Where Everything Seems Double, Penny Freedman [best inspirational books txt] 📗

‘It’s all right,’ she says airily, ‘Chef says we can have stuff from the kitchen.’

‘About the drink, Freda,’ I say. ‘You—’

‘It’s all right, Gran. Venetia’s dad has already said no alcohol.’

‘But you know sometimes boys think it’s clever to spike a soft drink with—’

‘We’ve got a crate of cokes. I’ll make sure my bottle’s all right. It’s cool, Gran.’

She turns to go but I hold her back. ‘Leave me a message,’ I say, ‘at reception, if you’re going further than this bit of lakeside. OK?’

‘I am thirteen,’ she says.

‘You know what my answer to that is, don’t you?’

‘And so was Ruby Buxton,’ she says and, surprisingly, gives me a quick kiss before sashaying back to the group in the window.

I feel obliged to take my lunch in the garden, out of their sight, and there I sit, picking disconsolately at an enormous ham sandwich that has obviously been constructed with a sturdy hill-walker in mind rather than a woman who has done nothing more strenuous than ask some nosey questions and worry a lot. I am, I realise, muttering to myself as I dismantle the sandwich and swig the cider with which I am washing it down. It is not a good look, but I can’t help that. How exactly did I imagine this trip? Didn’t I want Freda to get to know the local kids? Well, yes and no. That was what I said to her but I think that really I had a hazy idea that she would be my sleuthing partner, that she would trail around with me, providing protective cover, bolstering my persona as a harmless granny figure while I, with deft sleight of tongue, asked penetrating questions and obtained revealing answers. Instead, I am out on my own, asking my probing questions and getting only the most meagre of answers even from the people I am supposed to be helping. And Freda is developing a happy friendship with a key witness from whom she is keeping me at more than arm’s length. These are my mutterings and they are getting me odd looks from a group at a nearby table. They may think I am dotty, but these days when people seem to be talking to themselves in public spaces it turns out that they are talking on a hands-free phone. If that’s what they are assuming, then they must be wondering how I have got a signal.

I have no answer to my dilemma except one, and it is the one that I have been resisting for the past thirty-six hours. I will do nothing yet, I tell myself. I will spend a quiet afternoon with my book and will, eventually, find a way to talk non-threateningly with Milo – perhaps enlisting Colin’s help, I think, since he seems more reasonable than Eve. I finish my cider and go up to my room. I look out at the jetty but there is no sign of the kids there. I had thought of spending the afternoon reading by the window but I realise that I shall simply be on permanent surveillance here if I do that, so I decide on the garden. It is a bit chilly but I can put on a jacket, and if my eyes occasionally stray to the lakeside and the activities of a group of young people down there, well where is the harm in that?

I stay in the garden until tea-time. I am reading Milkman, which is rather brilliant and certainly engrossing enough to distract me, though unsettling too if you’re worrying about the safety of a young girl. By four o’clock I am really quite cold. I have seen the kids toing and froing on mysterious errands. They disappeared briefly early on but soon returned with ice creams, and then were away for long enough to start me worrying but came back with a small barbecue. They look pretty amicable and Milo seems to be their leader as far as I can tell. I go inside to the bar for my tea, and to warm up, and when I go to pick up our key I find that Freda has already taken it.

Upstairs, she is occupying the bathroom, from which she emerges swathed in towels and asks if I will use her new straighteners on her hair. It is quite like old times and I swallow a lump of nostalgia for the ten-year-old Freda for whom my straighteners were an exciting revelation. When her hair is sleeked to her satisfaction, she disappears into her room and comes out half an hour later wearing her black jumpsuit, a cloud of scent and a certain amount of makeup, I think, though it is discreet enough for me to ignore it. I do want to advise her to take a sweater with her but I resist the urge. She says she won’t be late because some of the partyers have to go back on the last ferry and I tell her to have a good time. Then she departs, leaving me to go down for a solitary meal in the restaurant.

It is very difficult to eat slowly on one’s own, and it is hard to be self-indulgent without feeling pathetic, so I eat a modest main course and a scoop of sorbet and it seems no time before I am in the bar with my post-dinner coffee. From my viewpoint in the window I can see that there are about a dozen teenagers outside, clustered round the barbecue, and the muted throb of their music is audible through the double glazing.

I try watching television upstairs, but it’s Friday night and it seems to be all game shows, so I settle down with the travails of the nameless narrator of Milkman and ration my glances out of the window to a sub-obsessive level. At nine o’clock I notice that others have gathered outside the hotel – spectators rather than partyers. Looking more closely I