They diligently took off their muddy shoes and traipsed into the elegant kitchen to have lemonade and biscuits. A damp-haired Jason was there, coffee mug in one hand and rusk in the other. Joshua kicked his feet in the bouncy chair and held out his fingers for his snack.
“I hope you boys have been helpful to my wife and not lounging around on your arses,” Jason snarled.
Sweaty socks shuffled, and they examined the floor as Gemma poured lemonade into the cheapest glasses she could find.
“Because you’ve wasted her precious time enough. You’re banned from being on this estate without permission. No more over the fence or football on the lawn. If I catch you here again, you?
?ll be weeding nettles with your bare hands.”
“Yes, sir,” came the chorus of mumbled voices.
“You do realise, if all schoolboys across this country want to play for the Premier League then there is going to be much disappointment. Be realistic, stopping fantasising about your future, and get a decent education. Served me well,” Jason added.
Joshua, at the sight of his mother, squawked frantically—feeding time for the hungry boy. While Gemma gave him her breasts, Jason trooped the teenagers out into the garden to complete their tasks. By the time she came out with a dopey baby, they were about finished. Handing a sleeping Joshua over to Jason, she inspected their efforts and told them they had done well and could go home.
They remembered to apologise one more time for their pilfering and walked out of the vegetable patch with due care for where they were placing their feet. An improvement on their previous attitude. One of the boys, Benjamin, was close to tears as he looked down at his feet. Younger and smaller than the other two, his white trainers were covered in mud.
“Shit, me dad’s gonna kill me,” he wailed.
He had turned pale and she blinked, surprised at the sudden display of distress. “You didn’t bring Wellingtons? Would have been better.” Gemma patted his back. Was it her fault for not checking before they started?
Tears splashed on to his shoes. “I don’t have any. What I’m gonna do? I’ve only got these and me school shoes to wear. They’re ruined, look at ’em,” he fretted, kicking the mud off with his heels. They looked tatty and overused, the kind of shoes she’d have thrown out without much thought. At the present time, that was. There had been a time when she scrimped and saved every penny, and a pair of shoes had been a luxury purchase.
Aaron crept up to Gemma’s ear. “They don’t have much, Mrs Lucas,” he whispered. “Ben’s dad is a brute. He won’t understand.”
She sighed, dug a tissue out from her pocket and shoved it into the boy’s hand. “Come with me, Benjamin. Let’s see if we can’t clean them up for you.”
They stood in the utility room, and she washed the trainers down. Applying all her skills in footwear care, which she had acquired from looking after various gentlemen’s shoe collections, she managed to spruce them up. She told him to let them dry out and beat the dried mud off before wearing them again. He stopped sniffling and wiped his snotty nose.
Coming outside again, Aaron sidled over. “Thanks, Mrs Lucas. He’s not a bad boy, not like his dad.”
Aaron’s loyalty to his friends impressed Gemma and, gazing at the teenager for a few seconds, she noted he was a splitting of his father, both in appearance and personality. Once he grew up and reached manhood, he would turn into a prize for the ladies, one to watch and fight over. She hoped he was as devoted to his future friends and family as his father was to his.
~
In a stronger voice, Chris Martinson repeated he was in good shape. Gemma ended the call murmuring a thank you.
She waited for her injured husband to return home. She sat hunched on the bottom step of the stairs, opposite the front door, feet jiggling on the floor, and at last heard a car pull up outside. The door swung open, and she lunged forward, stopping just short when she noticed his stiff left side and how he held his arm, as if to protect it.
She held up her arms then dropped them. “I don’t know where to touch you.”
His groggy expression appeared un-Jason like. “Then don’t, for now.” He grinned. She noted the slurred voice. He seemed to be in reasonable shape, and her pounding heart ceased to thump against her breastbone. Behind Jason, Johnson deposited the laptop case by the hallway table and gave Gemma a small smile of reassurance.
“Have a good night, sir.” Johnson backed out of the door.
She surveyed her husband with his ruffled hair and crooked pose. His suit jacket had been bundled across his right arm, and his left hand stuffed in his trouser pocket, as if to support its weight.
“You are okay?” She stretched out again, but he flinched before she could reach him.
“Sure, babe. Bruised and battered. Nothing broken. Exploding airbag caused most of the damage. I’ll be fine in a few days.”
She took his jacket and, kneeling down, undid his laces, and slipped off his shoes. It set the scene for how the next few days would play out: Gemma being her husband’s nurse.
The rest of the day, Jason drowsed in an armchair and dined on her devotion to his needs.
“I think the painkillers they gave me in the hospital have made me dopey.” He smiled, dreamlike, and she gently placed his arm on a cushion.
He looked chilled and carefree with his slouched posture and half-open eyes. She rang Carla and updated the PA on his status.