Where Everything Seems Double by Penny Freedman (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📗

‘They’ve got a practice for a rowing race this morning, so I thought I’d hang out with you.’

‘Excellent.’

I have already had a text from Eve, summoning me to a meeting with Ruby’s parents this morning, so I’m not quite sure how we’re going to manage this, but I seem to be in other people’s hands so they can sort it out.

We breakfast heartily, I on pancakes and maple syrup, Freda on a full English (though I advise against the black pudding) and then go down to meet Eve at her studio. The air still has the freshness of early morning as we skirt the lake and tourists are not yet about. We are aware of controlled shouting coming from the water, and as we watch two racing crews come toiling up the lake, exhorted from the bank by a man with a megaphone.

Freda hops up and down with excitement, the new dignity of being thirteen temporarily forgotten. ‘There they are! See? Milo is in the near one and Fergus is in the other one.’

I can see them, frowning in concentration, paying no attention to us even if they have heard Freda’s excited squeaks.

‘What’s the race they’re practising for?’ I ask.

‘Don’t know exactly. It’s supposed to be next week but they’re not sure if it’ll happen because of the police. They might – you know – drag the lake because of Ruby.’

‘Yes, they might.’ I can’t help wondering why they haven’t done it already; it seems to me most likely that that is where she is.

We meet Eve at her studio and she immediately takes Freda under her wing.

‘An assistant is just what I need this morning,’ she announces. ‘While your gran is talking to Ruby’s parents just along there, you could help me with my pots. I’m firing and glazing this morning.’

Freda is delighted and I have to swallow a sizeable lump of sour resentment. I am the person who offers Freda exciting new experiences; Eve has no business muscling in. I can see her clearly through Freda’s eyes – an alternative grandmother, more fun, more creative, more laid-back, new and different, outclassing me in charm and empathy just as she used to with the kids at school.

I fake a big, jolly smile.

‘Then everyone will be happy,’ I say, and I walk with Eve along to Neil Buxton’s studio.

Like Eve, he has his workshop behind and goods on display at the front. He is out at the back when we walk in and I have a moment to look round. This, I see at a glance, is a man who takes the work seriously – he calls himself an artist, I am sure, rather than a craftsman. There is no concession here to tourist tat, no strings of beads or jolly jugs, the shop is almost like a gallery, its few pieces arranged individually, each unique. I don’t get a chance to look at the prices but I can guarantee that they won’t be cheap. Does he sell enough here to make a living, or are they on sale in upmarket outlets elsewhere?

The man who comes through from the back surprises me. I was beginning to form a picture of a self-confident, even arrogant man, but Neil Buxton is small and inconspicuous, a man you might not recognise at a second meeting. He has thin, sandy hair and pale blue eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses and his face is impassive as Eve introduces me. I offer a handshake and he takes it without enthusiasm and says nothing. Nervous, I start to prattle.

‘These are lovely,’ I say.

He looks at Eve. ‘Susan will be here in a minute,’ he says.

‘Then I’ll leave you to it,’ Eve says brightly. She is as uncomfortable with him as I am. ‘See you later, Gina.’ And she’s off.

I watch her go. When I turn back, I find that Neil Buxton is looking at me.

‘I don’t know why she thinks you can help,’ he says.

So thank you, Eve, for preparing the ground so thoroughly, I think.

‘Well,’ I say, feeling as though I am at a job interview, ‘I have been involved in a couple of cases with the police down in Kent. A student of mine was killed, and a girl at my daughter’s school was…’ I peter out. This is not going well. I am already implying that we are dealing with a murder. I take another tack. ‘Eve asked me to come,’ I say, ‘and she is my friend, so I came.’

He is not looking at me and is possibly not listening either. He is examining one of his pieces, a tall, slim vase in a very pale green; he seems to be looking for flaws. I look at the open door and I am tempted to do a runner. I don’t have to be here, doing this, do I? And what is it that I am doing exactly?

A woman appears in the doorway and I have no doubt that she is Susan Buxton. She is as pale and nondescript as her husband. At first glance I think that she is old to be the mother of a thirteen-year-old, but as she approaches I can see that she is actually quite young and it is just the defeated slump of her shoulders and the limp straggle of her hair that make her look older. I wait a moment for Neil to greet her and when he doesn’t I step forward.

‘You must be Susan,’ I say.

She looks startled, as though I have performed a magic trick, but she must have known that I was coming.

‘Yes?’ she says, warily.

‘I’m Gina,’ I say. ‘Eve’s friend.’

‘Yes,’ she says.

This is going really well, isn’t it? If I stop talking, will one of them start? I try it, taking a sudden interest in a blue dish with an asymmetrical, curled edge.

‘Eve is worried about Colin,’ Susan Buxton says. ‘Because of the coaching.’

This is new. Something else Eve failed to say.

‘Colin was giving Ruby coaching?’ I ask.

‘In chemistry,’ she says. ‘The school—’

Her husband