The Lover's Children

Chapter 9: What's Wrong? - James

The intercom buzzes. "Francis, it's Kirstie. I have a parcel for James. I've signed for it. The stamp says... L.T.T. Galvanised Components, I think. It's a bit smudged. Should I put it in the internal mail?"

I call across. "Thank you, Kirstie. No, I've been waiting for it to arrive. Can you bring it up to my office please."

"The desk..."

"Mrs Gillis can man the desk for a few minutes."

"I'm on my way." The sound clicks off.

Richard tilts his head. "What's so urgent about the package?"

"Nothing at all. It's just L.T.T. going for a sales pitch with some samples. No, I wanted an excuse to get Kirstie on her own. As you said in the elevator, did she look to you like a woman should, that's getting married in a few days time?"

"No, in fact, she didn't."

Francis pipes up. "Should I put some coffee on?"

"Thank you, Francis. Yes, do. Bring it into my office when Kirstie arrives..." The elevator Dings. "That's probably her now."

Kirstie enters, package in hand... "Here you are, James." ... hands it to me, then turns back for the elevator.

"No, wait a moment, please, Kirstie. I'd like a word, in my office, please."

Her eyes roll...

What have I done now?

... I raise palms. "You're not in any trouble, I assure you. I just wanted a quiet chat." I gesture to my door. "Shall we?"

Inside, I pull up a chair. "Please, sit down."

Francis comes in with a tray: coffee pot and cups, cream and sugar. She slides a plate of cookies across the desk. "Ginger snaps. I happened to have these in. Nice and Christmassy, Kirstie. I thought you'd like them." Then, with a discreet nod to me, she exits, clicking the door closed behind her.

Kirstie winds her fingers together. "Alright, what have I done? Was it that delivery boy yesterday? He was so rude and I told him to..."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. If there were problems with a visitor to the building, it would be for Mrs Gillis to handle it. She is your immediate superior."

"Ah..." She exhales slowly, still weaving her fingers. Worry lines crease under her eyes.

"Kirstie, what's wrong?"

She blinks up to the ceiling, her eyes liquid, then looks away again.

It occurs to me that I'm looming. Snagging the chair from behind my desk, I pull it up close, sit beside her. "Kirstie, we're friends, aren't we? I'm assuming we are. You asked me to help at your wedding. So, tell me. What's the matter? You should be excited and happy now. Not fighting back tears."

A sob breaks loose and she shudders forwards, face pressed into her hands...

"Kirstie... What's so wrong? Is... Is there a problem between you and Ryan?"

"No... no, nothing like that." She sits up, pulling the back of her hands across her eyes and playing merry hell with her mascara. "No, not Ryan. He's been wonderful. And he's trying so hard to make everything right."

"What then? So close to your wedding, why does a simple question from a friend set you to tears?"

"Oh, God..." She presses a fist to her mouth... "It wouldn't be so bad if we'd not set the wedding date for December. At the time, it seemed such a good idea; a Christmas wedding. Start the New Year married..."

"But?"

"But... all the work on the Mill. We're trying to get everything ready on time for the reception. But everything's costing so much. And it's all taking longer than it should. It should all have been finished, or at least, ready to use, by the end of November. That builder we're using promised it would be. But with the bad weather, all the work's slowed down. Some of it they can't do at all because they can only work inside. Then half the crew went off sick with colds and flu. Then..."

Her voice quavers and she starts crying again... "... to top it all, we've been burgled. They cut through the fence in the night. And... and the dogs were all inside because the weather was so foul... And they took half our equipment. Some of it's not even ours. It belongs to the builder... and... and..."

She's sobbing hard, eyes and nose streaming into an overused hanky. I pass her a box of tissues then offer up my waste bin. She tosses in the tear-and-snot soaked thing and takes another tissue, blowing into it loudly and gracelessly. I lay a brief hand on her shoulder, then step outside. "Francis, call downstairs would you please. Kirstie's taking the afternoon off. I'll be joining her."

Wide-eyed, Francis reaches for the desk phone. "What's wrong, James?"

"I'll explain later. Just let Mrs Gillis know she needs to find a stand-in for today."

Back in the office, Kirstie is sitting upright again, visibly gathering herself. "Sorry, James. I know it's horribly unprofessional of me..."

"Forget it. Now, about this theft..."

She blows out air, rubbing at her forehead. "It's not as though it's not all replaceable. And the insurance should cover it all. We can buy new equipment, or hire it in, but it's all more time and money right now. And with the wedding looming..."

I sit by her again, take her hand between mine. "Kirstie, you need a break, both you and Ryan. You've been living in that caravan for months. You're both tired, and that's taking all the joy out of the two greatest adventures of your life; your new home and your wedding..."

She sniffs, dabbing at nose and eyes again...

"... Why not come stay with us for a few days? You'll be warm and comfortable. You can sleep in a proper bedroom. You and Charlotte could enjoy some pamper time at the spa. Maybe Beth and Mitch would join you..."

"What about Ryan?"

"He can chill out by the fire and watch movies and football all day if he wants to."

"James, thank you, but I can't. The dogs..."

"Bring your dogs along. Then you don't have to worry about them. Scruffy and Bear will enjoy that too."

A faint smile dawns. "It sounds wonderful."

"So, say yes. Give yourself some slack. And then we'll see what can be done about the rest."

*****

KLEMPNER

We return to the house to find James waiting for us. "I've had an interesting morning. Kirstie..." he begins.

Michael interrupts him. "... has been burgled and everything at the mill is a mess. Ryan's at his wit's end..."

"... and Kirstie was in tears at work. I've invited her and Ryan to stay here for a few days. To give them a break from living in that caravan. Hope that's okay with you?"

"Better than okay. You beat me to it. And Larry here has a few ideas about these stolen goods." He plucks at a lip. "I'll go make up a room for them. Catch you later." He strides away, humming.

"He's walking with a spring in his step," I comment.

"It is a wedding," says James. "It's supposed to be a happy occasion."

"Looks like more than that to me."

James leans in, speaking quietly. "In fact, you're quite right. He and Charlotte are working on your next grandchild."

"Ah... And that's something he wants? The house isn't exactly short of babies now."

"Yes, well, Michael always said he wanted to fill this house with children."

"He's off to a good start: Cara, Adam, Vicky..."

James raises brows. "I think it was implicit he'd like some of the children to be his. Out of all of us here, Michael's the only one here who's not a parent. That was the deal we made, he and I, when we first set up our Triad. And that, for the sake of the children, he would be the legal father..."

"Including Cara?"

"Including Cara, yes. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, she is Cara Summerford. At least while she's still small."

"And when she's older?"

"When she's old enough to understand..." He rocks his hand... "... we'll see. The important thing right now is that she's raised, protected and loved."

"And you? How do you feel about that?"

"I shall be Uncle James, to Cara and to any other child Charlotte produces."

I ponder. "So what does that make me?"

He laughs. "We've established that, haven't we. You're Grandad K."

*****

JAMES

In the kitchen, I find Klempner. The table cleared of pots and cutlery, he's laid it out with newspaper, set with a variety of brushes, bottles of cleaning fluid and lubricant, old rags and a roll of kitchen paper. A desk lamp casts a bright white beam over his work area.

The man himself is wearing spectacles frames fitted with what look like jewellers loupes. Peering through, he scrubs at some widget with a toothpick-sized wire brush. He pauses, sprays a little fluid from a bottle onto the brush then, holding brush and widget under the light, continues his work.

I know what this means.

A rifle leans against the table, three handguns of varying types lie in a neat row on the newspaper. A fourth is in pieces: the barrel, grip, springs, feeds and God-knows-what also laid in tidy ranks on the paper.

On the end of the table lie...

... one... two... six... seven...

... eight knives. The smallest barely qualifies as a penknife. The largest looks designed for gutting rhinos, and the saw-edged blade has the teeth to make short work of the job. They look to have already received their owner's attention, every blade polished, gleaming with a wipe-over of oil.

I pull up a chair opposite him. "Larry, why do you need so many knives?

"Hello, James." He removes the eyepiece, setting it carefully down on a clean part of the newspaper. "My knives? It depends what I want to do at the time."

He picks one up, seemingly at random, examining it as though he's never seen it before. The surface of the blade gleams with oil. The edge glints. "How many knives do you own, James? In your kitchen for example?"

"Well, um... boning knife, several for paring... a bread knife... There's nine in the sushi set..."

"Nine?" He raises brows. "And all you're doing is cutting up fish."

"No, not really. You choose the knife for the task in hand. A Deba blade for example is used for filleting fish. A Fugubiki is a very fine blade, for cutting paper-thin slices. A Takobiki is generally used to slice octopus or straight-cut sashimi. But it has a blunt tip for cutting harder food items and obtaining thin slices..." Klempner's eyes widen and, elbow on the table, he props his cheek against his fist.

It dawns on me that I'm babbling.

"Fascinating," he says. "I'd no idea. But you made the point very well. You choose the correct tool for the task."