So then, he imagined, fast-forwarding through the highlights, Helen running off with him, him tiring of her, leaving her, Helen telling his wife or vandalising his car…
He drifted into a low valley, accelerated up a steep hill and became airborne on the crest, settling back onto the road with a gentle hmph.
Maybe an unpaid debt. Austen’s. Maybe Alex had killed the husband and she’d fled with the kids.
Silly stuff, he told himself.
Or maybe it wasn’t, as Patrick thought, Austen leaving the family. Maybe Helen had just got sick of her husband and left, some hot afternoon when she’d had time to think and realise how much she hated her life. Or maybe Patrick was right. Maybe Dad had just up and disappeared, and maybe they’d gone looking for him, returning to some accommodation they’d once shared.
That didn’t explain the furniture, clothes and toys in the house.
Or maybe Naismith had nothing to do with the Barnes family? Maybe he was just there to welcome them, to warn them, to tell them to move on…Maybe things just got out of hand.
36
THE GREEN AT the Guilderton Bowls Club was freshly shaved, so precisely clipped it looked artificial in the morning light. There were a few patches but they’d been packed with loam, whacked flat and watered in anticipation of new growth. There were waiting bays with seats bolted to concrete slabs. Each one had a sign: Have You Marked Your Score?
Moy sat in one of these shelters with Patrick and watched George open his felt-lined bowls case. George took out one of a matching pair, wrapped it in a rag and handed it to the boy. ‘A good five minutes.’
Patrick started polishing the bowl the way George had shown him. ‘How’s this help?’ he asked.
‘Makes it smoother.’
As Patrick worked on the bowl, George walked to the other end of the pitch and set out his jack. He stepped back, surveyed it from three or four different angles, shrugged and headed back.
‘Let’s have yer,’ he called to the boy, turning up the collar on his club shirt and hitching his pants. He took his own bowl and found his position. ‘No one’ll bother us until at least ten.’
‘Does everyone dress in white?’ Patrick asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a tradition.’
‘Why?’
George stared at him. ‘Why why why? You can’t just keep using that word.’
Patrick looked at him.
‘Otherwise you’d have people in T-shirts, sandshoes, work boots. What would that look like?’ He looked pointedly at Moy’s T-shirt. ‘You’re playing?’
‘No, I’m happy just sitting here…watching…passing judgment.’ Moy looked at Patrick and smiled.
‘Right now Paddy,’ George said, demonstrating his swing. ‘See, like that. Follow through with your arm, nice and slow.’
Patrick stepped forward, grasped his bowl and copied George’s swing.
‘Good, but bend over,’ the old man said, taking Patrick’s shoulders and forcing them down. ‘That’s the idea. Just soft…you’ve gotta learn to judge…like so.’ The bowl shot off, curved, arced back to the jack but stopped a few feet short. ‘For now it’s better to undershoot.’
Patrick assumed his stance, drew a mental line over the grass and bowled. The bowl started slow and went straight; it headed for the jack, connected and knocked it a few inches to the right. He turned and looked at George and Moy.
Moy applauded. ‘Nice work, Clarry.’
‘I hit it.’ He was beaming. ‘Can we try again?’
‘Of course. You grab the bowls.’
Patrick sprinted down the pitch and George called out, ‘Walk!’
The boy replaced the jack, gathered the bowls and returned. ‘Do any kids play?’ he asked George.
‘It’s an old person’s sport,’ Moy said. George glared at him.
‘So I can’t join the club?’
‘You can if you like. It’s good you’re thinking about the future.’
He turned and tilted his head. ‘Why?’
‘Gotta have somewhere to stay, everybody does.’ He looked at his son. ‘Be good if you stayed here with us, wouldn’t it, Bart?’
‘Would you like that?’ Moy asked.
It seemed to strike Patrick as a novel idea. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘Unless your dad claims you.’
Patrick took a moment. ‘He won’t.’
‘Why not?’
Patrick shrugged. He looked at George and asked, ‘Did you ever come here with your dad?’
‘God, no.’ George almost laughed. ‘We were always too busy on the farm. Hardly ever came to town. Certainly not to play bowls. My dad wouldn’t have dreamed of doing something like this.’