CHAPTER FOUR.

'So,' Melissa said, 'it's agreed that we drop Lawrence from next year's itinerary, and replace him with Daphne du Maurier.'

Jo said nothing. It was yet another of those decisions which Marcus and Melissa had effectively made already, during the course of their joint excursion the week before. Just like the decision to hold this meeting in Melissa's sitting room 'much more comfortable than the office' Melissa purred where they were now planning the programme of tours to be advertised for the following year.

'I've been thinking about that hotel in Fowey,' Marcus said. 'I know it's a long way to go, but we've always inspected the hotels personally before using them. I think one of us should go down.'

'I'm sure you're right,' Melissa nodded. 'But who can fit it in? It has to be done before the material goes out any changes from the advertised itinerary always shake customer confidence.'

'I could do it,' Jo said. Some Cornish sunshine would be a welcome change to the persistent c.u.mbrian drizzle. She had just begun to imagine herself looking out across a rocky headland when Marcus cut across the vision.

'It ought to be me, as I'm the one who'll be accompanying the tour.'

Jo was about to say that she couldn't see what difference it made: hadn't Marcus said only the other day that it was a team effort, in which it did not matter who did what? Melissa chimed in first with: 'I think you're right, darling. It puts you on familiar ground when you get there.' Melissa addressed everyone as 'darling'. It was one of the things which ground Jo's gears.

Marcus was already thumbing through his diary. 'I can see a possible window in a couple of weeks,' he said.

'Hold on ...' Jo began, knowing perfectly well that the 'window' in question could only be during a period when they were scheduled to be at home together. A Vesuvial warmth of indignation was rising within her. If Marcus hopped off down to Cornwall, that inevitably left her alone with Sean, and she could not help thinking that in volunteering himself for the Cornwall trip, Marcus was taking another of his favourite maxims, 'what's yours is mine', rather too much for granted. Step-parenting was hard work, and if anyone needed a break in Cornwall, it was not Marcus. Rather than say anything which hinted at marital disharmony in front of Melissa, she kept her eyes fixed on him, awaiting the moment when he registered her expression of mute protest and pa.s.sed the Cornwall trip along, but once Marcus had finished jotting in his diary, he returned his full attention to their hostess without so much as glancing Jo's way, thereby ratcheting up her annoyance by several more notches.

'Just going back to the scheduling ' Melissa paused to drag the chart across the floor, so that they could all see it better. She was sitting on the carpet, at just the right angle for Marcus to see down the front of her top. 'I see we've got Jo on a back-to-back here ...' she indicated the block of dates with her pen, 'when there's no need, because I can take over Mary Queen of Scots in the Lowlands.'

'No!' Jo almost shouted. 'I always do Mary Queen of Scots.'

'Not always,' Marcus began.

'Yes always.'

'But it means disembarking the American Plantagenet Society at Manchester Airport, then driving all the way to Newcastle to meet the coach at four o'clock.'

'I'll have plenty of time,' Jo said. 'The airport drop is early morning, and my car will be there already.'

'But why on earth stretch yourself like that in the middle of a busy season?' Melissa protested. 'I'll be available, and I can do a perfectly good job on old MQS.'

That's another thing, thought Jo. I hate the way she abbreviates things and Marcus picks up on it and copies her. 'But I want to do it. I have a special affinity with Mary Queen of Scots.' She saw Melissa raise her eyebrows in Marcus's direction and instantly regretted her words.

'Sorry, darling, I didn't realize that.' The amus.e.m.e.nt in Melissa's voice was evident. 'Perhaps we could rejig the schedule so that someone else takes care of the Richard III groupies.' She pretended to consider for a moment. 'Of course, if Marcus stayed home with Sean instead of ... no, no, that won't work. Who else could we call on to take care of Richard III for us?'

'There's no need to call on anyone,' Marcus broke in impatiently. 'It's perfectly obvious that you should take the MQS tour in place of Jo. There's no need to b.u.g.g.e.r up the whole schedule just so that Jo can have a monopoly on MQS. Besides,' he turned to Jo, 'you shouldn't go wearing yourself out by doing a back-to-back when there's no need. We get so little time at home together, and this way it gives us an extra three days.'

Jo was about to say that he hadn't worried about that when he volunteered to inspect the hotel in Cornwall, but she remembered just in time that whichever of them made the trip, they would not be at home together, and said nothing. She understood the logic in what they were proposing, and she didn't want to make a bigger fool of herself than she already had. And no wonder Melissa had reacted as she did, because clients who claimed to enjoy a particularly strong affinity with the subjects of the tours were regarded with a mixture of caution, bordering on carefully concealed contempt. Someone who turned out to be a complete obsessive could become a nuisance, spoiling the atmosphere by competing with other members of the party about who was the most knowledgeable, or else boring them to tears with long stories about being 'in touch' with long-deceased writers or royalty. None of which altered the fact that Jo could not help but feel a special bond with the tragic queen, whose life had been scarred by circ.u.mstances mostly not of her making. Poor Mary, who had been steadily deprived of almost everyone who was dear to her, including the child s.n.a.t.c.hed from her when he was just a baby, after which she had never seen him again.

'You know, darling,' Marcus said as they drove away from Melissa's house, 'you were being rather difficult over that scheduling. Melissa is extremely good about the fact that one of us always has to be at home now because of Sean. I do wish you would try to go with the flow a bit more.'

'Go with the flow,' Jo repeated. 'What's that supposed to mean? Is it Marcus-and-Melissa speak for "do as you're told"?'

'Of course not.'

'Because it looks to me as if the two of you are running things now, and I simply have to go along with everything you decide.'

'That's just silly ...'

'No, it isn't. You two plan a Daphne du Maurier tour and it goes straight into the list. I suggest Lake District Artists ...'

'Which is a great idea,' Marcus cut in, 'but it needs more work. How can we include it when you haven't got a definite itinerary? We can put it into the programme in 2011, when you've had time to formulate it properly.'

'And Melissa has taken my Mary Queen of Scots tour.'

'Now you're just being childish. We have to do what's best for the clients, and you won't be at your best if you've just driven h.e.l.l for leather from Manchester to Newcastle. We all have to accept the strictures that scheduling sometimes imposes. That occasionally means guiding a tour we're not so keen on, or giving up one of our favourites to someone else.'

'I do wish you wouldn't talk to me as if I were a ten-year-old.'

'Don't act like one, then.'

It was rare for them to bicker. Jo had been on the point of taking issue with him over the Cornwall trip, but she thought better of it, and they continued the journey in silence, arriving just as the school bus deposited Sean at the place where the lane forked towards Satterthwaite, thereby saving him a ten-minute walk in the rain. In spite of this, he did not appear particularly pleased to see them, climbing into the car with no more than a sullen grunt, which might have been 'Hi', and banging his school bag on to the seat beside him.

As soon as they reached the house Sean went straight up to his bedroom, while Jo followed Marcus into the kitchen. 'Why does he have to be so rude?' she demanded.

'Please don't start,' Marcus said. 'It's been a heavy day. Anyway, he wasn't rude not really. Kids hate being quizzed about what they've done at school.'

'I wasn't quizzing him; I was just trying to make conversation.'

'Maybe you should just leave him alone.'

'So it's me that's wrong, as usual.'

'Oh, for goodness' sake, Jo, cut the kid some slack, why don't you? It can't be easy for him, having to move into a completely new environment ...'

'As if I didn't know all about that.'

Marcus faced her wearily. 'This isn't about what you have had to deal with in the past. This is about Sean and his life, and what he is having to deal with. Everything isn't always about you.'

He left her standing in the kitchen, feeling crushed. She sank down onto a chair, momentarily defeated by the curious humiliations of the day, but after a minute or two she pulled herself together, stood up again and began to prepare the bolognese sauce for the lasagne. Whenever she paused in the act of chopping the onions, she could hear the drone of the television in the sitting room, and from somewhere above her head came the persistent thudding of Sean's CDs. Fainter still was the patter of rain on the windows. It was already almost dark outside; the low clouds had brought with them a premature dusk. Just another normal family evening. She would make them a good dinner and get everything back on an even keel. Afterwards maybe they could persuade Sean to stay downstairs for a game of Balderdash he had enjoyed that last time they all played.

She was just getting carried away with this vision of family fun and laughter, when she heard Sean padding into the kitchen behind her. When she glanced round she saw that he had already changed out of his school uniform and was wearing ripped jeans, worn low enough on the hip to expose a ruff of blue-grey boxer shorts when he bent to look in the cupboard where they kept the crisps. Since Marcus's latest advice on Sean-handling was not to attempt conversation at all, she ignored him for the time being, focusing instead on the ingredients in the pan, stirring in the tomato puree and oregano, as if she did not know he was there.

Of course she could empathize with his being transplanted into new surroundings. It had been worse for her, she thought. At least it had been Sean's choice to come and live here with his father. He was not having to get used to foster-parents, or live in a house he had never set eyes on, before being dumped there without warning. She pulled herself back to the present. What had Marcus said? Everything isn't always about you? Well, no, of course it wasn't ... It was only natural for Marcus to take Sean's part ... It was a big adjustment for them all ... And of course Marcus was trying to win Sean over, so that they could establish a normal loving home life out of unnatural circ.u.mstances. She went on stirring the sauce, which had begun to bubble. Why did tomato mixtures always spatter so much?

She crossed from the hob to the fridge and began to collect the ingredients for the bechamel sauce, but there was a gap on the shelf where the cheese should have been. Glancing across to where Sean had abandoned the breadboard, a knife and an open jar of Branston pickle, a few crumbs of cheese told their own story. He had eaten it the best part of half a pound of cheese gone.

She took the stairs two at a time and erupted into his bedroom without knocking. He had been sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to the door, but as she entered the room he turned in alarm and in a single movement had slammed shut the door of the cupboard which stood on the floor by his bed.

'What have you got there?' she demanded, the missing cheese entirely forgotten.

'Nothing.'

'Don't give me that. What have you got in the cupboard?'

'Private stuff. You're supposed to knock before you come in here. Get out of my room go on, get out!' He stood up, grabbing the nearest missile to hand, which happened to be a size-nine trainer, hurling it at her with sufficient force that she had to step backwards in order to avoid being hit in the face. He took advantage of this partial retreat to lunge forward and shut the door. Jo had no intention of indulging in a door-pushing contest with a fourteen-year-old. It was time to summon reinforcements.

Marcus heard her running downstairs and emerged to meet her in the hall, his face anxious.

'Marcus, you need to do something. Sean has got a knife in his room.'

A crinkle appeared between Marcus's eyebrows. He regarded his wife uncertainly, rather as he might peer at a mathematics problem which had so far eluded him.

'He's been keeping it in the old cupboard he brought back from that car-boot sale. The locked cupboard at the side of his bed.' It was as much as Jo could do not to grab Marcus's arm and drag him physically up the stairs. Why did he just go on standing there, looking like that, not saying anything? 'I went into his room just now and saw him with it.'

'What sort of knife?'

'A big one. Like a hunting knife. A dreadful-looking thing.'

'Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure! What do you take me for? I went in without knocking and caught him sitting on the bed, looking at this knife.'

'I thought we agreed not to go into his room without knocking? He might have been getting changed or something.'

'He was already changed,' Jo almost shouted. 'I think we're getting off the point here, which is about the knife in Sean's bedroom, not the accepted etiquette for families with teenage boys. Are you going to come upstairs and do something about this or not?'

For an awful moment, Jo actually thought he was going to opt for 'not'. Marcus certainly hesitated before following her upstairs. At Sean's door, she stood to one side while he tapped on the panels.

'What?' Sean's voice emerged from within, the usual blend of belligerent boredom.

'I'd like to come in and have a word.'

'OK.'

Sean was reclining on his bed with his laptop alongside him, logged into Mys.p.a.ce. He reached for the remote and muted the CD player, as if to facilitate conversation.

Marcus took a deep breath. 'Sean, do you have a knife in here?'

Sean affected to look puzzled. 'Mmm yeah I think so.' He raised himself to a sitting position, swinging his feet on to the carpet before gesturing theatrically at the remnants of the previous night's beans on toast supper, among which lay a knife and fork. 'Should've brought them downstairs sorry.'

'I don't mean that kind of knife,' said Marcus, patiently.

'We're talking about the knife I saw you with a minute ago,' Jo interrupted. 'The knife you've got locked in that cupboard.'

Sean stared at her blankly. 'What knife?'

'I think it would be a good idea if you let us see what you've got in the cupboard,' Marcus said.

Sean looked uncomfortable. 'There's nothing in there. Just some private stuff. There isn't any knife.'

'All the same, I'd like you to open it up please.' It was the voice Marcus used if ever there was a problem with one of the hotels. It was excessively polite, but brooked no opposition.

With an air of reluctance, Sean went to his wardrobe and felt around among the shoes he kept in the bottom of it, withdrawing a small key which he used to unlock the cupboard no bigger than a bathroom cabinet which stood on the floor by his bed. With another resentful glance at his father, he stood back to reveal the contents: three magazines, which judging from the uppermost cover, had all derived from the top shelf of the newsagents. 'Satisfied?' he spat at Jo, before slamming the cupboard shut and turning the key in the lock.

'He's moved it,' Jo said. 'He must have moved it while I went downstairs.'

'I don't know what she's talking about,' Sean protested. 'She came busting in here, going on about stuff in my cupboard. She's not supposed to come in here without knocking ...'

'Sean.' Marcus silenced his son with a look. 'Do you have a knife anywhere in this room apart from the one on the plate?'

The boy met his father's eye, unflinching. 'No, Dad.'

Marcus was already walking away. Jo followed him, remonstrating angrily even as Sean took advantage of their departure to shut himself back inside and turn the music up. 'You can't just let him get away with this. A kid his age shouldn't have a knife like that. If you search his room ...'

Marcus stopped dead at the foot of the stairs and faced her. 'I am not going to search anyone's room. Do you want him to feel like he's living in Stalag 97? You've been very wound up lately, and you could well have seen something else and imagined it was a knife. I mean, honestly, where do you think a boy of his age is going to get hold of something like that? And now you've cornered me into humiliating him, by forcing him to show us his pathetic little stash of dirty magazines. Or is that what you were up to all along? Scoring points because we had a row earlier on?'

'I don't try to score points, and we didn't have a row just words.'

'It's perfectly healthy for boys his age to have a few things like that lying around,' Marcus continued, 'and I don't want you to start making him feel uncomfortable about it. In fact, that's exactly the sort of reason why you ought to knock before you go into his room.'

'I saw him with a knife,' Jo began, but Marcus held up his hand, the gesture subduing her into silence as effectively as if he wielded a physical force.

'Sean has given me his word that there isn't a knife. Use your common sense, Jo. There's no earthly reason why he would be likely to have one. We don't live in the sort of area where a kid might think he needed to acquire a knife for self-defence. How good a look did you get at this so-called knife?'

'I just saw it for a second. As soon as I opened the door, he shoved it into the cupboard. I honestly thought it was a knife.'

'Thought?'

'I saw it.'

'A minute ago you only thought.'

'I'm going to make the dinner,' Jo said. 'This isn't getting us anywhere. By the way,' she added as an afterthought, 'it'll be spag bol rather than lasagne, because Sean's just eaten the last of the cheese.' She caught sight of Marcus's expression as he turned into the sitting room, and wished she had not mentioned the cheese. It just sounded like another petty jab in her stepson's direction.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Jo's first real opportunity to search Sean's bedroom did not come for more than a week. First she was away for four nights leading In the Footsteps of Wordsworth, and when she got back, either Sean or Marcus always seemed to be in the house. Only when Marcus left to take care of Border Raids and Battles, and Sean had gone to school, did she have the house to herself.

She was still annoyed with Marcus about the Cornwall trip, but in the interests of avoiding further accusations that she was being self-centred, she had decided to bide her time. Once she had shown Marcus that he had been wrong about the knife, she would be in a far stronger position to raise the issue of who should go down to inspect the hotel in Fowey. Her plan was to locate and confiscate the knife, keeping it somewhere safe from Sean until she could lay the evidence of its existence before Marcus on his return. She a.s.sumed that it would be back in the cupboard by now, so it was merely a question of finding the key.

She was not surprised when a thorough search in and among the shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe drew a blank. Never mind she had all day if that was what it took. For the next ninety minutes she undertook a fingertip search of which any undercover agent might have been proud, taking great care to replace everything exactly where she found it. Trouser pockets, CD cases, the furthest corners of shelves, under the mattress, inside the pillow slips and duvet cover, she probed every possible place, gathering dust from along the top of the doorframe, even feeling along the hems of the curtains, but as she worked her way round the room, it was with the ever-increasing conviction that Sean must have taken the most obvious precaution of all. He had taken the key with him.

When she had tried every possible hidey-hole, she knelt in front of the cupboard and investigated it more closely. It appeared to be homemade, perhaps the result of some long-forgotten woodwork cla.s.s. At some stage in its history a coat of gloss paint had been applied, which had faded to the shade of cream left too long in the fridge. There was a narrow gap between the door and body of the cupboard and Jo found that by pushing repeatedly against the door she could make it rattle. If only the hinges had been on the outside, she could have unscrewed them. d.a.m.n it, he was not going to beat her! She marched out to the garage, returning with a torch and a large screwdriver. When she shone the beam of the torch up and down the crack, she could make out the dark rectangle of the lock one small metal obstruction which stood between herself and the contents of the cupboard. She slid the point of the screwdriver into the gap at a point just below the lock and began to lever her improvised jemmy against the frame. The first two or three attempts resulted in no more than a series of ugly marks on the paintwork. At the fourth attempt, the screwdriver jerked out of the crack and she narrowly missed gouging a lump out of her cheek. She tried a slower, steadier pressure, until with an elongated creak of protest, the door finally gave way, a jagged split appearing in the wood from the edge nearest the lock to a point just above the lower hinge. Although the tough little lock held firm, enough of the door could be moved aside to see that the cupboard's contents were unchanged since Sean had reluctantly displayed them a week before.

Jo sat back on her heels, completely at a loss. Maybe he took the knife with him to school. For a moment she thought of ringing to suggest they search his belongings, but then she thought of what Marcus would say if she ended up getting Sean expelled which could well be the penalty for bringing an offensive weapon on to the premises. Then again, what if she rang the school and her hunch turned out to be wrong? He might have sold it on to someone else by now. Marcus would be just as furious, the whole episode put down to her overactive imagination again.