Free Scarlet Feather by Maeve Binchy

that stuck-up boy at Oaklands whose mother had given everyone such a hard time… When Cathy had stopped being nice Mrs Scarlet’s brat of a daughter, they had had very few misunderstandings. Neil had understood that Cathy wanted to run her own business right from the start. Cathy had known that he wanted a certain kind of law practice. There would be no short cuts for Neil Mitchell, no ever-decreasing office hours like his father had managed to negotiate; no pretending that he was somehow doing business by being out on a golf course or in a club in Stephen’s Green. They would talk late into the night about the defendant who had never had a chance because the odds were stacked against him, how to prove that he was dyslexic and had never understood the forms that were sent to him. Or they would go through the budgets yet again for Scarlet Feather, and Neil would get out his calculator and add, subtract, divide and multiply. Whenever she was downcast he would calm her and assure her that one of his father’s partners, a man who lived and breathed money, would advise them every step of the way.
    Cathy let herself into number seven Waterview and sat down in the kitchen. This was the only room where they could really see the pictures on the walls. There was no room for paintings in the study because of all the books, files and documents. The hall and stairs were too narrow, you couldn’t really see anything they hung there, and the two bedrooms upstairs were lined with fitted wardrobes and dressing tables. So there was no room there.
    Cathy sat at her kitchen table and looked up at their art collection. Everything there had been painted by someone they knew. The Greek sunrise by the old man in the taverna where they had stayed. The prison cell by the woman on a murder charge that Neil had got acquitted. The picture of Clew Bay in Mayo by the American tourist they had met and befriended when his wallet had been stolen. The wonderful still life by the old lady in the hospice who had an exhibition three weeks before she died. Every one of them had a history, a meaning and a significance. It didn’t matter to Neil and Cathy whether they were great art or rubbish.
    A telephone in a quiet house can sound like an alarm bell. Somehow, from its very tone, Cathy knew this wasn’t going to be an easy phone call.
    Is Neil there?’ her mother-in-law snapped.  I’m afraid he’s out with Jonathan. There was an attempt to hustle him out of the country this morning.’
    ‘When will he be coming back?’ Hannah’s voice was a rasp. ‘Well, when he’s finished, he won’t know when. ‘I’ll call his mobile…’
    ‘He turns it off at meetings like this, he couldn’t…’ ‘Where
is
he, Cathy, he has to come here at once.’ ‘Has there been an accident… ?’
    ‘There has indeed been an accident, and most of the kitchen ceiling has come down,’ Hannah cried. ‘They left bath taps running and the weight of the water… I need Neil to get those children out of here to wherever they’re going to be sent. We haven’t had a moment’s peace – and as for you, Cathy, those children have eaten entirely unsuitable rich desserts and have been sick. I need to talk to Neil. Now.’ Her voice was by now dangerously high and shaky.  I can’t contact him for you, I really can’t. But I know what he’d say.’
    If you’re going to tell me to calm down…’
    ‘He’d say we’ll take them here. So that’s what we’ll do.’ Cathy sighed.
    ‘Can you, Cathy?’ The relief in Hannah’s voice was clear. ‘They’ve been allowed to run wild – they need professionals to look after them, to try to bring them back to normal. And I don’t want Neil to say I put them on to you…’
    ‘It won’t be like that.’
    ‘No. But get him to ring me the moment you can.’
    Cathy smiled. She had now what her mother called her-meat-and-her-manners: she had offered and been refused – even if she had only offered because she could see it