The Cinderella Factor Page 2

  Standing there listening, Jo was helpless. She burned with shame.

  ‘Maybe it’s adolescence,’ Carol Grey told him sadly, glancing at Jo with spurious kindness. ‘She’s such a great gangling thing, poor child, and with those shoulders. Like a wardrobe. I suppose a man can’t really understand that, Monsieur Sauveterre.’

  Jacques blushed. In the face of this gentle female mockery he forgot all his campaigning zeal and nodded.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, avoiding Jo’s eyes. ‘Well, I’m sure you know best, Mrs Grey.’

  And he fled. Leaving her to deal with the fallout on her own.

  Carol’s mask dropped frighteningly the moment the door closed behind him. ‘So you thought you’d run away with the pretty little Frog Prince, did you?’ Carol said softly. ‘Think again. Who would want a giraffe like you?’

  Jo put her head down and didn’t answer.

  It maddened Carol. ‘If you’ve got time to do bloody Latin, you’ve got time to help me in the business. You can start filing tonight.’

  So there was the end of ever doing homework again.

  ‘No point in getting ideas above your station,’ Carol said, again and again. ‘The next thing we’d know, you’d be wanting to go to college or something.’ And she laughed heartily. ‘Much better if you stay here and learn to do as you’re told. That’s all you’re good for. All you’ll ever be good for.’

  Jacques Sauveterre did not talk to Jo after that. Never singled her out in class again. Never so much as smiled at her when she took Mark to the under-elevens football game that he coached. He was kind to Mark, though. Jo tried to be grateful for that.

  And his example also inspired someone else. The car maintenance teacher was more streetwise than Jacques Sauveterre.

  ‘She just doesn’t fit in,’ he said to Carol. ‘The others are tough kids in combats. Jo isn’t. But she soon will be if you aren’t careful.’

  That night, every garment disappeared from Jo’s wardrobe except two pairs of army surplus trousers and some khaki tee- shirts.

  ‘See if Monsieur le Frog looks at you now,’ said Carol, gleeful.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jo,’ said Mr Rawlings. ‘Hope I didn’t make things worse. Well, at least I can give you the history of the combustion engine.’

  He started lending her books on classic cars. Jo read them at school in the breaks. She also became a first-class mechanic.

  Carol never knew. She thought she was keeping Jo fully occupied, caring for Mark and working in her home sales business. It gave her a whipping boy and she enjoyed that. She even laughed when Brian Grey came home drunk and hit out at Jo.

  ‘Life isn’t all pretty Frenchmen, kid. Get over it.’

  On her sixteenth birthday Jo ran away for the fourth and final time.

  Oh, the Greys looked for her. They were being paid good money for her keep. Anyway, Carol didn’t like her victims to get away. It spoiled her fun for weeks.

  But this time, Jo had planned well. She knew where her papers were because Carol had taken delight in showing her the betraying birth certificate.

  ‘There you are. “Father unknown”. You’re a little illegit. Nobody wanted you. They paid us to take you off their hands.’

  Jo had looked at it stonily. The one thing she would not do, ever, was cry. It drove Carol wild with frustration.

  So she’d just taken note of where Carol had put it away. And that night she took it, along with her passport and an oddly shaped envelope she had never seen before. But it was addressed to her, in unfamiliar handwriting.

  Inside there was an old book—a hardback with cheap card covers. It had pen and ink drawings on the printed pages and smelled of old-fashioned nursery sweets—liquorice and barley sugar and mint humbugs. It was called The Furry Purry Tiger. It was a present for a child.

  Maybe someone had wanted her after all, thought Jo. For a while, anyway.

  She didn’t get too excited about it. She had enough to do just surviving in the next three years. And making sure that Mark did not have to pay for her defection.

  She went on the road—moving from place to place, doing casual jobs, finding new places to stay every few weeks. One way or another, though, she always managed to call Mark once a week. They got adept at making contact without Carol finding out. They always ended by saying, ‘See you soon.’

  When she ended a call Jo always thought: I’ll get Mark away. I will. And then we’ll go to France, which is earthly paradise, and be happy.

  Another thing she’d managed to do was keep in touch with Monsieur Sauveterre. Whether he’d seen the marks Brian’s fists left or whether he was just kind-hearted, she never knew. Maybe it was because he coached Mark’s football club and it was nothing to do with Jo at all. But before he’d gone home, he’d pressed his address in France into her hand.

  ‘You and Mark. When you come to France, you must look me up. You will always be welcome. I promise you.’

  For Jo, it was like insurance. Every so often, when she was settled somewhere for a few months, she sent him a postcard with her address. It was a way of saying, Remember your promise.

  Jacques always replied. He’d even invited them to his wedding.

  And then one day, when she spoke to Mark, she knew they could not put it off any longer. He was still only fifteen, but that couldn’t be helped. One Saturday morning, on a borrowed cell-phone, Mark’s voice sounded odd. More than odd. Old. Very, very tired. Or ill.

  At once Jo knew what had happened. Drunken Brian Grey had beaten him. Badly this time. Just as he had once beaten Jo.

  Only once. The second time he’d tried, the night before her birthday, Jo had got him in an arm lock, ground his telephone under her heel and locked him in the cupboard under the stairs. That had been the evening she’d taken her papers and the money she had saved, from the babysitting that Brian and Carol did not know about, and melted into the night.

  Now, she knew, Mark would have to do the same.

  ‘Get out of there now,’ she said, ice cool now that the worst had happened. ‘Do you know where he keeps your birth certificate and your passport?’

  ‘Yes. I saw him put them in the old biscuit barrel the last time he changed the hiding place.’

  It figured. As well as being violent, Brian Grey was sly and secretive. But nobody ever said he was bright. What an uncle I have, thought Jo.

  Aloud, she said, ‘Get them, and meet me at the bus station as soon as you can.’

  ‘But—’ Mark sounded ashamed. ‘I’m not like you. I haven’t got any money, Jo.’

  Her heart clenched with pain for him. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said gently. ‘I have. I’ve been saving for this a long time.’

  She waited at the bus station for hours. When Mark came he was limping, and one side of his face was so badly bruised that his eye was closed. Jo’s heart contracted in fierce protectiveness. But he grinned when he saw her.

  ‘Got them,’ he said, waving the small red book at her.

  She hugged him swiftly. ‘Did you have trouble getting away?’

  He shrugged. ‘Brian’s out cold and Carol was shopping. They think I haven’t got anywhere to run to.’

  The adult world didn’t believe Mark any more than it had believed Jo.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘First the ferry. Then, France,’ said Jo, out of her new, beautiful certainty.

  Mark sucked his teeth. ‘To Mr Sauveterre?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mark looked at her oddly. ‘Oh.’

  It looked as if Carol had told him the tale about her adolescent crush. Jo winced inwardly, but aloud she said in a steady voice, ‘Jacques is married now. He said we’d always be welcome.’

  She bought their tickets at the big bus station and they embarked on an adventure of long-distance buses and ferries, crowded with families going on holiday. Mark talked cricket with a father and son, while Jo tried out her careful French. She was astonished to find the crew speaking back to her as if they understood.


  After Boulogne there were more buses, slower and cosier—and a lot chattier. Then a lift from a kindly lorry driver. By that time Jo was rattling away easily in French. Even Mark was inserting a grunted comment or two.

  This is going to work, Jo thought.

  She had not realised how deeply pessimistic she had been. Not for herself, so much. After four years she knew she could survive pretty much anything if she kept her head. And she’d had a lot of practice in keeping her head by now. But she was scared for Mark. After all, he was a source of income for the Greys. Carol did not lightly let money pass out of her hands.

  All through their journey Jo was alert for any sign of pursuit. But once they reached the Lot et Garonne she accepted it at last. No one was chasing them. They were home free.

  In the little village they got directions to the Sauveterres’ organic smallholding.

  They walked along a small winding path that climbed a hillside, golden in the evening. The French countryside opened green arms to them. The sun turned the quiet road to gold dust between the hedges.

  And when they got to the Sauveterres’ property Jacques hugged them as if they had just got back from Antarctica.

  ‘I have always had such a conscience about leaving you two behind in that rainy place,’ he said, ruffling Mark’s hair.

  Though he smiled, Jo thought from the look in his eyes that he meant it.

  Over the years, Jacques had forgotten all about her teenage crush. He and his pretty, kind wife Anne Marie welcomed their unannounced visitors without reservation. Mark could stay with them as long as he wanted, they said. They pressed Jo to stay, too.

  Jo said no. Not for more than a couple of nights.

  Jacques might have forgotten her crush on him. But Jo hadn’t. Blond Anne Marie was even prettier than the photograph he had sent. Prettier, and sweeter, and a petite five foot three. Also, just at that moment, six months pregnant.

  Jacques was no longer a teacher. The Sauveterres were trying to make a living from their organic market garden. Their tumbledown farmhouse was wonderfully homely, but Jo knew about being hard up. Her sensitised antennae picked up lots of signs that money was tight. For all their kindness, the Sauveterres could not afford another mouth to feed. And anyway—

  Whenever she thought about it, Jo hugged her arms across her breast defensively.

  Well, Jacques and his Anne Marie were breathtakingly, idyllically happy. Every time they met—in the fields, in the kitchen, even on their way to and from the barn—they touched and kissed. And smiled into each other’s eyes. Every gesture said Look at us, see how in love we are.

  Jo did not wish them less in love. Of course she didn’t. But pretty Anne Marie, with her soft flying hair and tanned, perfect legs, made Jo realise just how tall and plain she was herself. How unfeminine.

  There was nothing to be done about it. Some people were just born unlovable. She accepted that. But, watching Anne Marie and Jacques—well, she minded.

  ‘This,’ said Jo, taking herself for an early-morning walk with the goats, ‘is a bit of a shock.’

  She had so focused on getting Mark away from the Greys that she had not thought about herself. Now she took stock, and it was like a douche of cold water.

  She did not have to spend long in front of Anne Marie’s mirror to see what the world saw: a six-foot scruff in combat trousers. Her nails were bitten. Her hair was a brown thatch like the rag doll scarecrow she’d had as a very small child. Her tee-shirt had holes. Her shoulders were as broad as Jacques’s. No one was ever going to put their arm lovingly round shoulders like that.

  ‘And just as well,’ said Jo, aloud and firm. Aloud and firm usually helped. ‘Love makes you weak. You can’t afford that, Jo Almond.’

  She wandered down the hillside, attended by curious goats. ‘I am happy,’ she told herself firmly.

  It sounded good. And it was—nearly—true.

  ‘I have never been this happy before.’

  And that was certainly true.

  Suddenly Jo grinned, stretching her arms above her head. ‘It’s a start,’ she said gleefully. ‘It surely is a start.’

  It was more than a start. Within a week she had a job, and a place to stay, too.

  It came about by pure chance. She was in the local market town, trawling round the businesses to see if anyone needed a waitress, a storeroom hand, a messenger. The square had cobbles and stone arcades and a balcony that looked as if the Black Prince should be standing on it in full armour, making an arousing speech. To her amusement, she saw that a small crowd had gathered round some object of fascination.

  Not the Black Prince, though. Approaching, she found they were grouped about an elderly open-topped Rolls Royce. It was shunting backwards and forwards between a medieval wall and the end of a colonnaded arcade, driven by a young Englishman getting more flustered and profane by the minute. People had even taken seats in the café opposite to enjoy the show.

  Jo propped herself up against the wall and watched, too.

  The driver was not much older than herself. He had a Caribbean tan which just might be natural, and expensively streaked hair which certainly wasn’t. Her lips twitched. She folded her arms and waited.

  ‘Look,’ he said to the assembled market-goers. ‘This isn’t helping. Do any of you know how to—? Oh, damn.’ This last as the car hiccupped forwards and grazed one of the columns.

  Jo took pity on him. She strolled across and leaned on the driver’s door.

  ‘Drive her much, do you?’

  He glared. ‘She’s my brother’s. I was bringing her down for a grease and a spray. But I took a wrong turning and ended up in the damned square.’ He looked with loathing at the medieval buildings as if they were personal enemies.

  She opened the door. ‘Let me. I’ve driven big and old before.’

  One of the bonuses of those long-ago car maintenance classes had been that she’d got to drive a lot. None of those cars had been an aristocratic Rolls, but they had been old and cranky—and some of them had been very big. She had no doubt that she could move the car without demolishing the picture-postcard corner.

  She was right.

  The Rolls came gently to rest in front of the café. The audience at the tables gave a small, polite round of applause. The rest of the crowd dispersed now the fun was over. The young man recovered his temper and thrust out a hand.

  ‘How did you do that?’ he said, in what appeared to be genuine awe. And, before she could answer, ‘Crispin Taylor-Harrod. Oh, boy, did you save my bacon. Can I buy you a drink?’

  Jo accepted coffee. Soon she was sitting beside him in the sunshine, sipping the headily fragrant stuff that bore no relation at all to the mid-morning brew of her last employer.

  ‘What a bit of luck, bumping into you. I knew it was no good calling the garage to come and help. Old Brassens hates driving anything with right-hand drive. What are you doing round here?’

  Jo told him. Well, not everything, obviously. Nothing that would put Mark or the Sauveterres at risk if Carol and Brian had organised pursuit. Just enough to make pleasant conversation in the sunshine before she went back to the serious business of tracking down a living wage.

  Crispin frowned when she finished. ‘You want a job? Seriously?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jo simply.

  ‘And you don’t mind what you do?’

  ‘No. Well,’ she amended hurriedly, ‘within reason. No gogo dancing, no brain surgery.’

  He laughed, but his eyes were narrowed as if he were thinking deeply.

  ‘And you know about old cars?’

  Jo was taken aback. ‘I know about old bangers. Nothing in the league of a Roller.’

  He dismissed that with a wave of the hand. ‘Yes, but you know about gearsticks and double de-clutching and stuff. You could drive them if you had to move them in and out of a garage, say?’

  Jo agreed gravely that she did and she could.

  ‘Do you like cars?’ He sounded as if it were virtually impos
sible.

  Jo thought about it. ‘Yes, on the whole. They don’t make promises and they don’t let you down unless they can’t help it. They don’t spring many surprises as long as you look after them.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Would you like to?’

  ‘Like to what?’

  ‘Look after them?’

  ‘Look after—’ She broke off, staring at the gleaming aristocrat parked in front of the café. ‘Them? How many Rollers do you have, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Not me. My brother, Patrick. He has a collection.’

  ‘Well, if he’s a collector he must want to look after them himself.’

  ‘Inherited,’ said Crispin simply. ‘He’s going to sell them all. He told me to come here and take a look. He’s got some expert coming from Rouen to put the cars back into running order. I’m supposed to be his little helper on the spot. But—well, it’s not really my bag, and I’ve had an invitation to do some sailing up the coast of Spain. So I wondered…’ He looked at Jo speculatively. ‘I’d pay you.’

  ‘I’m not qualified,’ protested Jo.

  Crispin laughed heartily. ‘Good Lord, neither am I. You just have to book in the experts and take notes. I’ve got all the contact details. And it would get me out of prison.’

  ‘Prison!’

  But prison in Crispin Taylor-Harrod’s terms turned out to be a fifteenth-century château, complete with turrets and a world-famous garden, albeit run down. The trouble was…

  ‘It’s miles from anywhere. No girls.’

  Also no transport, no nightclubs, no bands.

  ‘And my mate Leo has asked me on a boat which is wall-to-wall babes in bikinis,’ said Crispin dreamily. ‘Sex and sangria—that’s what I need. Bit of beach life. Not a load of rusting radiators that haven’t been out on the public road in twenty years.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Jo, torn between laughter and the first stirrings of hope, ‘that you weren’t the ideal choice for the job.’

  Crispin grinned unrepentantly. ‘Ah, but I came first. There was a bit of unpleasantness at college, and my mother threw me out. My brother Patrick said I could come here and do something useful. But what he really meant was stay out of trouble and do some revising.’