The Backward Shadow by Lynne Reid Banks Page B

a fall-guy?’
    â€˜Really, Jane! One would think I was out to rob him. Ionly mean I expected him to be a sort of—well,
sleepy
partner, if not actually a sleeping one; I mean until this evening he hardly had a word to say for himself.’
    â€˜What were you talking about then, all evening in the bar?’
    â€˜Oh, he wasn’t talking at all. I was.’
    I believed her. ‘Do you like him?’
    â€˜How?’ she asked at once.
    â€˜That way.’
    â€˜No, of course not! With those ears? With that funny hair?’
    â€˜He likes you—that way.’
    â€˜Too bad,’ she said callously. ‘Or rather, no, it’s good. Useful.’
    â€˜Dottie!’
    â€˜Oh, don’t look so shocked. I’m fed up with men using me. I’m going to do the using in future.’
    â€˜Even if it’s somebody nice?’
    â€˜Show me a really nice man,’ she said, ‘a really
nice
man, and I’ll use him—till death do us part. But Henry’s not it. He’s too damn
chutzpahdic
for one thing.’
    â€˜Where did you hear that?’
    â€˜You’re not the only one who’s had a Jewish lover,’ she said as she climbed into bed.

Chapter 7
    I WAS more than surprised the next morning, on tottering downstairs in my dressing-gown with David draped over my shoulder and my eyes only half open, to find a brisk and busy Henry, dressed except for his jacket, and neatly shaved, an apron tied under his armpits to protect his waistcoat, washing the supper-dishes at the kitchen sink. The kettle was steaming and various bits and pieces had been brought out of the fridge which indicated that when the ground was cleared he had proposed to begin making breakfast.
    â€˜Good morning,’ I said in dopey astonishment. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
    â€˜Well, I want my breakfast. I always eat well in the mornings. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said as an afterthought. ‘I’ve already had a cup of tea.’
    â€˜Of course I don’t mind. You make me feel a bad hostess, that’s all. But after all, it
is
barely seven o’clock.’ I put David in his Babysitta on the table where he could watch us.
    â€˜You put him on the table, do you?’ asked Henry disapprovingly.
    â€˜Yes,’ I said rather shortly, starting to prepare his morning cereal and orange juice.
    â€˜Doesn’t he ever pee on it?’
    â€˜Babies of that age don’t pee very copiously. And he is wearing a nappy.’ I find people who are too fastidious very hard to take in my own house.
    Now that I’d arrived, Henry allowed me to take over. It would have been nice if he’d finished the dishes, but instead he stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, gazing at David expectantly as if waiting for him to perform.
    â€˜My mother’s is rather like him,’ he said musingly. ‘But then I suppose they all look much alike.’
    I stopped dead and stared at him. He was hard on forty, must have been. ‘Your
mother’s
got a baby?’
    â€˜Step-mother, I mean, of course.’
    â€˜How old’s your father then?’
    â€˜Sixty-four.’
    â€˜Good for him.’
    â€˜Well, why not?’ he asked defensively.
    â€˜No reason at all! I said—good for him.’
    â€˜Thought you were being sarky.’
    â€˜Is it your step-mother you’re going to visit today?’
    â€˜Yes. They live not far from here. Dad’s retired. They’ve got a little house near Walton.’ The accent was sounding more and more incongruous. It would have led me to expect a dad on a council estate in Roehampton. My trouble, one of them, is that I’m a sort of snob. I mean, I’m inclined to stick labels on people according to what used to be class, and now that one can’t do that any more, I’m often at a loss. Fortunately I’m beginning to like it that way; much more