“I take it this is Buster,” he said, trying to match the distant cordiality of her tone.
“That’s right. I got him two years ago from people who ought to have been shot. They’d neglected him so badly that his hooves had grown right under in curves and he could hardly walk. Would you believe they actually tried to prevent me removing him? I told them it was me or the law, take it or leave it. They took it.”
“You always get your way, it seems?”
“Not always, but I’m a fighter.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Take it how you like.”
“Thanks.”
They eyed each other appraisingly before Norah said, “I tried to find another home for Buster, but it didn’t work out. He’s very set in his ways.”
“What does that mean?”
“Obstreperous.”
“Then naturally he felt at home with you.”
“Meaning we’re two of a kind?”
“Take it how you like,” he retorted coolly. “What about the other donkey? Did you have to shoot anyone to get him?”
“I don’t have another donkey.”
“Then who’s Mack?”
She gave a soft whistle and a small monkey came bounding out of the trees, jumped onto Buster’s back and from there into Norah’s arms. “This is Mack,” she said. “He’s a macao monkey. Unfortunately they’re very pretty.”
“Why unfortunately?”
“It makes them popular as pets. They get bought by people who aren’t fit to own a china monkey, let alone a live one.” There was real anger in her voice.
The conversation wasn’t going as he’d meant. He’d intended to greet her calmly, to be dignified and persuasive and make her see that she couldn’t hope to claim half of Strand House. Instead he found himself discussing the sanctuary as if it were to be a permanent phenomenon. And it definitely wasn’t. The thought reminded him of something else. “What’s the idea of giving house room to that layabout?”
“If you mean Grim, I couldn’t manage without him. And he isn’t a layabout. Whatever he looks like, he’s a brilliant zoologist. Unfortunately he’s only here until he’s finished writing his thesis. Then the university will give him a doctorate and research grant, and he’ll vanish around the world.”
“You relieve my mind. I was afraid it might be impossible to get him off the premises.”
She swung around to face him. “You mean, your first thought was about the property?”
“That has to concern me. You’ve hardly improved the value of the property by—this.” He made a gesture.
“That’s all you see, isn’t it, Hunter? Money, and how your financial position is affected. You judge everything by that yardstick, as though there were no other.”
“It’s as good a yardstick as any in a hard world,” he declared grimly.
“Which is only another way of saying that you don’t believe in any other yardstick.” Her voice changed, grew softer, and curious. “Perhaps that’s why you’re so unhappy.”
He was pale with anger. “Kindly leave my personal feelings out of this.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get personal. It’s just that when I sense sadness in anyone—human or animal—I just can’t help…”
“Once and for all, I am not susceptible to whimsy.”
She wore a puzzled frown. “I’m not being whimsical.”
“This nonsense about sadness in animals! Animals are not sad, Miss Ackroyd.”
“The ones who come here are.”
“You know what I mean. They don’t experience sadness in the way humans do.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they are animals. They’re not humans, they’re animals. There’s a difference.”
“Actually, there’s no difference. Surely you don’t need me to tell you that human beings are animals?”
“Different kinds of animals,” he said, knowing that he was unwise to be provoked into argument.
“Not different at all,” she responded. “You’d be amazed how alike—”
“No, I wouldn’t, because this conversation is going no further,” he interrupted desperately.
“Yes,” she said, regarding him and nodding as if she’d just been enlightened. “There are some things you find very hard to talk about, aren’t there?”
“That’s enough,” he snapped. “If you think you can—”
He got no further. His speech was drowned out by a mad squawking, and the next moment a large white goose came half flying, half hopping toward them. He snapped at Gavin’s legs, forcing him to back away hurriedly. The feeling of looking ridiculous increased his temper. “You’ll get into trouble if you go around setting that vicious bird on people,” he told her grimly.
“Osbert isn’t a vicious bird,” she protested.
He could hardly believe his ears. “Osbert?” he echoed outraged. “You call a goose Osbert? What are you running here? Disneyland?”
“You have a name, don’t you?” she asked defensively.
“I’m not a goose,” he snapped. “I’m a man. And my son is going to be a man. He’s going to grow up in a man’s world, seeing himself as a man—not Tarzan or Saint Francis, but a man. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly. And now I’m going to make myself clear. I don’t care about you or your half-baked prejudices, but I do care about Peter’s feelings. He mustn’t see us fighting. It upsets him too much, and I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow—?”
“Do you have a problem with that?” Norah asked dangerously.
“I have a problem with you and everything about you, and I intend to resolve it my way. In the meantime, the best way for us to avoid quarreling is to avoid talking.”
“That isn’t practical. There are arrangements to be made. I’ll consult you when I have to, but you can be sure it’ll be as little as possible.”
His gratitude for her intervention with the social worker had vanished without a trace. Now all he felt was the gall of being allowed to stay here by her consent, and the power she exercised over everything that should by rights be his—including his son. But she would just have to be endured while he bided his time. The important thing was to become a part of Peter’s life again.
As he turned away from her he saw his son coming out of the house. He hurried toward him, but at a certain point Peter swerved suddenly sideways, so that his path and Gavin’s didn’t cross. Gavin stared, trying to believe it was an accident. There was still some distance between them, and Peter might simply not have seen him.
But in his heart he didn’t believe it. Peter had turned aside to avoid him, and the pain was indescribable. After a moment he walked back to the house, taking care not to go in Peter’s direction, and once inside he shut himself in his room.
Chapter Four
As the days passed and Peter still did not speak to him, Gavin faced the fact that his son had withdrawn into a silent world of his own. He eyed his father watchfully, suspiciously.