Breaking the Chain (4 page)

‘Sh-She was g-grey when I knew her, and she w-was t-tallish and c-c-c-c-c …’ He always stammered more at times like this. Phoebe clenched her hands into fists under the table, and willed him to get it out. ‘… Clever. She had a doctorate,’ Duncan said eventually.

‘What in?’

‘I d-don’t know.’

‘Your mother said she was tiresome,’ Phoebe probed.

‘J-Just give it a rest, w-will you?’ Duncan said, getting up and banging his mug of tea down.

‘Where are you going?’

He didn’t answer. Instead he said, ‘T-Talking of Mother r-reminds me. She told me to t-tell you. This November the t-twenty-seventh is their G-Golden Wedding,’ and he went out into the garden.

Hell! thought Phoebe. I suppose that means she’s expecting us to do something about it.

Duncan enjoyed his honeymoon in Norfolk in June of’87. They hired a dinghy on one of the secluded Broads where motorboats are not allowed, and they rowed out to a far bay through rafts of water lilies, towards a patch of clear brown water. Here they anchored and whilst Phoebe read a novel, Duncan got out his tin of questing maggots and his fishing rod and proceeded to fill his keepnet with coarse freshwater fish; bream and roach and the odd rudd.

‘What do they taste like?’ Phoebe asked.

‘M-Mud and b-bones.’

‘You mean you’re going to all that trouble and we aren’t going to eat any of them? What are you going to do with them then?’

‘P-Put them back again.’

‘What’s the point?’

‘S-S-skill!’ Duncan smiled at her. She had got herself cozily curled up at the bow end of the boat, with her sleeping bag wrapped round her and an inflatable cushion behind her head. Her hair shone redly in the sun and the top strands lifted lazily in the gentle breeze. The water plopped at the sides of the boat, but otherwise all was quiet. They had brought sandwiches and a flask of coffee and a large umbrella in case of rain. What more could one want? Duncan thought contentedly. ‘Good book?’ he asked her.

‘Very. It’s all about how women feel and how people don’t communicate with each other like they should, and about the crises that happen in their lives because of that. It’s fascinating. You should read it.’

‘D-Doesn’t sound m-much like my sort of thing,’ Duncan said.

‘What is your sort of thing then?’

‘I don’t know – thrillers, w-war stories, b-biography…’

‘Does emotion frighten you?’ She had put her book down and
was staring straight at him. He felt as if she were challenging him to a contest; one in which he had no desire to engage. He avoided her eyes.

‘What an o-odd qu-question!’ he parried.

‘So why don’t you answer it?’

But his line tightened at that moment and he became fully occupied with landing another bream. Phoebe went back to her book and appeared once more to be absorbed in it. He wished she wouldn’t suddenly come out with attacks like that. They were disconcerting. He didn’t wish to discuss such things.

There was a sudden splash. Duncan looked up to see a large pale bird of prey emerging from the water only fifty yards away, with a dripping fish in its talons.

‘Look!’ he cried. ‘An osprey!’

‘What a marvellous sight! I’ve never seen one before,’ Phoebe exclaimed, staring after it, before turning amazed eyes on him. ‘Wasn’t that a real treat? D’you reckon it’s a good omen?’

‘Omen?’

‘For us! To see one on our honeymoon. It’s got to be really lucky, don’t you think?’

Duncan smiled at her. ‘If it p-pleases you,’ he said, patting her affectionately on the top of the head. He felt almost paternal towards her.

At the end of the day, it was always very pleasant to go back to the camp site and lie side by side in his tent, waiting for the kettle to boil on the camping gas stove. It had been warm and dry all day, but now he felt sweaty. The air seemed thick and the sky ominously yellow. Perhaps there was a storm in the offing.

‘What’s for supper?’ he asked.

‘Paella out of a packet and baked beans,’ Phoebe said, rather apologetically, ‘followed by tinned peaches and condensed milk, washed down with cider.’

It sounded disgustingly attractive to Duncan, rather like a dormitory midnight feast. It reminded him of some of the happier times in his school days, and he said so.

‘Were you a boarder at a public school then?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Poor you. How old were you when you were sent there?’

‘Seven.’

‘But that’s awful! It’s really cruel. Did you hate it?’

‘I g-got used to it.’

‘Did all your brothers go too?’

‘All except B-Brendan; he r-refused, and Herry. Herry went briefly, but he was e-e-expelled.’

‘What for?’

‘Some p-prank or another.’

Phoebe was surprised to find that she liked fishing, or rather that she was happy watching Duncan fish. The surroundings were so tranquil and beautiful. She enjoyed seeing the leaves of the white and yellow water lilies, flipping upwards in the breeze, the sentinel heron fishing from the distant bank, and an anxious brown mallard with her clockwork ducklings muttering along the water margins. The air smelled of damp woodwork and distant hay. Phoebe didn’t like the actual catching of the fish or the process of disengaging them from the hook, but apart from that it was a restful and companionable way to spend time, and she was really enjoying her book. Then there was the osprey; what a thrill! Even Duncan, who didn’t usually let himself go, had reacted excitedly to seeing that. He had been a bit condescending afterwards though, when she had said it was an omen. She was beginning to find that he could be quite patronizing at times, and old-fashioned; pompous even. Whoever used the word ‘prank’ nowadays? And he’d refused to enlarge upon it and tell her what Herry had actually done. No, she thought, I mustn’t be so critical. It’s just the difference in our backgrounds and upbringing, and after all, he is fourteen years older than me …

Phoebe wasn’t going to let anything spoil this week. She twisted her new 18-carat-gold wedding ring round and round her finger and wondered whether Duncan would try to make love to her that night. The night before he had been put off by the proximity of some other campers, but today they had packed up and gone, and there were no others as close, so perhaps he would feel less inhibited. He surely wasn’t ashamed of doing it, was he? They were married, after all! Phoebe would like to have discussed the subject with him, but she was discovering that he was surprisingly difficult to talk to, face to
face. Of course she had to make allowances; anyone who stammered as badly as he did would naturally avoid having to talk too much. It wasn’t really surprising. She resolved to be kind to him, and more understanding.

The first rumble of thunder sounded as they finished washing up after supper. Heavy splashy drops of rain began falling, and campers all over the site hastily bundled their possessions under fly sheets or into vehicles, out of the wet. Phoebe and Duncan eased themselves naked into their double sleeping bag – two single ones zipped together – and lay uncomfortably entwined. The ground was hard under Phoebe’s hip, but she suffered it in the interests of togetherness. The sound of individual drops falling onto the tent was soon overtaken by the steady drumming of heavy rain.

‘I hope it won’t leak,’ Phoebe said apprehensively, looking at the ridge above her head. The tent had a built-in groundsheet, and the entrance was securely zipped up so, apart from that worry, it felt very safe and womb-like. It was still just light enough for her to see Duncan’s chin. It was bristly and, like everything else, looked orange. She snuggled up tighter. Duncan’s Adam’s apple moved against her forehead rather jerkily but his voice sounded confident.

‘It w-won’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve used it in w-worse weather than this. G-Goodnight then. Sleep well.’ He kissed the top of her head and disengaged himself from her, turning over and pummelling his pillow to make it comfortable. Within minutes he was asleep, and breathing regularly with a slight snore. Phoebe felt stranded in mid-air.

She lay awake with eyes wide in the increasing darkness, listening to the rain. She counted the seconds between the flashes of lightning and the answering growls of thunder, and heard the storm getting nearer and nearer. Now the thunder crashed almost simultaneously with the lightning. The storm was on top of them. During the flashes Phoebe could see Duncan’s head and shoulders vividly illuminated. He didn’t stir. He was fast asleep. Phoebe felt angry with him. How could he possibly sleep with such a racket going on? Why couldn’t he be awake to share it with her? Why hadn’t he wanted to make love? Didn’t he fancy her after all? Had she annoyed him? This
week wasn’t turning out quite as she’d hoped. Perhaps they should have been conventional and gone to a hotel; booked the honeymoon suite; spent the days in bed with champagne on ice. Duncan had said that that would be too expensive. Phoebe sighed. As soon as they got home, she would have to get herself a job … No, she wouldn’t think about that now. She was on her honeymoon, for heaven’s sake! She stared upwards. At least the tent wasn’t leaking. Things could be worse.

What was that? Phoebe half sat up to listen to a thumping noise. Then she lay back smiling, grateful for her own relative comfort. It was some poor sod outside in the downpour, with a mallet, banging in tent pegs!

A fortnight after they got back from Norfolk, Phoebe met the famous Roderick Moon for the first time. She and Duncan were invited to go over to his parents’ big house.

‘Come for dinner tomorrow,’ Hope said. It sounded to Phoebe more like a royal command. ‘Rick’s here for one night before he flies off to do a film in Madagascar.’

‘Lovely,’ Phoebe said. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing him in the flesh.’ Yuk! she thought. Why did I say that? It sounds positively indecent.

‘Poor Rick,’ Hope said. ‘Both his wives went mad, you know.’

‘Oh,’ Phoebe said. There didn’t seem to be much else that she could say.

‘Is Duncan there?’

With relief, Phoebe handed the phone to him. He said very little, but Phoebe noticed that he didn’t stammer at all. It’s magic, she thought, watching him with soft eyes. He was so calm and self-contained. Those were two of the things she loved about him. And he was so clever at making and doing things. He couldn’t be made to conform, or rushed, but he took a real pride in getting things just right. He was a man out of his time really; he should have been a craftsman in the eighteenth century … She studied his profile with loving attention. She liked the straightness of his nose, the shape of his ears, the thickness of his untidy fair hair and even the fact that he was left-handed. He was her man; she was no longer second best. Duncan put the receiver down and smiled casually at her.

‘How is she?’ asked Phoebe, who hadn’t had the opportunity to find out herself.

‘She’s got a-asparagus b-b-beetle,’ Duncan said.

Phoebe quizzed Duncan about his youngest brother as they drove through the village the following evening. It was hard work. She managed to exhume a few bones of information, but no meat. His first wife had been 17 and pregnant when Rick married her, and they had subsequently had two boys. Her name was Poppy Schaffner and she was an American. They had got divorced after only three years. Poppy’s parents had then got her into a sort of mental hospital in the States and Rick had got custody of the children. He had subsequently married Elenira, a Brazilian girl aged 16, who was beautiful but dumb, and who had killed herself after six months, with the baby she was carrying.

‘How dreadful!’ Phoebe exclaimed. ‘But what about the children?’

‘They have a r-resident n-nanny,’ Duncan said.

‘But they must be so confused and upset?’ Phoebe said.

‘They’re n-not easy,’ Duncan said.

‘Will they be with him?’

‘D-Doubt it. They st-stay in London while he’s w-working.’

‘How old are they now?’

‘Um … t-ten and eight, I think.’

They turned into the drive down a green tunnel formed from an avenue of tall lime trees, and bumped over its stony surface towards the big house.

‘Ten’s a nice age,’ Phoebe said, ‘before the terrible teens.’ A thought struck her. ‘Why does Rick always marry such young girls? Can’t he cope with real women?’ The van slowed at a sharp bend in the drive, and the north side of the square grey house came into view.

‘Ask him,’ Duncan said. ‘The-There he is.’

Rick had parked his silver sports car in the yard in front of them, below one of the many dark yews which overhung the stone outbuildings and gave the approach to the house a gloomy shut-in feel. He had just got out, and was pulling a bulky holdall from the passenger seat. He looked, Phoebe thought, even at a distance, very smooth; polished almost. He had the strong family
characteristics of the Moons, Phoebe already knew, but he was more like their father than the other brothers.

Duncan parked their old van next to Rick’s car and Phoebe, who had bent down to do up one of her sandals, found Rick at her side, opening and holding the door wide for her to get out. She was surprised and not a little flattered at such an old-fashioned display of courtesy.

‘Oh! Thanks,’ she said. It sounded inadequate. She shuffled out rather awkwardly and smoothed down her dress.

‘How d’you do?’ he said. ‘And not before time!’ Without touching her, he ushered her towards the front door, calling over his shoulder to his brother.

‘Hi, Dunc. I’m just kidnapping the little woman, okay?’ He turned mischievous eyes onto Phoebe and winked in confident complicity. His eyes were very blue and took on a new intensity when he smiled. Phoebe had seen him several times on television and, although impressed by his acting, had been put off by his public image and quite expected to dislike the real man. She had been wrong; here in person he was charm itself. She glanced quickly behind her. Duncan was reaching into the back of their van for the bottle of wine they had brought.

‘Don’t worry about my big brother,’ Rick said. ‘He has you all the time, the lucky so-and-so. How are the parents, then? It’s a long time since I’ve seen them.’

Phoebe’s mind was a blank. After a pause, she said, ‘Hope has asparagus beetle.’