Breaking the Chain (3 page)

At 10.30 she got to her feet, looking apologetic. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m whacked! I’m afraid I’ll have to go to my bed. Will you be okay on the sofa?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Goodnight then. Sleep well.’ She went to the door.

‘ ’Night.’ He tried to say ‘thank you’ but she had already gone. He breathed a sigh of relief.

In the morning she cooked him scrambled eggs and gave him real coffee. She was warm and friendly and undemanding. He found that he was loath to leave. I could get used to this sort of thing, he thought wryly.

‘Will you give us a ring when you get home?’ she asked, giving him her telephone number on a torn-off piece of paper. ‘I’d like to know how you got on.’

‘Surely.’ He had no real intention of doing so, but he put the number in his pocket anyway, just to please her.

How he came to lose his keys, he never did know. He only discovered their loss when he arrived home at the end of his week off, and found that they were not in his pocket. He let himself into his cottage with the spare one under the big stone, and only as an afterthought did he find the crumpled number and ring Phoebe.

‘Yes, I found them under the sofa.’ She sounded delighted. ‘Give us your address and I’ll send them straight on.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ he said. ‘I can’t think how they came to be there or why I didn’t notice their absence straightaway.’

‘Amazing!’ Phoebe said.

‘What is?’

‘Do you realize, you haven’t stammered at all, so far?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It wasn’t very tactful of me, was it?’

‘It’s okay. I don’t mind.’ He found that he really didn’t mind.

‘Have you noticed it before? Not stammering on the phone, I mean?’

‘Sometimes, yes.’

‘Does it bother you, stammering?’

‘Yes, of course it does, but there doesn’t seem to be much I can do about it. I’ve been to all sorts of so-called experts and got nowhere.’

‘Perhaps you need practice,’ Phoebe suggested. ‘If you were to phone me on a regular basis, we could have long talks. It would be good therapy.’

He laughed, but the idea took hold of him and he began to look forward to hearing her voice. The telephone accentuated
her slight Geordie lilt and he discovered it to be rather endearing. She became a habit.

In October he found himself inviting her down for a weekend to see his cottage. He had only one bed and no sofa, so he had had to assume that they would sleep together in it, and prepare himself for the consequences. She was not totally unattractive in truth. That evening he drank some whisky to stiffen his resolve and later allowed himself to be cushioned upon her soft squidgy body, and made welcome inside it. He got the business over with as soon as possible and, after his brief spurt of pleasure, felt embarrassed and hoped she hadn’t disliked it all too much. She appeared surprised rather than anything, but made no comment. He wondered how sexually experienced she was, and decided not to admit to her that he had been a virgin until he was thirty.

Now he had got that side of things started, he felt a lot better. It had been weighing on his mind ever since he met her (
the Englishman has sex on the brain – which is the wrong place
). She had obviously expected it of him; women usually did. He wondered sometimes what they got out of it. This weekend had been the crunch; something he had nerved himself up for. In the event, it hadn’t proved so difficult after all. She was a nice sympathetic sort of girl, and she had made it easy for him.

From then on, they talked every day on the phone. Whenever she could, which wasn’t often, Phoebe came down to Somerset for a weekend and did some tidying up and cleaning in the cottage. She said she liked doing it. She said it was very rewarding. Duncan thought that that sounded positively unnatural, but was happy that she should continue.

‘I don’t know how you manage without a washing machine,’ she said one day. ‘How on earth do you wash sheets?’

‘L-Launderette in W-Weston-super-M-Mare’ Duncan said, pretty sure that there was one there.

‘What a drag to have to go all that way! I mean, I’ve got one and there’s a launderette round the corner from my flat. It’s still worth having one just for the convenience of it.’

Duncan, who had never felt this need, allowed a small wavelet of superiority to ripple over his ego. ‘Mmmmmm,’ he said.

‘It seems daft my having one for just me,’ Phoebe said.

‘A bit un-un-uneconomic,’ Duncan agreed. She gave him a long look. He thought her expression seemed a bit reproachful, but he couldn’t think of anything he’d done to annoy her, so he forgot it.

At Easter, Phoebe took a week’s leave from her job as Personal Secretary to a professor at Newcastle University, and drove down to Somerset. Duncan promised to take time off his work also, and they planned to build some kitchen units together. It was something which Duncan had meant to do for years. Once started, it didn’t take nearly as long as he had feared. Phoebe was a great help, handing him tools, holding things steady, fetching wood from his shed and generally being encouraging. She made and brought him refreshments whenever he needed them, and was complimentary about his carpentry skills. She also seemed to approve of the cottage.

‘I love this place,’ she said, looking dreamily through the window. ‘There are three daffodils out there! I wonder if there was a beautiful garden here once. It’s got great potential, hasn’t it? Why haven’t you done something with it?’

‘T-Too busy doing other p-people’s,’ Duncan said. He was lying on his back with his head under the sink, trying to fix an awkward support for the new draining board. His throat felt parched and full of dust.

‘Phoebe,’ he said, ‘would you m-m-m-m-m …’ He couldn’t get it out. He drew breath to try again, but Phoebe burst in before he could.

‘Oh Duncan!’ she said, with a quiver of emotion in her voice. ‘Yes, of course I’ll marry you. Oh I’ve never felt so
happy!’

Duncan, who had been trying to say ‘Would you make me a cup of tea?’, was so taken aback that he sat up abruptly and hit his head painfully on the sink above. By the time he had emerged, clutching it, and Phoebe had kissed it better, it was a bit late and too difficult to explain what he had really meant. Phoebe was looking positively radiant. He hadn’t the heart to take the wind out of her sails, so he said nothing.

‘I must phone my mum!’ Phoebe said. ‘She’ll be over the moon. Joke! You must take me to meet your parents now, Duncan. Oh I’m that happy I don’t know where to put myself!’ She did a little dance round the kitchen.

‘Let’s have a c-cup of tea,’ Duncan said, smiling in spite of himself at her enthusiasm. He was touched that the prospect of marriage to him would cause anyone to go into such raptures; touched and flattered. When he came to think of it, it did seem to be the sensible thing to do. They got on all right – no, more than that, he actually
liked
her. She was a good cook. She was cheerful. She seemed to care a lot for him. She could move into the cottage and life would go on as usual, but more comfortably. How could he go wrong?

And now here they were, at the wedding. It had gone rather well, Duncan thought. Phoebe was all got-up in a long dress, a sort of paleish colour with blue in it, and looking pretty good. They had acquired a whole tableful of presents; things he had never dreamt of owning. Would Phoebe ever actually use that wok? He was sure he never would. One or two of his employers as well as his family had made the effort to attend, to wish him well. It was all very pleasant. He felt he had done the right thing in getting married.

‘What are you thinking?’ Phoebe said, at his elbow.

He smiled down at her. ‘What a g-good i-idea this is,’ he said.

She slipped her arm through his and squeezed it. ‘Good,’ she said.

‘Ah.’ Duncan saw his half-brother approaching. ‘You haven’t met B-Brendan, have you?’

‘Hi,’ Brendan said. Close to, he looked even more suntanned and very fit. Phoebe admired his muscles. He’s such a masculine sort of man, he can carry off that pansy shirt, she thought. His mouth was smiling at her, but his blue eyes looked curiously blank. ‘I brought you some roses,’ he said. ‘Where the hell are they? Hang on, I think I left them in the cloakroom.’ He turned and left them, elbowing his way through the guests with minimum apology.

‘Who is his mother?’ Phoebe whispered to Duncan.‘You never did tell me.’

‘An actress f-friend of Father’s. Died when he was f-fourteen. Don’t m-mention it, will you? He gets a b-bit t-touchy about his o-o-origins.’

‘Does your father have many
friends?’
Phoebe enquired, rather surprised.

‘Who knows?’ Duncan made a face.

‘But how did your mother feel about adopting him? Surely –’

‘Sssssh!’ Duncan said. Brendan was coming back.

‘Nicked,’ he said. ‘Can’t trust anybody these days, can you? Never mind, it’s the thought, and all that. Happy wedding.’

‘Thank you,’ Phoebe said, smiling at him. ‘And thanks for coming. It’s lovely to meet you. Are you between yachts just now?’

‘Yeah, sort of. Off to the West Indies next week.’

‘That sounds wonderful.’

‘Mmm. We don’t get much time for sightseeing, so it’s not as wonderful as it might appear.’

‘How long will you be away?’

‘Six months, maybe more.’

‘But what about your family? How do they manage?’

Brendan looked annoyed. ‘Not a problem,’ he said rather shortly. ‘Must dash. Nice to see you, Dunc. Hang in there,’ and he was gone.

‘What did I say?’ Phoebe appealed to Duncan. ‘Did I upset him or something?’

‘He doesn’t have a f-family,’ Duncan said, embarrassed.

Phoebe shrugged. ‘So what? That doesn’t explain why –’

‘He’s h-h-h-h … gay,’ Duncan said, shortly.

‘Bloody hell!’ Phoebe said, going scarlet. ‘You could have warned me; I feel a complete prat now!’

‘It’s n-not important,’ Duncan said.

‘Is there anything else you ought to tell me about your family to stop me from making a total fool of myself?’

‘P-possibly,’ Duncan said, ‘but now’s not the t-time.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t we be g-going off soon?’

‘I’ll go and change,’ Phoebe said. ‘You ought to too. You can’t go on a camping honeymoon in Norfolk in that smart suit!’

‘You go f-first,’ Duncan said. ‘It won’t take me long.’

When Phoebe came back some fifteen minutes later, wearing a simple cotton summer dress and looking more herself, she seemed puzzled and annoyed.

‘I’ve just seen your mother,’ she told Duncan.

‘Oh?’

‘Guess what she was stowing away in the boot of their car.’

‘W-What?’

‘Brendan’s roses!’

Four years on, Peter’s ‘small favour’ seemed odd to Phoebe. Why couldn’t he ring Hope himself? And who was this Nancy Sedge-moor person who’d died? How should she break it to Hope? Was she an old friend? Would Hope be upset? Was that why Peter had chickened out? Phoebe felt uncomfortable. Should she wait until Duncan came home, and ask him? She sighed. What was the point? Duncan wouldn’t be any help. He never told her anything; never
knew
anything, damn it! She dialled her in-laws’ number before she could change her mind.

‘Yes?’ said Hope’s voice. It was not an encouraging start.

‘Er, hello, Hope. This is Phoebe. How are you?’

‘I’m much as usual, but I do wish we didn’t have this dreadful rain!’

‘It’s doing the gardens good, isn’t it? Better than last month’s drought.’

‘It never knows when to stop. Was there something you wanted? … Only I’m in the middle of a quartet.’

‘Well, no actually. I’ve got a message from Peter. He says he tried to call you several times, but you were out.’

‘I haven’t been out!’

‘Oh well, I don’t know …’ Phoebe’s voice faded away. This was going to be difficult.

‘Well?’ Hope sounded impatient.

‘You know Nancy Sedgemoor?’ Phoebe said in a rush.

‘Yes, of course I do. Tiresome woman.’

‘Urn, well, she’s … er … died.’ There was silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Are you there?’ Phoebe said.

‘Dead? Nancy?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘Did Peter say if he’d seen her?’

‘He said he got there too late.’

‘Hah!’ Hope said, and it didn’t sound to Phoebe like an expression of regret.

*

When Duncan came in that evening, Phoebe raised the subject with him.

‘Mmmmm,’ he said. He was standing by the electric kettle, waiting for it to boil, and in the meantime opening his mail, screwing up the envelopes and aiming them inexpertly at the wood basket.

‘Please, Duncan,’ Phoebe said. ‘Don’t just chuck them in there, they look so messy. Why can’t you put them in the burnables bin like I do? Anyway, why did Hope react like that?’

‘N-No idea,’ Duncan said, pouring boiling water into the teapot.

‘You must have some idea?’ Phoebe said, frowning. ‘Nancy Sedgemoor must have been quite close to your father, for her to have wanted to see him on her deathbed. It must have been really upsetting for Peter to have missed her by minutes like that. Hey!’ A thought had struck her. Duncan didn’t look up. ‘Was she another of your father’s
friends?’

‘NO!’ Duncan said emphatically. ‘Have some tea.’ He handed her a mugful. They sat at the kitchen table opposite each other.

‘No,’ Phoebe said, sipping it reflectively, ‘you’re right, she can’t have been. If she had, he would have sounded much more upset on the phone, wouldn’t he?’ Duncan didn’t reply. Phoebe wished fervently that Duncan would just
talk
to her. He would speak when he was spoken to, certainly, but he never chatted. He never spontaneously brought up a subject and enlarged upon it. He never delighted her with unexpected thoughts, or (crazy optimistic idea) expressed his hopes or his fears … In the four years she had been with him, he had never yet confided in her. Phoebe felt that she had changed and become ‘we’. Duncan was still stubbornly T. She sighed. ‘Did you ever meet her?’ she asked.

‘A f-few times, yes.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Nice e-enough.’

‘No! Describe her to me. Was she tall/short? fair/dark? fat/thin? happy/sad? clever/stupid? warm/cold? posh/common?
rich/poor?’ Phoebe drew breath. ‘I mean, what was she
like?’
She could hear herself sounding exasperated and she could see Duncan pulling up his drawbridge. His face took on a familiar mulish look and he refused to meet her eyes.