that disturbedme, ‘I dare say she’s right, and I’m a stupid kid who shouldn’t be out loose, but I—’ He swallowed. ‘Did you say you’d got a hotel?’
‘Yes. It’s right in the centre. On the Stephansplatz, opposite St Stephen’s Cathedral. Why? Would you like to go there first with me?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Fine,’ I said briskly, ‘we’ll do that. Look, have you room in your holdall for these magazines?’
‘Yes, here, let me. Mrs March—’
‘Vanessa, please. You know, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’
‘I think I’d better.’
‘Here, Tim, relax, it can’t be as bad as that. What have you done? Forgotten to tell him which day you’re coming?’
‘It’s worse than that. He’s not even expecting me. He didn’t ask me to come at all. I made it all up, to get away. In fact,’ said Timothy desperately, ‘he hasn’t written to me since he left. Not once. Oh’ – at something which must have shown in my face – ‘I didn’t mind, really. I mean, we were never all that close, and if he didn’t want to, well, it was up to him, wasn’t it? You’re not to think I told all those lies to Mummy about him writing because I – because I felt he should have done, or something. I only did it so that I could get away.’
He finished the terrible little confession on a note of apology. I couldn’t look at him. It was all I could do not to state loudly and clearly just what I thought of his parents. ‘In other words,’ I said, ‘you’re running away?’
‘Yes. In a way. Yes.’
‘And now that you’re stuck with a nursemaid who looks like handing you over personally, you’ve had to tell her?’
‘It wasn’t that.’ He looked grateful for the calm neutrality of my tone. ‘I could have got away from you easily. It just didn’t seem fair, when you’d be the one to be left with all the row.’
‘I see. Thank you. Well, we’ll have to think this out, won’t we? How are you off for money?’
‘I’ve got about twenty pounds.’
‘If your father didn’t send you the money for the fare, where did you get it?’
‘Well, I suppose I stole it.’ said Timothy.
‘My poor Tim, you are breaking out, aren’t you? Who from?’
‘Oh, nobody. It was my Post Office account. I was supposed to leave it alone till my eighteenth birthday. That,’ said Timothy clearly, ‘is pretty soon, anyway.’
‘Am I to take it you didn’t intend to get in touch with your father at all? Did you only use the fact that he lives in Vienna as an excuse to get away?’
‘Not really. I’ve got to live somewhere till I get the job, and twenty pounds won’t last for ever. I expect there’ll be a bit of a turn-up, but you get over it.’
He spoke without noticeable apprehension, and I was reassured. Perhaps he was tougher than I had thought. It seemed as if he might need to be.
I said: ‘Well, we’ll go together to my hotel first, shall we, and have a wash and so forth, and ring your father up. I expect he’ll come for you . . . That is, if he’shome. I suppose you don’t know if he’s in Vienna now? It’s August, after all; he may be away on holiday.’
‘That’s what the twenty pounds is for,’ said Timothy. ‘The – well, the interregnum.’
I got it then, with a bang. I turned to stare at him, and he, back in ambush behind the heavy lock of hair, eyed me once again warily, but this time – I thought – also with amusement.
‘Timothy Lacy! Are you trying to tell me you’ve lied to your poor mother and gone blinding off into the blue without having the foggiest idea where your father even
is
?’
‘Well, he does live in Vienna, I know he does. The money comes from there – the money to pay for school and so on.’
‘But you don’t actually know his address?’
‘No.’
There was a rather loaded silence. He must have misunderstood my half of it, for he said quickly: ‘Don’t think I’ll be a nuisance to you. If it’s too
Elizabeth Amelia Barrington