Breaking the Chain (21 page)

In Somerset, Sunday was a bright cold day. Hope and Peter drank their morning coffee in the dining room, where Peter deflected all Hope’s verbal assaults on him with imperturbable urbanity. They had had this conversation many times before.

‘You said you would retire last year,’ Hope said accusingly to her husband. ‘You said it the year before too, but you never do. I hardly ever see you!’

‘You’re seeing me now,’ Peter said mildly. ‘I’m home for this weekend in the country, aren’t I?’

‘You’re 73 this year,’ Hope went on. ‘Other men stop and look after their wives well before they get to 70! Why can’t you?’

‘You’ve got the capable Mrs White to look after you now,’ Peter said. ‘She does it so much better than I could.’

‘She’s just the housekeeper!’ Hope said. ‘It’s not the same thing at all. But that’s irrelevant, as you well know. It’s just a red herring. So I ask you again – when are you going to retire? And I want a sensible answer this time.’

‘I can’t possibly stop earning money,’ Peter said, quite untroubled by her tone of voice. ‘We wouldn’t either of us last long on our pensions.’

‘What nonsense!’ Hope said. ‘You’ve got plenty of money.
I ‘ve
got plenty of money. It’s just an excuse. You’re a tiresome selfish old man!’

‘I’ll retire at 80,’ Peter said unabashed, ‘or when I’m too old to work, whichever comes first. That’s a promise. Will that please you?’

‘It will be a bit late then!’ Hope said. ‘You won’t be worth spending time with, once you’re too old to work!’

‘I’m always worth spending time with,’ Peter said cheerfully. ‘Now, will you accompany me for a short walk to inspect the goldfish?’

‘I most certainly shall not!’ Hope said. She knew that Peter would do exactly as he pleased. He always had. He never admitted it, and he always won.

‘There may also be a daffodil out,’ Peter said encouragingly, ‘green shoots to identify, slugs to murder.’

‘If you’re determined to change the subject,’ Hope said crossly, ‘you’ll just have to inspect things on your own. I’m sorry, but there it is. Put a coat and scarf on; it’s cold.’

She watched him through the French windows as he went down the garden path a few minutes later. He was not wearing the suggested coat. Obstinate old fool, she muttered to herself. His arthritis was apparently not so acute at the moment, because he was walking with his stick quite briskly. Neither of us is really old yet, Hope thought. We can still do what we want. We’ve still got our full complement of marbles. There’s still time for us to be together, and yet even now after all these years, he refuses to make the effort. She set her face in determination. I shall not let him see that it upsets me, she said to herself. I shan’t give him the satisfaction!

‘What would you like to do?’ Fay had asked Phoebe in Rick’s flat, after they had had breakfast, and Phoebe had packed her things, and they had made arrangements for the feeding of the cat.

‘I’ve always wanted to go down the Thames in a riverboat to Greenwich,’ Phoebe suggested.

‘Ye-es,’ Fay said, ‘but not in February, I think. It would be too bloody cold. We’ll do it in the summer. Now, how well do you know London?’

‘Not at all,’ Phoebe confessed.

‘Right then … I know, I’ll drive you round on a scenic tour, we’ll eat lunch at a little bistro I know, and then we’ll spend the afternoon at the Tate. It opens at two o’clock on Sundays. Will that do?’

‘Lovely,’ agreed Phoebe. Fay thought she would probably have agreed to anything, just so long as she was not called upon to make any decisions.

Now, as they sat together on a bench in the Clore Gallery admiring the Turners and resting their feet, she was glad she had decided for them both. Phoebe was relaxed again and enjoying herself. She was loud in her praise of the paintings and full of awe at their size and their grandeur.

‘I love that one,’ Phoebe said, ‘the castle with the cow in front and the sunlight on the water. And that canal one with the sailing ship and the cathedral in the distance. I’m really glad I didn’t go straight home, Fay. I’d hate to have missed this.’

‘Good,’ Fay said, smiling at her. When the gallery closed at 5.30 they went to her flat. ‘Let’s stay in this evening,’ she said. ‘I’ll cook us something later on and we’ll have a good bottle of wine.’

‘That would be great,’ Phoebe said. ‘I’m exhausted. No gin, though, I’ve gone right off it!’

Fay put the gas fire on and they lazed in front of it. Phoebe finally got too hot and took off her sweater, revealing a baggy T-shirt. Fay fetched a family photograph album from one of the stack of cardboard boxes in the bedroom, which contained all her personal things, and showed Phoebe pictures of her daughters. Phoebe said all the right things as if by instinct as she turned the pages, and Fay felt more than usually at ease in her company. Phoebe was avid for family stories, so she talked to her about how she and Conrad had met and more about the senior Moons in the old days.

‘Did you ever meet Nancy Sedgemoor?’ Phoebe asked her.

‘I did once, at our wedding in 1968. She was pretty alarming as I remember, very bright, didn’t suffer fools gladly. I rather admired her. Why?’

‘Just wondered,’ Phoebe said. She was lying on her stomach on the rug between Fay and the fire, with her chin cupped in her hands supported by her elbows. Her eyelashes were long and curled up at their ends, Fay noticed looking down from the sofa. The glow from the fire showed up the fine blonde hairs on Phoebe’s arms and the red highlights in her thick hair. Fay wanted very much to reach down and stroke her head, but she did not.

Later on, she went into the kitchen to cook supper, and Phoebe went at the same time into the hall to telephone Duncan.

‘There’s no answer,’ Phoebe said, appearing at the kitchen door moments later. ‘He must be home by now, it’s dark.’ When she tried again a quarter of an hour later, he was still not answering and Phoebe began to look worried.

‘Try Hope,’ Fay suggested, beating egg yolks into a white sauce.

‘I try not to phone her if I can help it,’ Phoebe said, ‘she’s always so rude. But it looks as though I’ll have to.’ She went to do it.

Fay added grated cheese, and salt and pepper, whisked egg whites and folded them in, and then poured the mixture into a deep round dish before putting it carefully into the oven.

‘No answer there either,’ Phoebe said coming in again and looking more worried. ‘I kept dialling. I even got them to test the line. It’s very odd. They hardly ever go out in the evening and Duncan never does. I hope there’s nothing wrong.’

‘Perhaps Duncan will phone you?’

‘He can’t phone here, can he? He hasn’t got the number.’

‘Oh no, of course not. I keep forgetting that I’m not legit these days. Look,’ Fay offered, ‘do you want to go back to Rick’s house after we’ve eaten, in case Duncan is trying to get in touch?’

‘No,’ Phoebe said at once. ‘I’d much rather stay here. It’s probably nothing to worry about. I’ll try again later, or I’ll ring first thing tomorrow. He’s bound to be there then. What are you cooking?’

‘Surprise!’ Fay said.

It turned out to be a perfect cheese soufflé, and Phoebe ate it with gusto. ‘It’s so nice to have such an appreciative person to eat one’s food,’ Fay said, pleased.

‘It’s absolutely delicious,’ Phoebe said, between mouthfuls. ‘Aren’t men lucky? I wish I could have a wife who looked after me half as well as you do!’

Could be arranged, Fay thought with a wry smile. She wished she could tell Phoebe everything.

‘What?’ Phoebe asked.

‘I didn’t say anything. Have some more salad?’

Fay watched her covertly as she ate. The urge just to touch Phoebe’s bare arm teased her resolve with a dangerous new excitement. Fay felt that if she got too close to her, it would jump the gap like an electric arc and declare its existence to the
world. It is too soon, Fay thought. More importantly, I don’t want to risk alienating Phoebe. She’s too valuable as a friend. So don’t screw it up! she admonished herself, but the frisson remained. Fay was amazed that Phoebe seemed not to sense the tension in her. To Fay it made the air between them heavy with a kind of unfolding potency which promised limitless possibilities for happiness. She recognized with a pang that this was exactly how she had felt the last time she had fallen in love.

On Sunday, when Peter had gone down the garden towards the pond, it was more to get away from Hope’s nagging than actually to inspect anything. He had no interest in the emerging bulbs which were now declaring themselves all over the garden. He positively disliked daffodils, and he was much too squeamish to squash a slug. He knew full well that if he invited Hope to accompany him, she would refuse. Women were so predictable! he thought amusedly. It was just as well really; how else would a fellow cope with them at all?

It was colder than he had expected. He wished he had put on the coat and scarf which Hope had advised, but it was too late now. Going back to the house at this point would only give her a moral victory. He pressed on. The pond was out of sight from the major part of the garden, behind a series of clipped yew hedges which separated the lawn from the roses, the herb garden from the herbaceous borders, and the annuals and nursery patch from the kitchen garden. It was all visible from the upstairs rooms, laid out like an architect’s coloured plan, with paths and pergolas and several urns, but outside on the ground one could wander from one green-bounded area to the next without knowing in advance what delightful surprise awaited.

Peter liked the formality of it, even though the subtleties of horticultural design evaded him. It was Hope’s domain and he was happy to leave its evolution to her. The pond, though, was a different kettle of fish altogether. It had been his idea. Bother! Peter thought. Why didn’t I get Duncan to build it in a huge kettle shape? It could have been an excellent spot test for visitors as well as a jolly good in-joke. Under his instruction, Duncan had worked hard on that pond. He encouraged frogspawn in it, each year, and had placed boulders in the shallows for young froglets to haul out onto. He had planted it with special weeds, and had stocked and restocked it with carp of various colours
and fancy fin shapes. Peter was hoping to train them to come to be fed at the sound of a little handbell, but since he was rarely at home it seemed an unlikely achievement. In any case, he didn’t want the bother of doing it himself; he just liked the idea. Perhaps, he thought, I could get the girl – Duncan’s wife – to come over once a day and do it? Then she and Hope would be bound to meet more often. Good idea! He rounded the corner past the last hedge smiling inwardly.

There was a heron standing there at the water’s edge, a few yards away. It was as bold as could be, with one of his best fish in its beak! His smile vanished.

‘Hi!’ he shouted, keeping his eyes on the bird and starting forwards at an awkward run, waving his stick in the air. The heron had started to swallow the fish head first and took off while the golden tail was still waving from the side of its tightly clamped yellow beak. It lumbered into the air over his head with slow beats of its wide grey wings, leaving its long legs trailing out behind it.

Peter, thinking to teach it a lesson it would not forget in a hurry, lunged at it with his stick as it passed, but he was unaware that he was so close to the edge, or that the mud at the shallow margins of the pond was so treacherous. As the bird sailed away unscathed with the fish now safely in its gullet, and its head settled comfortably back between its shoulders, it uttered a harsh gutteral
‘Fraaaarnk!’
at the ridiculous old man below.

Peter didn’t hear it. His feet had slipped from under him, throwing him forwards into the pond. He fell wildly with flailing arms and struck his head on one of the frog boulders, which rendered him instantly unconscious. As he lay there senseless, black tadpoles began to nudge at his ears and wriggle through his thick white hair, and the first draught of cold green water was drawn irresistibly into his lungs.

When Duncan woke up the following morning, he still felt wiped out. A heavy load was weighing down his spirits before he had even opened his eyes, and it took him several seconds before he remembered with a shock of wakefulness, what had
happened the day before. He looked around him. He was in his old room at the big house with the William Morris curtains and the threadbare Persian carpet. He had stayed the night to keep his mother company, although he didn’t know what to do about her, so he felt he probably wasn’t much help. Mrs White, the new housekeeper, had much more idea than he did. She had stayed overtime and made Hope take the sedative the doctor had left for her. Then she had put her to bed with hot milk and sympathy, and had unplugged the telephone on her bedside table to make sure that she wasn’t disturbed. Duncan had put his head cautiously round the door much later on and had found her asleep. Mrs White had been very kind to Duncan as well, as though he were a weeping small boy. In fact he hadn’t cried. He just felt bemused and unbelieving and extraordinarily tired. Sleep had been a welcome escape and he had embraced it eagerly.

Now he was awake again and found himself unwilling to face up to the day ahead. Work was clearly out of the question. I need something to make the day normal; to give it some structure, he thought. I don’t know where to begin. He didn’t want to be ordered about. He just wanted a breathing space to get his thoughts together. He recognized, with uncharacteristic insight, that it was Phoebe he wanted. He needed her! He hadn’t realized before how much he relied upon her to be there. And where the hell was she? He’d tried over and over again to ring Rick’s house the night before, and there was no reply. Perhaps she had taken the boys out. But they’d hardly still be out at midnight, surely? He couldn’t for the life of him think where she might be. How could she be missing at a time like this, he thought resentfully, just when there’s so much to cope with?

He became aware that there was a telephone ringing now, downstairs. He leapt out of bed and ran down, three stairs at a time, to answer it. It was Phoebe.