‘She isn’t different, she’s just forbidden,’ Mr H snaps. ‘You know she’s off limits, and that is the only reason you want her so bloody much. I’m warning you, boy. Leave her be. She loves it here, and we love having her around. Don’t you dare meddle with that. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, I fucking hear you.’
‘Why did you employ her?’ Mr H rants on. ‘After all this time refusing to let anyone into The Haven to ease the strain on Dorothy, after turning your nose up every time we suggested we get some help, why now? Why did you agree to let her in?’
‘She’s clever. Smart. Knows her stuff.’
‘And beautiful.’
Becker scoffs. ‘That has nothing to do with it.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Becker boy.’ He is lying. I know he is. ‘You saw something you wanted and carved out a plan to get it. Bugger the feelings of whoever you hurt along the way. Women are a game to you.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Becker says, his voice anguished.
‘To sort yourself out!’ comes the angry reply.
‘I’ll call the fucking shrink,’ he yells.
‘Good.’
Becker’s angry mumbles get louder, and I realise he’s about to storm out of his office. So I bolt down the corridor, Winston tailing me, and let myself into the nearest door I come to.
Which happens to be a cleaning closet. I don’t have time to fuck about. I reach down for Winston’s collar and tug him in, slamming the door quickly, before crouching to fuss over him, hoping it keeps him quiet.
There are a few bangs, and then the clear sound of Becker’s bare feet stomping up the stone steps. I hold my breath in the darkness, rubbing circles into Winston’s ears, biding my time. It’s a few minutes, but eventually I hear Mr H hobble down the corridor.
Winston whimpers next to me, clearly wondering what the hell is going on. ‘Okay, boy,’ I whisper, hearing the door to the kitchen close. I exhale my relief and unfold from the floor, opening the door cautiously and peeking each way. ‘Come on.’ I usher Winston out and make fast work of straightening myself out, and when I think I’ve achieved the closest I’m going to get to composure, I head for the kitchen, my poor mind spinning.
I find Mr H sitting at the table, his silver hair neatly combed to the side and his face buried in a newspaper. ‘Mr H,’ I say, prompting him to look up. His glasses are resting on the end of his nose, and he dips his head to look over them at me.
‘Eleanor.’ He seems remarkably unflustered; there is no evidence that he’s just had an argument with his grandson. Folding his newspaper neatly, he places it on the table before him. ‘Come, join me.’
I indicate towards the stove. ‘I was going to make tea.’
Mr H reaches into the centre of the table and taps the top of a pot. ‘Freshly prepared by Dorothy.’
I smile and wander over, forcing casualness. It’s hard. The conversation I listened to is playing on repeat. So many questions, but none of which I can ask without sounding like I’m prying. ‘She really looks after you.’
‘She does,’ he agrees on a chuckle. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, just milk, please.’
‘Sweet enough already?’ He takes a clean cup and saucer and sets about pouring me a cup.
I laugh. ‘Probably not.’
‘Oh, you’re being modest. How’s your mother?’
‘She’s great, thank you.’
‘Marvellous. I’m sure she’s missing you.’
‘A little,’ I admit, though she would never tell me so. ‘I’m going home in a couple of weeks.’ I’m not looking forward to it at all and keep stalling to book my train tickets, but Edwin Smith has chased me yet again. There’s only so long I can avoid clearing out Dad’s store. And not only that, my ex is in Helston and apparently wants to make amends. Fat chance. I know as soon as I set foot off the train, news of my arrival will probably reach him before I arrive at my mum’s house. I don’t need to hear his apologies. They stand for shit and won’t change a thing. Just waste my time.
Mr H adds milk to my tea. I try to ignore the chinking of porcelain as he hands it to me, but when his lips straighten and his face screws up in concentration, it becomes impossible.
‘Are you okay?’ I relieve him of the cup and saucer and place it down quickly, watching as he shakes his hands and head at the same time, clearly frustrated.
‘Getting old has got to be one of the worst things to happen to a human being,’ he says, forcing a smile as his old eyes find me. I try not to look sympathetic, knowing he probably won’t appreciate it. His fingertip taps the side of his temple. ‘Everything up here is sound as a pound. It’s the rest of me that’s the problem.’