Other People's Children by Joanna Trollope

a clean, cheerful house and no rows. There would certainly be no rows. Rows, Matthew said, had punctuated his life with Nadine with relentless regularity, sending china and children flying. Josie had been shocked, listening to him. She and Tom had argued, certainly – mostly about Dale – but neither of them had ever thrown anything. It wouldn’t have occurred to them and, if she had her way, it would soon not occur to Matthew’s children either, as a means of communication. She would be very patient with them, she told herself,
very
, and not ask or expect anything in return for months. She felt, being in charge of the house and the family, that she would have endless patience with the members of it in return for that power, a power she had never really had in the house in Bath because she had walked into it already complete with the Carver family and all their habits and traditions, including – and this had been abidingly hard – the ghost of Tom’s dead wife, Pauline. Pauline, canonized by dying so young and so unjustly, pervaded the house with a subtle strength that Josie would have respected if she hadn’t felt so threatened by it. It was years before Dale would even allow Josie insideher bedroom, let alone permit her to help choose its decor and bedlinen, and when she finally did, Josie was much taken aback by the number of photographs of Pauline. Nadine, by comparison with Pauline, was a most manageable opponent; she was clearly a rotten mother, a lousy housekeeper, she’d never earned a contributory penny and she was alive.
    Clare dropped three or four bulging carrier bags on the floor by the nearest bed. They keeled sideways and various discouraging and grubby garments flopped out.
    â€˜Do you like it?’ Josie said.
    Clare said nothing.
    â€˜Those are your duvet covers and pillowcases—’
    Clare gave the beds a cursory, indifferent glance.
    â€˜Are they?’
    â€˜Yes. Aren’t you pleased to see them again?’
    Clare began to fiddle with her bottom cardigan button.
    â€˜I don’t remember them.’
    â€˜I hope,’ Josie said, persisting, ‘that I’ve put them on the right beds. I’ve put yours there, and Becky’s on the bed by the window.’
    â€˜Becky won’t sleep by the window,’ Clare said. ‘She only uses the window to chuck her fag ends out of.’
    Josie smiled.
    â€˜Sorry, but I don’t want her smoking in here.’
    Clare sighed. She trailed across the room, stumbling over the Greek rug and rucking it up, and looked at the pinboard.
    â€˜What’s that for?’
    â€˜Posters. Your posters and postcards and maybe paintings you do at school.’
    â€˜In my year,’ Clare said, ‘we do pottery.’
    â€˜Well, surely you’ve got some posters, haven’t you? Pop groups and models and things?’
    Clare stared at her.
    â€˜
Models
?’
    Josie stooped to flick the rug straight.
    â€˜It was only a suggestion.’
    â€˜Becky likes Oasis,’ Clare said. ‘They won’t fit up there.’
    â€˜Clare,’ Josie said, ‘I’ll leave you to kind of look about. Open cupboards and things. You know where the bathroom is.’
    Clare shot her a quick glance.
    â€˜I’m not using the bathroom,’ Becky had said that morning, on Hereford station. ‘I’m not. I’m not sitting where
she’s
sat.’
    â€˜What you gonna do then?’ Rory said.
    Becky blew out a cloud of smoke.
    â€˜Crap in the garden.’
    Rory and Clare had taken no notice of this. Becky had long ago lost the power to shock them. But Nadine, waiting with them until the train came, had cackled with laughter. Something in Clare had wished Nadine wouldn’t and wished that she didn’t always make something much harder which was hard enough anyway. Like standing in this room with someone she didn’t want in her life and who plainly wanted