry really do?

‘So,’ I began nervously, ‘you both work for Harry, do you?’

Terry simply nodded. The girl, Amber, smiled and swept her fingers through her hair, lifting it from in front of her right eye and failing to tuck it behind her ear. After two further attempts she gave up and allowed it to fall untidily back across her face.

‘Yes, I’m sorry if we startled you, Mrs … Charlton,’ she apologised.

‘It’s all right,’ I crooned gently. I tried with my eyes to make it clear that I was speaking to everyone, not just my daughter, who was now sobbing into my chest. ‘It’s just … the way you reached inside your coats … I thought … I mean, I didn’t know what you were…’ My voice trailed off. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word gun. My dad’s a farmer; he has a shotgun licence, and two shotguns. But I’ve never seen a pistol, and I don’t want to.

The girl looked puzzled, but it was obvious that Terry understood.

‘Big black coats make us look threatening,’ he announced. He opened his coat wide, and took it off. There was no holster, no gun, nothing. The only thing I could see was a pen, or possibly a pencil, protruding from the inside pocket of his coat. Perhaps he’d been going to take a note of my name, I thought feebly.

Ginny and Harry were a little odd, but this had been a frightening encounter.

Under the coat, Terry wore smart black trousers, a bright white shirt and a grey tie. He nodded to the girl and she followed his example, revealing a short black skirt, white blouse and grey cravat. Her legs were slim and so long that they appeared to go on forever. She wore sensible flat shoes. In heels she’d be as tall as Terry.

Annie’s sobs were slowly subsiding as I cooed and rocked and concentrated on calming her down. Terry and Amber simply watched me.

‘So, are you any closer to catching this “Werewolf” character?’ I asked them.

‘What?’ Terry spluttered. He seemed to be astonished by the question. Amber stared at me, too. My question seemed to have upset her for some reason.

‘Have I said something wrong?’ I asked. ‘Harry said that his office … sorry, your office … were specialists, that you were helping the police.’

‘We are, we do,’ Terry said. ‘But Harry doesn’t normally discuss active cases outside the office.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t actually told me anything, it’s just that Al said that his Daddy was in Sheffield, so I asked Harry yesterday and he said that he was working with the police on this case.’

‘Well, we are working on it,’ Terry said carefully. ‘But there really is nothing to tell.’

The door opened and Ginny stepped out, smiling. She was followed by a plump, older, woman who was obviously her mother. She was a fraction shorter than Ginny and a lot more round, her hair was lighter too, but only because it was streaked with grey.

‘This is Mum,’ said Ginny, performing an unnecessary introduction.

‘Hello, dear,’ Ginny’s mother smiled at me as she brushed crumbs from the white apron she wore over her long, old-fashioned dress. ‘Ginny has told me all about you.’

‘The kettle’s on and Mum’s been busy making biscuits with the kids,’ Ginny smiled, ‘Come in, please.’

I turned to pick up Annie’s car seat, but Amber scrunched across the gravel and got there first.

‘I’ll carry this for you,’ she said, lifting it by the handle and examining it curiously.

I turned and followed her towards the house.

Drakeshaugh was at least a century old; it was a long thin building which seemed to grow out of the hillside on which it was built. More accurately, it was three attached buildings with weathered sandstone walls and grey slate roofs.

Nearest to the entrance gate was the single storey former barn. There was new stonework where the large doors had been bricked up when the barn had been converted. The wooden door gleamed with fresh white paint and a new, oak shingled porch had been added to protect the entrance from the rain. A black-painted wrought iron sign saying “Drake’s Haugh” was affixed to the door. This was obviously intended to be the front door to Harry and Ginny’s new home. The white door was flanked by sash windows, also newly painted. This was not, however, the door by which we were entering the house.

The gable of the old stone barn was attached to the main building, an old two-storey farmhouse. The two buildings had been converted into one. The old farmhouse was half a floor lower than the barn and Ginny and her mother had disappeared through this open door. Annie was silent and trying to twist curiously out of my grasp as I walked down to the door. Strolling down the slope I looked at the third and final building. The old outhouse attached to the opposite gable was little more than a stone shed with a lean-to roof. Its door was ajar and inside I glimpsed the exhaust and number plate of Harry’s motorbike and, hanging from the whitewashed wall, what looked like several birch twig besoms.

As I followed Amber through the door, Terry was waiting outside, waiting for us to go in first. My first thought was what a gentleman but my second was now I’m trapped. With a rapidly beating heart I walked into Drakeshaugh.

Tea and Biscuits

With Annie squirming and sobbing in my arms, I followed Amber Skoll into a small hallway. The white-painted room was bright, but it darkened noticeably when Terry Boot followed me inside. He moved remarkably quietly for such a big man, but he was so tall and wide that he blocked most of the light. I heard him close the door behind me and fought down my panic.

There were two doors from the hallway, but one was closed. Amber hesitated before walking through the open door. I followed her into a large and bright kitchen. My panic fled as I saw the normal kitchen scene in front of me. Ginny’s mum was there, with four young children. In addition to Al and Lily, there was a little girl with bushy, untidy ginger hair and a red-headed boy who looked to be about the same age as Lily. I gazed curiously at the room and its occupants.

The kitchen stretched the entire width of the house and was a strange mix of old and new. Several colourful rugs were scattered across the stone-flagged floor. The ceiling, between the ancient black oak beams, was painted white. The two outer walls were stone, but the windows in them were modern.

The afternoon sun was streaming through the west-facing French windows, which opened out onto a large patio area. Somehow the Potters had managed to move in, and have a lot of building work carried out, without anyone noticing.

The kitchen was dominated by a huge scrubbed oak table with a dozen solid-looking oak chairs around it. Ginny stood with her back to the table, and to us. She nodded a greeting but was busy at a large old fashioned range located centrally on the south wall, where a large copper kettle was almost boiling. Hanging from the wall alongside the range were several substantial looking pans and a large gleaming copper jam-pan.

‘You’ll be able to make a lot of bramble jelly in a few weeks,’ I observed, nodding at the jam-pan.

Ginny grunted non-committally and began to look through her modern kitchen units. Her mum, however beamed.

‘That’s what I told her, dear,’ she announced. ‘The blackberries will be ripe in a few weeks and several of the apple trees in the woods are fruiting nicely. I’m Molly, by the way, Molly Weasley.’

Stepping further to the left, Ginny opened the door of another of the oak fronted cupboards, with a murmur of success, she pulled out a tray and placed it on the green Cumbrian slate worktop. A dozen mugs hung from pegs on the wall under the unit. Ginny selected five and placed them on the tray.

While Ginny worked her mum was busy putting a sugar bowl and a jug of milk on the table. Helping the old lady was the bushy-haired girl. The ungainly little girl, who appeared to be all knees and elbows, was carefully carrying a plate of homemade biscuits. The three other children, Al, Lily and the red-headed boy were silently watching the girl as she carefully placed the plate on the table.

‘Thank you, Rose,’ said Ginny’s mum.

‘These are Al and Lily’s cousins, Rose and Hugo, Jacqui,’ Ginny announced. ‘Mum is looking after them, too.’

‘Do they live locally?’ I asked.

‘Oh no, dear,’ Ginny’s mum said. ‘We flooed up here to look after…’

‘Flew, Mum, not flewed,’ said Ginny forcefully.

‘Yes, dear,’ said Ginny’s mum, looking rather embarrassed by her mistake.

Ginny was opening and closing cupboards almost at random. ‘Do you want tea, or coffee, Jacqui?’ I haven’t found the Earl Grey or the Jasmine, yet, so it’s either regular tea or Italian high roast coffee until we get ourselves sorted out.’

‘Afternoon tea would be wonderful, Ginny, thank you. Is it okay if I let Annie loose? She’s woken up full of energy,’ I explained. My daughter was squirming in my arms, and staring curiously at the other children.

‘I’m forgetting my manners, Jacqui. Sit down, please, and of course you can let Annie loose. I was going to ask Mum to look after the kids while we talked, I’m sure that she can cope with one more. If you think Annie will be all right with these four,’ said Ginny, nodding towards the three redheads and Al.

‘I don’t know,’ I began. Molly Weasley seemed a little eccentric. ‘Five is a lot of kids to look after, perhaps…’

‘I have a dozen grandchildren, dear,’ Ginny’s mum interrupted me, ‘and I really don’t think that little … Annie … could be any more difficult than Dominique, or Fred. I was just going to take these four into the living room for biscuits and milk, and to tell them a story.’

‘Stowy time, Gwanny,’ Lily announced happily.

‘Babty Rabty,’ the little redheaded boy squeaked.

‘Free Bruvvers,’ Al said. ‘It’s Daddy’s favouritest.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’ I said uncertainly, lowering Annie to the ground. I had never heard of either of those stories, but I knew that it would be easier to talk to Ginny without the distraction of Annie. I smiled at my daughter and watched her toddle over to the other four children. They looked carefully at each other.

‘‘Ello, Annie,’ said Al shyly.

‘Annie will be fine, I’m sure,’ Molly assured me. ‘Rose, Albus, you can both take care of Annie. Lily, Hugo, take my hands, please.’ With that, Ginny’s mum took the children across to a second door and led them away. As I watched them leave, I pondered the name I’d just heard. Ginny had obviously read my expression.

‘It’s an old Latin name and it was popular in Scotland in the eighteenth century. It means white, and he’s named after … after someone who saved Harry’s life.’ said Ginny. She sounded rather defensive.

‘He was a great man, Albus,’ Terry confirmed.

‘It’s certainly … unusual,’ I said. Saved Harry’s life… I pondered that information too. There was nothing else I could say. It was a very peculiar name, and I decided to research it when I got home. But, I supposed, it was no worse than calling your sons Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz. In fact it was no worse than other old and unfashionable names, like Albert. Al was a nice enough name. And I was here to make peace, I reminded myself.

The kettle was boiling and Ginny had placed a large teapot on the tray. She was reaching for the tea caddy when Terry spoke again.

‘If you’re certain you will be okay, Ginny, we really should go,’ he said. ‘We need to get on our way.’

‘Are you going to Sheffield?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Terry glanced at me, and I watched him as he turned to Ginny and chose his words very carefully. ‘We’re going to Scotland, to the prison. We’re going to interview … the prisoner … about Sheffield.’

Ginny nodded, knowledgeably.

‘And we’re going to talk to my grandfather, too,’ Amber said. ‘Mum thinks that he might know something.’

Ginny nodded again.

‘You’ve got a long way to go,’ she said. ‘At least take a few biscuits, please.’

Amber thanked Ginny, but refused the offer. Terry smiled and grabbed three or four.

‘Thanks, Ginny, and thank the kids for baking them,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Charlton; bye, Ginny.’

Terry smiled at me, nodded politely, and with that he stood and left.

After a quick, ‘Thanks and goodbye,’ Amber Skoll followed quietly at his heels.

Suddenly, Ginny and I were alone in the kitchen. Ginny replaced the large teapot in the cupboard, found a smaller one and began making the tea.

‘I’m sorry to turn up uninvited, Ginny,’ I began. ‘And I’m sorry that I screamed. It’s just that … well … Terry looks rather scary, doesn’t he?’

‘Terry is one of the nicest and most gentle people I know, and probably the second or third cleverest,’ Ginny told me. She put the mugs onto the tray and carried them over towards the table. ‘He seems to be really shy and very quiet. When you get to know him you’ll discover that he really is really shy and very quiet, unless you’ve done something wrong.’

‘So, why did you contact our bank?’ she asked, changing the subject abruptly.

‘I didn’t!’ I protested.

Slowly, over tea and biscuits I told Ginny the story. She stared at me intently as I spoke; she was listening carefully to every word.

The biscuits were ginger, homemade and still warm from the oven. They were delicious, and the only time I strayed from my story was to tell her so.

‘They’re Mum’s recipe, I used to bake them with her myself, when I was little,’ Ginny told me.

I continued with my tale, finishing by telling Ginny that I’d asked Mike not to tell Mary anything, and assuring her that he wouldn’t.

‘Bloody Mary,’ said Ginny.

‘Mike shouldn’t have listened to her, I’m sorry. Oh, I may need to apologise for something else, too. If your kids start saying damn, that will be my fault,’ I admitted. ‘When Mike phoned and told me what he’d done I said the word in front Annie. She picked it up instantly.’

‘Given all of the other problems this move has caused, that’s nothing,’ Ginny assured me, smiling. I’m sure James has overheard me swearing, but he’s never said anything. So, Mary thinks that we’re knut – penniless squatters, does she?’

‘She didn’t say anything about nuts, just squatters,’ I said.

‘Well, whatever she thinks we are, I can guarantee that she’s wrong,’ said Ginny, smiling again. ‘Thanks for letting me know, Jacqui, I’ll contact the bank and tell them to take no further action.’

‘Action?’ I asked. ‘Were they going to take legal action?’

‘They said they would take action. I didn’t ask them what sort, but I’m sure that it would have been … legal,’ she told me. ‘If you’ll excuse me for a minute, I’ll get in touch with them now. Have more tea and biscuits, make yourself at home.’ She stood and hurried from the kitchen.

I sat in silence for a few moments, and then pushed back my chair and wandered across to the French windows. There was a large wooden table on the patio, and beyond it, a remarkably well stocked vegetable garden. I turned and gazed around the kitchen.

There was no sign of a washing machine, or a refrigerator, or a dishwasher. In fact, I realised, there were no electricity sockets anywhere. There were several gas, or oil, lamps around the wall. Were the Potters really living without electricity, I wondered. The place was homely enough, but no electricity? I couldn’t imagine it.

I replaced my cup on the tray on the table and wondered about that, too. The table had a dozen chairs, but could easily accommodate sixteen or more. I tried to picture Harry, Ginny and their kids sitting at that kitchen table. They would only half fill it.

“A dozen grandchildren,” Ginny’s mum had said, “One of my brothers,” Ginny had told me the first time I’d met her. I wondered how big her family was.

As I looked around the room I saw James’s painting. I hadn’t noticed it when I entered, because it was on the back of the door we had entered through. That door had remained open until Amber closed it when she left behind “nice quiet” Terry Boot. Henry’s picture was effectively in the same place in my kitchen, on the door between kitchen and hall, and that made me smile. The Potters were strangers, and possibly a little odd if they were trying to live without electricity, but the location of that carefully crafted picture was enough to assure me of their decency. That’s when I had my idea, I could both make Mike pay for his mistake, and get to know our new neighbours a little better at the same time.

‘I look like I’ve got spots,’ Ginny announced, making me jump. I hadn’t heard her re-enter the room.

‘No, they’re freckles, obviously,’ I assured her. ‘They’re just not quite to scale,’ I added, making her laugh. She was suddenly cheerful and happy again. Until that moment I hadn’t realised that there had been a tension between us, but now its absence was noticeable. I waited for her to stop laughing before continuing.

‘I’ve…’ I began.

‘I’ve…’ Ginny said at the same second. We both stopped.

‘You first,’ I said quickly.

‘No, you,’ Ginny said.

‘No, I insist,’ I told her.

‘I’ve spoken to the bank,’ Ginny told me. ‘They are fine, and the matter is closed. I’ve spoken to Harry, too, to let him know what’s been happening. He’s suggested that he meets me outside school. As Mum’s here we can leave Al and Lily and both go and meet James and Henry. Now, what were you going to say?’

‘I feel really bad about disrupting your day, Ginny. But I’m blaming it on my husband.’ I began.

‘Always a good policy,’ Ginny laughed again.

‘Mike has offered to do the cooking on Saturday. If the weather holds we’ll be having a barbecue, because that’s all he can manage. It will probably be the last one of the year. I’m sure that you’re still all at sixes and sevens with the move, so … would you like to come to our house for burgers and burnt sausages on Saturday? Come any time after four. We’ll be out until then, because we take the kids swimming straight after lunch. Unless … unless you want to come to the pool with us, too?’ I said.

‘I’d love to come to a barbecue, Jacqui, and I’m sure that Harry will, too. I’m not sure about swimming, but Harry was trying to teach the kids the basics when we were on holiday this summer. We can ask him at the school gates,’ she hesitated and looked across at her clock.

‘If I’m walking to school, I will need to set off in a couple of minutes,’ she said. There was only the shadow of a hint in Ginny’s words, but it was enough for me.

‘I’ll give you a lift down,’ I offered.

‘That will give Mary something else to talk about,’ said Ginny grinning mischievously.

‘I’ll be in trouble with her anyway, because Mike certainly won’t tell her anything,’ I admitted.

‘I’ll go upstairs and change out of my dirty work-clothes. You can go up to the lounge with Mum and the kids for a few minutes, unless you want to stay here?’

‘Lead the way,’ I said, curious to see more of Ginny’s house. She led me through the door by which her Mum had left the kitchen and into a small hallway.

‘There’s a loo there, if you need it,’ Ginny pointed to another door. I shook my head.

‘The lounge is up here.’ Ginny led me through an arched door in a thick stone wall, up a short flight of stone stairs and into a huge room, the converted barn.

There were a couple of doors at the far end of the room but this massive high ceilinged space seemed to occupy most of the old barn. The furniture was lost in the place. There were two sofas and four armchairs, but no television, simply an old fashioned looking radio. The far end of the room was full of unopened boxes and tea-chests. Ginny’s mum was sitting on the floor surrounded by the five children. She smiled at me when I entered.

‘Jacqui is going to take me down to collect James, Mum. I’m just going upstairs to get changed,’ Ginny said. She climbed a half flight of open wooden stairs leading up to another door in the thick stone wall through which we’d entered the room.

‘Can I ask you, how do you spell your first name?’ asked Molly.

I was confused, I know that some people write it Jackie, but until I saw the alphabet bricks scattered around the room I had no idea why she was asking.

‘J A C Q U I,’ I told her. ‘But actually, my name is Jacqueline,’ I added, spelling my full name for her, too.

‘Ten letters, that’s good. That is two each,’ Molly announced.

She then set each of the children off to find two bricks each, Annie was given “A” and “N” the first two letters of her name, and shown an A and a N on cards to help her. She scuttled proudly back with an “N”, and an upside-down “V”. I watched Mrs Weasley in admiration and wondered why I’d been worried. She was great with the kids. I joined in the congratulations when the children finally scampered back and my name appeared in multicoloured wooden bricks on the floor. Mrs Weasley then asked them to find all of the green bricks.

‘This isn’t too much, is it?’ Ginny asked me from the top of the stairs.

She twirled around on the top step. She was wearing boots, black leggings and bright green strappy top. Her hair was loose and it seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight.

‘You put me to shame,’ I admitted, looking at the blouse and skirt I was wearing.

‘Is it too much?’ Ginny asked anxiously.

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘It’s fine. Especially if you’re out to show Mary that you’re not a scruffy squatter. You look great.’ I checked my watch while I spoke. ‘You really don’t have enough time to change, again anyway, Ginny. Come on, Annie, we need to go to collect your brother from school.’

‘Want stay here!’ Annie announced petulantly.

‘You can’t, sorry, Annie, we’re going to take Ginny down to the school to meet Henry, and James, too. And then we must go home. Ginny has a lot to do. I have stopped her from working this afternoon.’

Annie stuck out her lower lip and it began to quiver.

‘Sorry, Annie,’ Ginny said. ‘You can come here again.’

Annie looked at me hopefully and made sure that I knew that she didn’t want to leave by giving me a wet-eyed sob.

‘We will see Al and Lily again soon, I promise.’ I scooped my daughter into my arms and carried her, protesting from the room.

Annie was still unhappy when I put her into her car seat, and she continued to protest all of the way down to the school. Ginny was sitting behind her and she did her best to keep my daughter happy as I drove. I glanced at the school gates as I drove past to turn around. Mary had spotted Ginny in the car and I saw her face crease into a disapproving frown. It was still there when I drove back.

Ginny held the door for me while I lifted Annie from the car. Once Annie was safe in my arms Ginny looked at me mischievously.

‘Let’s go and say hello to Mary,’ she suggested. She then strode purposefully towards the gabbling mums at the school gate. I watched Mary carefully; suddenly, she looked a lot less confident.

6. School Gates

I lifted Annie from her seat and watched with some trepidation as, with leonine grace, Ginny closed like a predator on Mary. The gossiping mothers at the gate sensed the approaching altercation and their meaningless chatter died instantly.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Saville,’ Ginny began with exaggerated politeness. ‘I’m so sorry that I couldn’t stop to talk to you this morning. I’d left Al and Lily with Mum and I wanted to get back to them. And, of course, as we’re still moving in, I had a lot to do.’ Ginny’s smile resembled that of a lioness about to pounce. ‘Unfortunately, I still have a lot to do, because of an unexpected interruption,’ Ginny continued. ‘Now, what did you want to ask me this morning?’

Mary was lost for words. The immaculate and elegant young mother facing her in the afternoon sunlight was a long way removed from the scruffy and harassed woman of the morning.

‘I, er … nothing really, Mrs Potter, I just wondered if you needed any help with your move,’ Mary began.

‘No, thank you for the offer, Mrs Saville, but Jacqui has already said she will help,’ Ginny said. ‘Are you sure that there was nothing else? There seemed to be some urgency in your voice.’ Ginny took a final step forward, bringing her only inches away from Mary.

I was watching a battle for supremacy. Mary was taller and heavier. Ginny was younger, fitter, and more agile. It would be interesting to see if their physical attributes also applied to their verbal sparring.

‘If you want to know anything, just ask,’ Ginny told her. ‘I expect that everyone is very curious about us, but I would hate to be the subject of misleading rumours and gossip. Misinformation and lies can be spread so easily, can’t they?’ Ginny’s voice remained even and civil, her accusation was so courteous that any counter-attack would make Mary look bitchy.

Ginny paused and smiled politely at the other mums while allowing her words to percolate through the crowd. Mary nodded and tried to smile at Ginny while glaring at me. Her face was not equipped for such expressive gymnastics and she simply looked rather foolish.

‘We like a quiet life, to keep ourselves to ourselves.’ Ginny continued. ‘That’s why we moved out of our London townhouse and into a smaller, cheaper, and more rural property. But we have nothing to hide, we’re…’ She was interrupted by a car horn. Harry waved to her as he drove past in a Range Rover identical to the one Terry Boot had been driving. Ginny waved back happily.

‘Here’s Harry now,’ she observed, delightedly. She’d been self-assured before she’d seen her husband, and now she overflowed with confidence. ‘So was there anything else you wanted to know?’

‘No.’ Mary shook her head.

‘You don’t want to know how much money we have in our bank account? You aren’t interested in whether we’ve ever been convicted of any crime, even something as minor as drinking and driving?’ Ginny’s face was that of an angelic ingénue as she spoke. Her voice was pleasant and polite, without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

She smiled respectfully at Mary, offering her another opportunity to speak. Mary’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped at the second question, and she shook her head again, this time, without speaking. Mary had been silenced. Ginny leaned forwards slightly. Mary worriedly stepped back. Ginny had not only silenced her, she’d forced her to back off, and everyone knew it. Everyone was also wondering if Mary had ever received a driving ban. Her reaction to Ginny’s final question was certainly suspicious.

I heard the car stop. The engine noise died and a car door clicked closed behind me. I forced myself not to turn around. Most of the other mums were facing us. It was almost comical to watch the way they were trying to look in two directions. They were fascinated by the now silent face-off between Mary and Ginny and didn’t want to miss anything, but they were also very interested in watching Harry approach.

Ginny didn’t turn to acknowledge her husband’s arrival. She simply watched Mary, a polite and slightly amused smile on her lips. I tried not to turn and look at Harry, but almost everyone else had lost interest in Mary and was watching his approach. I finally gave in to temptation and glanced over my shoulder.

Harry was in the same “uniform”: black trousers, white shirt and grey tie that Terry had been wearing. He looked good in it, and clearly, several others thought so too. Amanda Berry was staring in blatant admiration at him.

‘Hi, Jacqui, nice to see you,’ Harry began as he caught my eye. I watched him stride the final few feet towards us.

‘Hello, Harry,’ I said, determined not to make a fool of myself in front of the other mums.

‘Hi Ginny,’ he said, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her in towards him. She reciprocated; turning towards him she slid her arms over his shoulders and around his neck.

‘Hi,’ she said, and then they kissed.

It wasn’t a simple “hello” peck, of the sort my husband and I exchange; it was a full blown love-kiss. It was the sort of greeting kiss you give, and recieve when you’re courting, or when you’ve just married and are still in the first throes of passion. It was a young-lovers-meeting kiss of the finest sort, and I was jealous. One of the mums gave a romantic sigh. I knew how she felt. Mike used to kiss me like that once, I remembered. But for some reason having two children had changed things for us.

‘Everything okay, Ginny?’ asked Harry when they broke apart. Harry and Ginny held hands, fingers intertwined. His question was asked lightly and politely, but everything about him, from his perfectly poised stance, to his firm tone of voice and the searching sharpness of his bright green eyes said “if it isn’t, point me in the direction of the problem, and I will fix it”.

‘Mrs Saville wanted to speak to me urgently this morning, but now she seems to have forgotten why,’ said Ginny. Harry shrugged.

‘Did you sort out the problem with the bank?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Someone was illegally trying to find out about our finances. The bank tracked the source, but I told them not to take any action. How was your day?’ Ginny asked.

‘Frustrating. We’re no further forwards. I’m waiting for a report from Terry; he might have something for me later tonight. But I’ve got good news. Terry’s agreed to cover for me for the next few days. I’ve managed to get the rest of the week off.’

Ginny beamed. ‘Tomorrow should be long enough for us to finish unpacking and tidying.’

‘Where do you work, Mr Potter?’ Amanda Berry squeaked breathlessly. Tall and skinny, Amanda was Mary’s right hand woman and rarely spoke, other than to agree with Mary. Her curiosity had got the better of her. I waited, wondering what Harry would say.

‘Where? That’s a difficult question to answer,’ said Harry, smiling apologetically. ‘I work wherever the Ministry sends me. I work for the Home Office and I have a desk, and a secretary, in the Ministry in London, but I’m not often there … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

‘Amanda, Amanda Berry,’ she said eagerly. ‘You work in the Home Office … Immigration? There are far too many immigrants…’

‘No, Amanda, I’m not in the Borders Agency, or Passports, or even the Criminal Records Bureau,’ Harry said.

‘And you’re not supposed to talk about work, Harry,’ Ginny interrupted him.

‘I’m just a pen-pusher, a Home Office bureaucrat,’ Harry said. ‘But, Ginny’s right, I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, so I shouldn’t say any more.’

He was teasing, I realised. He’d told us where he didn’t work.

Amanda’s next question was unheard over the noise of children. School was over and attention reluctantly, but necessarily, turned away from the Potters as children flooded from the school. Henry and James arrived together.

‘MummyDaddy, MummyDaddy!’ James yelled.

‘Hi, Mammy,’ shouted Henry.

‘Hi James,’ said Ginny.

‘Hello James, have you had a good day?’ Harry asked.

‘Was all right,’ James announced as he ran up to his parents.

‘What about you, Henry?’ I asked.

‘Okay,’ he shrugged.

James stepped up to his parents, stood between them, and pulled their hands apart. They made him fight to do it, but he determinedly untangled their intertwined fingers and placed himself between them.

‘I told Ginny that nothing and no one would ever come between us.’ Harry was smiling as he told me. ‘It seems I was wrong.’

Ginny ruffled their son’s hair affectionately.

‘Would you like to go swimming on Saturday, James?’ she asked.

‘I’m going!’ Henry said. ‘Can ‘e cumwiffus, Mammy, perleez?’

‘Are we goin’ wiff Henry?’ asked James. Ginny nodded.

‘Great,’ said James, literally jumping with excitement.

‘We’ll all go; Al and Lily, too,’ said Ginny. ‘Come along, James, we need to get home. We’ll see you tomorrow, Jacqui. You too, Henry. Bye, Mrs Saville.’

‘Bye, Jacqui, bye, Amanda; Mrs Saville,’ Harry nodded politely at Mary. The Potter’s use of her surname was noticed by everyone. Mary glared at their departing backs and I was certain that I would be in trouble. But before she could speak, Amanda asked a question which stopped Mary in her tracks.

‘I wonder why she mentioned drink-driving?’

I didn’t hear any more as I was surrounded by Alice, Sue, and several other mothers all asking whether I’d seen the Potters’ house and what it was like. I had difficulty answering as there was a confusing chatter of comments and questions and I was trying to listen to it all.

‘Did you see that kiss?’

‘Do you know how much a brand new Range Rover costs?’

‘Home Office?’

‘They deal with counter-terrorism, too, you know.’

‘Do you think he’s a spy?’

‘James Bond, with glasses.’

Through the chatter I managed to explain that I’d been to the house and that they were definitely still in the throes of moving in. I said that the kitchen and living room were nice, and very big. I told someone that I’d met Ginny’s mum too, but by then both Annie and Henry were tugging anxiously at my arms.

‘I really must go,’ I said to the other mums apologetically. ‘I need to get the kids home.’

I made toad-in-the-hole for dinner, with Cumberland sausages, of course, as they’re Mike’s favourite. The Yorkshire pudding was rising nicely when he arrived. He walked worriedly into the kitchen. He was concerned that he’d be in my bad books. In the excitement of the afternoon I’d almost forgotten the fact that, at lunchtime, I’d shouted at him on the phone.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hi, yourself,’ I told him as, suddenly impetuous, I walked up to him. He looked nervous. I threw my arms around his shoulders and kissed him the way Harry and Ginny had kissed. He hesitated for no more than a fraction of a second before responding enthusiastically.

We only broke apart when Henry said, ‘Eugh, that’s gross, stoppit.’

‘You won’t think so in a dozen years time, Henry,’ Mike told him while I tried to find both my breath and my composure.

‘Will!’ Henry said, with the certainty of childhood.

‘Sorry about listening to Mary. I thought that I’d be in trouble. What was that kiss for?’ Mike asked me.

‘That was … because … it was just because! Don’t worry about Mary. Ginny and I have agreed on your punishment,’ I told him. ‘I’ll tell you all about it over dinner. Put Annie in her high chair for me, please, Mike, and then you can mash the potatoes while I serve.’

Over the meal I told Mike what had been happening. He agreed without hesitation to both the barbecue on Saturday and to the trip to the pool. He really had no choice, Henry’s vociferous enthusiasm for the plan made certain of that.

Mike was full of questions about the Potters, Drakeshaugh, and Ginny’s visitors. I told him everything.

‘So, swimming on Saturday … d’you think the redhead will have a bikini?’ he asked, grinning.

‘You old lecher,’ I scolded.

‘What’s a lecher?’ Henry asked.

‘It’s what lecturers give,’ Mike told him, indulging in his passion for bad puns and leading our son away from the original word and into the world of further education. Henry soon got bored and forgot his original question.

Mike then told me about his afternoon. His friend Joe had phoned to let Mike know that he’d been ordered (by Mr Patterson himself!) to delete all details of the Potter’s bank from their records. Old man Patterson owned the business, but he never interfered. He simply played golf and left everything to the junior partners. Joe told Mike that Mr Patterson had sounded worried when he’d given the order.

‘I apologised to Joe and promised to take him out for a pint. I wonder what Harry really does? What his job is?’ Mike pondered as he poured custard onto his rhubarb crumble.

‘He’s a Nora,’ Henry announced. ‘He catches bad people.’

‘A what?’ I asked.

‘A Nora,’ Henry explained carefully. ‘Swat James said when Miss asked us about our daddies. I said you was a special agent, an you sell feels.’ Henry told his father.

Mike laughed.

‘Nobody would buy them, trust me,’ I murmured, and Mike laughed even more.

‘I’m a land agent sell fields, Henry,’ my husband said. ‘And property, too. Did James say what his mother does?’

‘She’s his mammy,’ Henry announced. ‘She doesn’t do anything.’

‘I think that most mammies would disagree with that, son,’ Mike said. I smiled, and then he spoiled it by adding. ‘Your mammy spent the entire afternoon busily gossiping and drinking tea.’

I made him tidy up the kitchen for that crack.

Later, after we’d got the kids to bed, Mike poured a couple of glasses of red wine, sat on the sofa, and patted the space next to him. When I sat he pulled me in close and kissed me on the cheek.

‘You’re chirpier, and livelier, than you’ve been for a long time,’ he told me. ‘I’m not complaining. I think that the redhead is good for you.’

I turned sideways, almost turning my back to him, shuffled my shoulder under his armpit, settled my cheek against his chest, and lifted my feet onto the sofa. Sitting like that, with my back pressed against his side, was something I hadn’t done for years. Mike automatically draped his arm diagonally across my chest and held my waist. It was just like before we had the kids, except with more waist.

‘Thanks, and cheers,’ I said, raising my glass before sipping my wine.

‘Cheers,’ Mike responded. ‘I wonder what James really said? A Nora? An aura? Neither make any sense. Perhaps he is a spy.’

‘Counter-terrorism,’ I told him. I’d been saving the information until we’d got the kids to bed. ‘I checked the Home Office website. They are in charge of something called the Office for Security and Counter-Terrorism. The OSCT “coordinates other agencies and government departments” but also has “responsibility for some aspects of the counter-terrorist strategy”, at least I think that’s what the website said. It didn’t say much else. Harry’s involved with the Sheffield murders; perhaps this “Greyback” is a terrorist. That would explain why nobody knows much about him. “Greyback” and “The Werewolf”, they’re like codenames.’ Another idea hit me and my imagination ran wild.

‘Big bad Terry and his leggy sidekick were on their way to Scotland to interview “the Prisoner”; that would be Greyback. They’re trying to find out what he knows and who is trying to get him freed?’ I concluded. ‘That “profiler” story he gave me always sounded a bit suspicious.’

‘You know, normally I’d say that you’d read one too many thrillers, that you were talking complete and utter rubbish,’ said Mike. ‘But the way that Grim Guts Bank acted…’

‘Grin Gots,’ I corrected. I was struggling to remember the name of the bank.

‘And the way poor old Mr Patterson got dragged in to stop anyone asking awkward questions,’ Mike continued. ‘That’s almost enough to make me think you’re right.’

‘Almost?’ I sounded petulant, I realised. ‘What more do you want?’

‘Persuasion,’ he said. He moved his hand up from my waist, lowered my head backwards, and kissed me. Red wine and a snog! It really was like travelling back in time.

‘Maaameee,’ Annie wailed from her room. I cursed.

The remainder of the week passed with remarkable rapidity.

Harry delivered James to school on Wednesday. He was wearing jeans and a faded red t-shirt with the same lion symbol I’d seen on his bike helmet and Ginny’s sweater. He’d gone to a private school in Scotland from age eleven, and so had Ginny. The lion was the crest of his old school house he told me as we walked into the classroom together.

He introduced himself to Mrs Wilson and hugged his son goodbye. That was when I spotted the scar on his arm. He caught me staring at it.

‘I’ve got others too,’ he admitted. ‘This was a knife wound. It seems like it happened a lifetime ago.’ He lapsed into silence, so I didn’t ask.

Amanda was positively gushing towards him as we left the school; she was almost begging for an invitation to the house. Harry was polite, but non-committal, citing the move as an excuse. He strode off up the road claiming that they were still very busy and I again found myself the centre of attention. Mary was sullenly sidelined as I told everyone the latest about the Potters.

That afternoon Ginny collected James, setting the pattern for the rest of that week. Harry delivered, Ginny collected. She arrived early and stood and chatted with the other mums. She told us that they had almost finished moving in and that they had moved here from a big townhouse in Islington. They hadn’t sold it, but now owned both properties. They were letting their London home. When I told Mike that evening he said that we could probably live comfortably on the rent from an Islington townhouse.

By Thursday evening Ginny was on first name terms with everyone. Everyone, that is, except Mary. Despite Mary twice asking ‘Call me Mary, please’, Mrs Saville remained Mrs Saville.

The morning run, which Harry did, offered fewer opportunities for gossip. He’d arrive just before school started, drop off James, and then leave. Everyone arrived for the afternoon pick up quarter of an hour, or more, before finishing time, so Ginny was the primary source of information.

Harry worked “with the police” and that’s all Ginny would say. Amanda was telling everyone that he was some sort of secret agent. As we were leaving on Thursday, I mentioned this to Ginny. I also told her what Henry had said about Harry being “a Nora”. She burst out laughing.

‘I’ll tell Harry,’ Ginny said. ‘He’ll think that’s really funny. Thanks for letting me know, Jacqui.’

On Friday morning Harry caught me by surprise while I was lifting Annie from the car. He seemed to appear from nowhere, I was certain that I had not passed him on the road.

‘Ginny told me what Henry said,’ he began. ‘And what Amanda has been saying about me. I’m not a spy, but I work for…’ He paused.

‘The Office for Security and Counter-Terrorism is my guess.’ I filled in the gap for him. He smiled.

‘We’re a very small office within that larger office,’ he confided. ‘We liaise with local police forces and other agencies. Any Anti-terrorist Units in Regional Organisations are dealt with by my office, the A-U-R-Or Office. We pull together information from all sorts of agencies, including the police. I know how curious everyone is, and I think that the truth would be better than rumours. So, if you want to mention that I work for the Office for Security and Counter-Terrorism to the leader of my fan club…’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but simply nodded towards the Amanda, who was watching us from the gate. I smiled at him.

‘You’ve noticed?’

‘It’s hard for me to miss, and impossible for Ginny. I’ve told you as much as I can. I can’t and won’t talk about my job, Jacqui,’ he said.

We walked down to the school together and Harry offered to take both boys into the classroom. Henry was happy to go off with James, so I passed on the latest snippet of gossip to Amanda and the other mums.

I somehow missed seeing Harry leaving. No one else saw him go, either. It was almost as if he vanished into thin air.

On Friday afternoon Ginny was forced to field questions from several sources. She assured the other mums that Harry was head of an office of about fifty people and that she was not even slightly worried for his safety.

‘He doesn’t do field work any longer,’ she said. ‘He has people to do that for him. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jacqui.’ And with that, she grabbed James’ hand and was gone.

7. Wet Afternoon

I sent the kids into the garden to play and set Mike to work tidying the kitchen. I dusted and vacuumed the entire house, and then cleaned the toilets.

When I walked back into the kitchen over an hour later, Mike had only succeeded in making more mess! The bench was littered with knives and vegetable peelings. I looked around the room in annoyance, and when Mike advised me to calm down, I exploded.

‘We’re having guests, Mike!’ I yelled.

‘And the rest of the house is tidy, Jacqui,’ he told me.

‘The kitchen isn’t. It’s nowhere near tidy! What on earth have you been doing while I’ve been slaving away?’ I demanded. ‘This place is still a complete mess!’

‘I’ve been sorting out the food for this evening, Jacques. I’ve prepared a salad, I’ve got the burgers and sausages out from the freezer and I’ve made some spicy chicken kebabs. There’s white wine in the fridge, and I even put some lager in there too, just in case Harry’s a philistine. There’s red wine and beer in the corner. I’ve got plastic glasses out for the kids and we’ve got lemonade, orange squash and “lashings of ginger beer” as they say in the old kids’ books. I’ve packed the swimming costumes and put everything we need for the pool in the car. Do we need anything else for the barbeque?’ he asked.

I couldn’t find fault with his preparations, damn him, so I shook my head. He’d done work that needed to be done; he simply hadn’t done what I’d asked him to do. Mike is a messy worker. I tidy as I go; he works and leaves a complete mess until he has finished. It shouldn’t annoy me, but it does. ‘The kitchen…’ I began.

‘We’ll be having lunch before we leave for the pool. I’ll finish tidying up the kitchen after we’ve eaten, I promise,’ he told me.

‘Finish! You haven’t started,’ I began.

He walked up to me, placed his hands on my cheeks, bent forwards, and kissed me. I was wearing rubber gloves and carrying a bucket in one hand and the bottle of bleach in the other, there wasn’t much I could do to stop him. It was a nice kiss and it succeeded in calming me down.

‘Do you think that we need to buy anything else? We could nip across to the supermarket when we leave the pool,’ he said, releasing me.

‘No, I think we’ll be okay,’ I said.

As I emptied the bucket down the sink, he squeezed my bum, kissed the back of my neck and assured me, ‘It will be all right, Jacqui. You’re always in a panic before we have guests, and afterwards you always wonder why you panicked. You’ve forgotten, because we haven’t invited anyone around here for ages.’ With those words he opened the kitchen door and took the vegetable peelings out to the compost bin.

I didn’t reply. I really hate it when my husband is right.

Henry wolfed down his lunch and skipped and bounced crazily around the kitchen while Mike tidied up and set the dishwasher going. Our preparations to leave took a lot longer than we expected, because we were constantly avoiding the four-year old bullet ricocheting around us. Henry was first out of the kitchen door when we were finally ready to leave.

He was standing next to Mike’s car shouting, ‘C’mon, c’mon, hurry up,’ while we locked up the house. Henry was so giddily excited that Mike had to hold him down in order to strap him into the car seat. Not only was he going “swimblering” with James, but James was coming to see him afterwards. As we set off, my son was busily listing all of the toys “me’n’james” were going to play with, which seemed to be all of them.

‘You tidied his bedroom, didn’t you?’ Mike asked as we drove towards Harbottle. I nodded. ‘If James is anything like Henry, it’ll take the two of them less than a minute to make it a complete mess again,’ he murmured. If Mike had his way, I’d never tidy Henry’s room.

I was prevented from making a catty reply by Mike saying, ‘There they are, Henry. I can see the redhead.’ Mike pointed towards the Range Rover and Henry whooped with joy. I tried to wave but we were already past them.

The journey to the pool was a long one, forty minutes. It didn’t seem to matter which route you took, it was always forty minutes. Henry usually got fractious and fidgety on the journey to the Sports Centre. That day he was too excited to complain, but he was driving me demented anyway.

‘Is them still ahind us?’

‘Yes, Henry.’

‘Still?’

‘Yes, Henry.’

‘Can James swimble?’

I have no idea where that word came from, but Mike didn’t help. ‘It’s not swimble, Henry,’ I began.

‘It’s swimblerate,’ my husband interrupted. ‘Tricky thingles, these wordices, aren’t they Henry?’

‘Yes, Daddy,’ Henry agreed, nodding seriously. I gave up.

After half an hour in the car, Henry must have asked ‘Is them still ahind us?’ two dozen times, and the only improvement I’d managed was ‘Is they still ahind us?’ That tiny piece of progress was lost when, five minutes from the pool and frustrated by being asked the same question over and over and over again I cracked, and stupidly said, ‘No.’

Henry burst into tears and demanded that we stop. I had to apologise to him for lying, and promise faithfully that ‘them is still ahind us, honest.’

I had just managed to calm him down and dry his tears when we arrived. Mike pulled into a parking space well away from the pool and Harry pulled up alongside us.

‘Hello, James,’ Henry yelled at the top of his voice, making me jump. Henry sat behind me, and James was behind his dad. They were waving frantically at each other and I could tell that James was yelling, too. Harry simply sat and smiled and indicated that I should get out first.

So we arrived in the car park together and disembarked en masse in a bewilderment of greetings and squeals. Henry and James were jabbering away excitedly at each other and I was trying to warn them to watch out for cars while also getting Annie from her seat and saying hello to Harry and Ginny. Mike cut across my greetings.

‘I’m Mike Charlton,’ he said, reaching out his hand to Harry. ‘But I’ll answer to pretty much anything these days: daddy, hey you, or even Michael if you want to use my Sunday name. It seems that our wives are too busy to perform the introductions.’

‘Harry Potter,’ Harry said, shaking my husband’s hand. I’d completely forgotten that they hadn’t met, and so, apparently, had Ginny. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mike. I’ve heard a lot about you. But almost all of it has been from Henry, via James.’

‘If it’s good, it’s true. If it’s bad, it’s a lie,’ said Mike, grinning.

‘Boys!’ Ginny screamed. Henry and James were running towards the pool. They were scampering between parked cars and they hadn’t spotted the car travelling down the next aisle. Fortunately, both boys stopped, at Ginny’s yell. Mike and Harry had taken off like sprinters when Ginny shouted.

By the time Ginny and I had got the three little ones under control, both boys had received a severe telling off from their dads. They looked suitably chastised, but the moment the scolding was over they turned towards each other and grinned sheepishly.

Ginny had noticed too. She glanced at me and rolled her eyes skywards. ‘We’re going to have to watch those two, aren’t we?’ she said.

‘Henry can be a bit boisterous sometimes. He was probably leading James on,’ I apologised.

‘Don’t bet on it. I was going to apologise for James’ behaviour,’ said Ginny.

Mike was supervising Henry and James as they walked, and definitely did not run, across the car park towards the Sports Centre entrance. As we set off to follow them to the pool, Harry dashed back and picked up all of the bags, including ours. He ignored my protests and told me, ‘you just look after Annie.’ He turned to his wife and added, ‘I’ve got to go, Ginny. Mike’s threatening to pay for everyone.’ He strode off after Mike and the two boys, leaving Ginny and I with the three little ones.

‘James was driving me crazy in the car,’ said Ginny as we crept across the car park at toddling speed. ‘He was so excited. He was asking “Izzat Henry in front?” every two minutes.’

‘Henry was the same,’ I admitted.

‘Can your two swim?’ Ginny asked.

‘Henry can, almost,’ I said proudly. ‘I’ve been teaching him, but Annie’s still too small to be let loose without floats. Mike usually plays with her while I look after Henry.’

‘You teach swimming?’ Ginny asked.

Sort of,’ I said modestly. ‘I did a basic teaching course when I was in my teens. I was a club swimmer. I wasn’t really any good, just one of the plodders, but it was good fun. I was a backstroker, though not a great one. I was the one who makes up the numbers in the B team in a relay. I was keen for Henry and Annie to learn. What about you and yours?’

‘Harry and I learned together, about ten years ago. He prefers breaststroke to backstroke,’ she said. Her eyes sparkled and the corners of her mouth twitched.

‘Most men do,’ I told her. We grinned at each other. The three little ones were listening carefully so I returned to safer ground. ‘Ten years ago? That’s late in life to decide to learn to swim, isn’t it?’

‘On our first holiday together we saw some kite surfers. We tried it and loved it, and that’s when we decided that learning to swim properly would be a good idea. Harry tried to teach the kids to swim in Italy over the summer, but James thought it was a waste of time. Henry’s told him that it’s fun, so now he’s changed his mind,’ said Ginny.

We entered the Sports Centre to find a good-natured argument between our husbands, each of whom was insisting that they should pay for everyone. Ginny and I interrupted them and we agreed that we’d pay for our own families.

We led the Potters down the stairs to the changing area. It was fun to watch them. We were familiar with the place, but the Potters all looked around with interest. It was as though they’d never been inside a Sports Centre.

‘The family cubicles are at the far end,’ said Mike.

Harry nodded and led his family towards one cubicle while Mike headed for the adjacent one.

We were changed first and we waited for the Potters to emerge from their cubicle.

‘C’mon James, hurryup,’ Henry shouted impatiently.

The door opened almost immediately and James dashed out.

‘James, don’t run on the wet floor,’ ordered Ginny. She followed him out holding Al tightly by the hand. Mike’s wish had been granted; Ginny was wearing a blue bikini, at least, a Speedo two piece. She had tied her hair up. She looked pretty, and annoyingly curvy. She wasn’t bulging like me. Harry was wearing black jammers and was cradling little Lily, who was in green, to his chest.

The changing room was almost deserted. We watched as a group of wet and giggling teenagers pulled bags from lockers and moved into cubicles, leaving us the only people out in the open.

‘Harry,’ said Ginny quietly, glancing around the empty changing room and then at his chest. Harry took a deep breath and passed Lily over to his wife.

He was lean, almost skinny and his muscles weren’t well defined, but I knew that good muscle definition didn’t equate to fitness. In fact, Harry looked lithe and fit, and scarred. There was an oval scar on his chest. Next to it, over his heart, there was a second lightning scar, apparently identical to the one on his forehead. There was also a very faint trace of what looked like claw marks on his ribs. As Mike and I stared, he clenched his fists nervously. That’s when I noticed what looked like handwriting on the back of his left hand.

‘You’ve seen this,’ he said to me, twisting his arm around and revealing the knife scar I’d seen during the week. ‘And this,’ he lifted his untidy fringe revealing his scarred forehead.

He pointed at the claw mark. ‘This was done by a Bagh Nakh, or…’

‘Tiger claw, bloody hell!’ my husband said, revealing his compendious knowledge of ridiculous weapons, learned from years wasted on computer games. Harry nodded.

‘Burn,’ he said moving his hand up and pointing to the oval scar. ‘And the guy who gave me the burn thought that it would be a good idea to kill me by recreating the scar on my forehead too. They are old war wounds. Scars from a lifetime ago, and that’s all I’m saying about them.’

‘Harry and I have been together for years. We went on our first holiday together just before my eighteenth birthday,’ said Ginny, standing staunchly at her husband’s side. ‘Complete strangers stare at his scars, and ask stupid questions. It’s very annoying, so I thought that…’

‘It’s okay, red…’ my husband began. He stopped the instant he saw Ginny’s face. It was Harry’s turn to intervene. He stepped forwards.

‘Ginny is Ginny. Not redhead, or Red, or Ginger, or Ginge and definitely not Gin,’ Harry said quietly. ‘She isn’t Virginia, either.’

Ginny laughed when he said the last name. ‘Mummy to my kids, but Ginny to everyone else,’ she said forcefully.

‘Sorry, Ginny, I’ll remember that,’ Mike apologised. I glared at him, making certain that he knew I was unhappy, and that from now on I would be pulling him up every time he referred to “the redhead” too.

‘Has everyone forgetted that we’re going swimblering?’ Henry asked, breaking the uneasy silence. We laughed, assured Henry that we hadn’t, and we led our kids up to the pool.

‘She’s definitely a redhead,’ Mike said in an undertone. ‘She’s got a temper that’s even quicker than yours. I don’t want to die a horrible death, so don’t let me call her “red” again.’

‘I won’t,’ I promised him.

We trooped up to the pool together and entered the water. It was chaotic and a lot of fun. For a few minutes Ginny and I spent our time with Henry and James in the deeper water, trying to teach our sons to swim. Henry was much better, and I could tell that James was annoyed by the fact. What he lacked in technique, James made up for in determination.

Mike and Harry were in the small pool with the two girls and Al. I saw Al looking longingly at James and Henry, but Ginny’s younger son was far from confident in the water. Lily was too young to appreciate the danger and she happily splashed and burbled alongside Annie.

We’d been in the water for about ten minutes when Ginny asked me, ‘Can you cope with these two?’

I assured her that I could. Using an easy and fluid breaststroke, Ginny swam across to join Harry. After a short discussion, Harry left Lily with Ginny and brought Al into the big pool.

Harry was gently supporting and encouraging his younger son as he slowly moved out of his depth, splashing wildly. I was watching, while also keeping a careful eye on Henry and James; they had decided to have breath-holding competition. Henry won, and I intervened when a gasping James demanded a rematch.

‘You need more practice, James,’ I suggested. ‘Why don’t you try to do a forward-roll instead?’ I demonstrated, tucking up my legs and rolling over before emerging again.

‘Blow froo yer nose when y’roll,’ Henry added helpful. ‘Else the watter’ll go upyer nose.’ James tried, and emerged coughing and spluttering. But he watched Henry do it, and tried again. James refused to give up, I was impressed. The two boys were forcing each other to improve. Henry was practicing a lot harder than usual, determined to make sure that he was better than James.

After more than half an hour in the water I was still play-teaching Henry and James. Usually, that was the time when Henry would announce that he was tired and that he didn’t want to learn any more. Neither he nor James complained; they were each keen to keep up with the other. It was wonderful.

I was still busy with them much later when Harry drifted alongside me, still holding and encouraging Al. ‘Mike says that it’s time to go,’ he said. I looked up at the clock; we’d been in the water for more than an hour.

‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘Henry doesn’t usually last this long. Off you go, you two,’ I told the boys. ‘First one to reach Henry’s dad is the winner.’ They splashed away from us with their arms flailing like windmills and their heads out of the water. In their excitement they had forgotten everything I’d taught them.

‘I go too, Daddy,’ Al squeaked.

‘Okay,’ Harry said. ‘But you need these on first.’ He lifted the armbands he’d been carrying. Al looked unhappy.

‘Do you want to try this, Al?’ I asked. I handed him the float I’d been using to teach the older boys to kick properly. He nodded enthusiastically, so I showed him how to hold the float and Harry and I flanked him as he enthusiastically kicked his way across the pool.

‘You’re a good teacher, Jacqui,’ Harry told me. ‘I’ve been watching you. James has learned a lot.’

‘I told Ginny, I did a preliminary teaching course when I was in my teens, while I was still swimming,’ I said. ‘Amazingly, I seem to remember most of it. And teaching James and Henry together is actually easier than teaching Henry. Henry gets bored following his mum’s instructions.’ I turned to Al, who was starting to struggle. ‘Don’t bend your knees, Al, keep them straight and kick with your hips,’ I advised.

Al did as he was told, and started to move through the water a little more quickly.

‘Well done, Al,’ said Harry smiling encouragingly at his younger son. ‘Kick—kick.’

Henry and James were in the shallow water and standing talking to Ginny when we finally arrived. There was no sign of Mike or Annie. I looked around the pool. ‘Where’s…’

‘Annie’s had an emergency,’ Ginny said. ‘It was “Needatoiletdaddy”, and Mike got her out of the pool quick.’

‘I just wee inna pool,’ my son announced proudly and loudly as we left. James laughed.

‘Henry!’ I scolded, shaking my head in annoyance.

Mike was waiting for us when we got into the changing room. I retrieved her from him and led Ginny and Lily into the Ladies’ showers.

‘Are you coming straight back to ours, Ginny?’ I asked while we quickly showered. ‘Or will you need to go home and get changed?’

‘I’ve brought a change of clothes, Jacqui. We can come straight back, if that’s okay, or we can wait,’ Ginny offered.

After a short discussion we agreed that they would follow us home and we returned to the changing room to tell our husbands the plan. Ginny and her family vanished into a cubicle. They were ready and waiting for us when we finally emerged from ours. My hair was still damp when we left, but somehow, the Potters were all completely dry and smartly dressed. Ginny’s hair was shining and she was wearing a completely different outfit, black leggings, denim shorts and a grey sweatshirt, to the one she’d been wearing when they arrived. Dressed like that, she didn’t look old enough to have three kids.

I was once again struck by one of the many slight oddities about the Potters. The two bags Harry had shouldered didn’t look big enough to carry all of the stuff they must have brought with them.

We walked out of the Sports Centre together. Mike again watched Henry and James, I carried Annie, Ginny carried Lily, and Harry held Al’s hand. As we walked out into the afternoon sunshine there was a raucous whistle.

‘Wotcher, boss,’ someone shouted. There was a woman leaning against the back of the Potters’ car. Her hair was black and spiky and the sides of her head were shaved. She was a tall, solidly built Goth. There really was no other way to describe her. She wore Doc Marten boots, fishnets and a profusion of black and purple clothes.

‘Give me a minute?’ asked Harry. Ginny nodded.

‘Stay with Mummy for a minute, okay, Al?’ Harry asked. He released his second son and trotted across the car park towards the woman.

‘Do you mind waiting?’ she asked us. ‘That’s Polly Protheroe, she works for Harry. It must be important if she’s tracked us down here. I really hope that he won’t have to go into the office.’