Breaking the Chain (5 page)

‘How shameful!’ Rick said, roaring with laughter. ‘I do hope it isn’t catching.’

‘Not personally,’ Phoebe said hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mean …’ She stopped, feeling foolish.

Rick was staring at the top of her head. ‘I’ve always loved hair your colour,’ he said, ‘passionate red.’

Dinner was a formal affair with Peter very much in charge. A large joint of beef was brought in from the kitchen by Mrs B., the latest nonresident cook, and he set to with much flourishing of knife and steel to carve for everyone. Hope sat at the other end of the long polished table and stared out of the window at the evening garden. She was in one of her moods. Duncan sat
opposite Rick and Phoebe and in the space beside his chair, Hope’s golden labrador, Hickory, sat, swishing her tail hopefully in an arc across the parquet floor, watching his every movement with liquid brown eyes.

‘Madagascar!’ Peter said to the world in general. ‘I seem to remember that in the late nineteenth century its people had a violent insurrection. And against whom did they rise up in rebellion?’ No one rose to his challenge, being too busy passing plates of meat down the table. ‘Wretched woman,’ Peter complained. ‘Why must she overcook every damn thing? It should be
pink
in the middle; run
red
when cut! She needs a firm hand, my dear.’ His wife’s long thin hands twitched slightly on the table by her plate, but she went on looking out of the window. ‘Well?’ Peter demanded, looking all round him. ‘Who were the evil oppressors? Why, the perfidious French, of course. Now what else do we know about Madagascar – apart from the fact that it’s probably a most unsuitable place in which to make a film? Phoebe, what have you to tell us?’

Phoebe looked defensive. ‘It has those little animals with stripy tails,’ she said, ‘ring-tailed something.’

‘Lemurs,’ supplied Rick, smiling.

‘Yes.’ Phoebe turned to him gratefully.

‘Oh he won’t see any of those,’ Peter said, brushing the suggestion aside. ‘No, what I’m interested in is the history and the economy of the place. Who knows what its population is? Ten million? Twenty million?’

‘Twelve,’ said Rick.

‘And what’s the source of their wealth?’ Peter demanded, ignoring the interruption. ‘Logging the rainforest – and squashing the lemurs, no doubt – but who can blame them if that’s all they’ve got …’ He went on talking, apparently unconcerned as to whether or not anyone was listening. Duncan nodded at him from time to time, and slipped Hickory sly savoury morsels, but really was watching in gloomy resignation as his brother continued to lay siege to Phoebe with his usual charming-the-pants-off-the-nearest-woman routine, which he always seemed incapable of resisting. Duncan could see that she was blushing with pleasure at his attentions and laughing enthusiastically at his jokes. Every so often she appeared to remember Duncan’s
existence with a start, and at those times she would attempt to include him in their conversation. Duncan was not to be lured in so easily. He hoped if he was uncooperative that sooner or later his disapproval would register with his wife and she would have to stop hanging onto Rick’s every word and pay proper attention to him. He heard Rick ask her about herself, and Phoebe telling the dog rescue story. He noticed his brother’s sardonic glance in his direction and knew that he wasn’t fooled by it. Then it was the proposal story.

‘Duncan’s so sweet,’ Phoebe said, smiling briefly in his direction. ‘He was too shy to ask me to marry him face to face, so he waited until he felt safe; lying in the cupboard under the kitchen sink with only his legs sticking out!’

‘How romantic!’ said Rick, drily.

‘Well it was certainly different,’ Phoebe said giggling. ‘And when I said yes, he was so surprised he forgot where he was and sat up sudden like, and practically knocked himself out!’ She laughed. Rick laughed with her. Peter was still talking about Madagascar. Hope was still looking out of the window. It occurred to Duncan that his marriage had not only been founded upon misunderstandings, but looked doomed to be burdened with them in perpetuity. He should have scotched them when he had had the chance at the time. Now it was impossible. Phoebe was talking about him with friendly mockery as though he were her property; something she had created herself. It made him uneasy. It was an aspect of marriage which he hadn’t anticipated and didn’t feel comfortable with – a kind of invasion.

‘I proposed to your mother on one knee by the light of a flaming church,’ Peter said, giving up the unequal struggle with Madagascar and attempting a takeover, ‘during the Blitz.’

‘You did no such thing!’ Hope said, suddenly relinquishing her gaze on the garden, which was now too dark to see anyway. She faced her husband accusingly. ‘It was in your mother’s scullery. You were home on leave with a hernia!’ She turned crossly to Duncan. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t encourage the dog, Duncan. It makes her such a pest.’

‘She’s always been g-greedy,’ Duncan said mildly. ‘Haven’t
you, Hicky?’ He rubbed her under her chin, and she closed her eyes in rapture.

‘Your ma thinks she’s in pup,’ Peter said. ‘She got out.’

‘G-Great!’ Duncan said. ‘W-We’ll have one, w-won’t we, Phoebe?’

‘Well, I …’ Phoebe began, but they had all taken her acceptance for granted.

Phoebe got herself a job as secretary at a small theatre in the nearest little town. It wasn’t the sort of job she was used to. It was mornings only and a lot less demanding than her Newcastle one, where she had had to master a lot of scientific jargon and zoological vocabulary. It didn’t pay nearly as well either, but it suited her. In the early days of marriage she wanted time to devote to Duncan; time to sort out the cottage; time perhaps to conquer the garden. They had decided that they could live very cheaply. They had no mortgage to pay, as the cottage belonged to Hope and Peter. They were not intending to entertain or be entertained much, as Duncan didn’t like social gatherings. Duncan didn’t need smart clothes for work, and he could maintain and repair his van himself. Phoebe’s car was an unnecessary expense to run, but worth quite a bit. They could use the money, so they decided to sell it. She could ride to work on a bicycle.

After the rush and busyness of the first few weeks, Phoebe began happily to wonder about the future. Duncan made nearly enough money, but it was irregular and uncertain. She would have to work whatever happened, maybe go full time if things got hard. So what about children? She and Duncan had never actually discussed them, but she assumed that he would be keen to have at least one.

‘K-Kids?’ he said, when she finally broached the subject. ‘We’re a b-bit old for that s-sort of nonsense, aren’t we?’ And the next time he came home it was with a small black labrador puppy which he handed to her with tenderness. ‘F-Father says this one’s g-got to g-go. He’s already d-dug up Mother’s b-best herbaceous b-border. They’ve called him Diggory. Father says he’s H-Hickory’s Diggory d-dog! Isn’t he a little m-monster?’ he bent over and pulled the silky ears delicately with a large hand,
and smiled up at her. ‘Good ch-child s-s-s … substitute,’ he remarked, and went to put the kettle on.

Diggory wriggled a bit in Phoebe’s arms and chewed a finger exploratively with sharp little white teeth, then leapt up to lick her face enthusiastically, and she had to grab at him to stop him from falling. His fur was short and shiny and his paws were ridiculous. In spite of herself she relented. He was very charming. He was also a
fait accompli.

Phoebe thought, This wasn’t how I meant things to be.

On 27 November 1991 the senior Moons’ Golden Wedding party took place. Contrary to Phoebe’s assumptions, it was not held in Somerset but in the Parliament Chamber of the Inner Temple in London, which was more accessible for friends, colleagues and most relations. Hope’s quartet had borrowed another viola player for the occasion and, sitting on the platform, played elegant chamber music which was barely heard above the hubbub of conversation.

Clutching a glass of white wine, Phoebe wandered shyly amongst the throng of guests, marvelling that any couple could know so many people. She passed Peter holding court to a group of women, and hung about for a while on the edge, hoping to become included, but eventually gave up and moved on. She looked for Duncan and found him in earnest conversation with a purple hat, under which stood a sweet elderly woman half his height. He was bending low over it to catch what she was saying, and looked rather pleased with himself. Phoebe joined them and the old woman began the conversation all over again, to include her.

‘Last time I saw Duncan, he was so high,’ she said, putting out a veiny hand which quivered when horizontal. ‘He must then have been about seven, but I knew him at once today. He was always such a sensitive boy and so clever at making things.’

‘He still is,’ Phoebe said proudly. ‘He’s just built a lovely pond for Hope and Peter, in their garden in Somerset. It’s a really interesting shape!’

Duncan smiled and, excusing himself, moved on to talk to someone else. Phoebe started after him, but Purple Hat hadn’t finished, and clutched Phoebe’s arm confidentially.

‘I see he still stammers badly,’ she said. ‘Such a pity. I blame his father, you know. Whatever poor Duncan tried to do, Peter would always top it; always had to have the last word; completely undermined the poor child’s confidence. But stammering is
quite unnecessary these days you know. Duncan could be cured if he wanted to be. I know a wonderful man …’ She fumbled in a large bucket of a handbag. ‘I’ll give you his name …’

He could be cured if he wanted to be,
Phoebe thought. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be. Perhaps it’s deliberate; a useful barrier to hide behind and a good excuse not to have to communicate.

All the brothers except Brendan were there, and all the next generation, from Fay’s 3-year-old son up to her daughters of 21 and 22. When Phoebe left the woman in the purple hat, she came upon the intermediate group of teenage cousins lounging in a corner and tried to identify them. Only one was a girl. She must be Hereward and Becky’s. One of the boys would be her brother – the one with the long hair? – and the dark one her half-brother. The other two lads were probably Rick’s; they had immaculate haircuts and the public schoolboy’s air of effortless superiority. Phoebe knew that they were called Roderick and Peter after their father and grandfather, but she didn’t know which was which. She tried to engage them all in conversation but they shrugged their shoulders and answered only in monosyllables looking embarrassed, which made Phoebe in turn feel awkward, as though she were speaking the wrong language. Perhaps, she thought, if I had children of my own, I’d learn how to talk to them. I’m thirty-five. There’s still time. If only Duncan wasn’t so against the idea …

‘You’re looking very solemn, Phoebe,’ Becky said, appearing beside her through the crowd. She was dressed in her usual style which, to Phoebe, looked both eccentric and daring, with colours which were not supposed to go together but on her sister-in-law looked striking and unusual. She was said to buy all her clothes from jumble sales or Oxfam. She and Herry were not married, and one of her sons was the result of an on-and-off affair with an unpublished African poet. She was brash and confident and lived dangerously. She had long hair, down to her shoulders, which was already grey. She was forty and should have looked like mutton dressed as lamb, but she didn’t. Phoebe felt a reluctant admiration for someone who apparently effortlessly flouted the rules of accepted behaviour and got away with it.

‘So why the long face?’ Becky asked.

‘I was thinking about children,’ Phoebe said.

‘We’d always assumed that you didn’t want any,’ Becky said, without dissembling.

Phoebe found herself answering with the same directness. ‘Oh I do,’ she said, ‘but Duncan isn’t keen …’

‘They hardly ever are,’ Becky said, ‘but they usually quite like them when they appear. I should go for it if I were you, before it’s too late. You’ve only got one life after all.’

‘But I’ve got a coil,’ Phoebe said feebly.

‘So have it taken out!’

‘But wouldn’t that be rather selfish?’

‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be a touch selfish than a gloomy martyr. Hey, I’m sorry, that wasn’t very kind, was it? I just think that good old Dunc could be a nice gentle sort of father. Why don’t you try it and see?’ She flashed her brilliant smile and moved on.

I’m old-fashioned, Phoebe thought, and not brave enough. I need to feel secure. Perhaps that’s why I married Duncan; because he’s even more of an old fogey than I am and he makes me feel safe. Dead safe, said a niggling voice inside her,
dead
safe.

Phoebe saw that Becky had rejoined Herry and that they were talking to Duncan. She remembered the first time that she had met them, three years before, and the surprise she had felt when Duncan had warned her beforehand.

‘Herry’s a b-bit of a sh-shit.’ Such strong language from a normally mild Duncan! ‘We’ve n-never g-got on very well.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s e-e-egocentric and not very r-reliable.’

Phoebe’s first impressions of Hereward were that he was casual, rather scruffy and had insolent brown eyes. He had, however, one overwhelmingly redeeming trait. He had held firmly onto her hand when they were introduced and later he’d stood between herself and Duncan with an arm over each of their shoulders. He was a toucher. Phoebe had thought, Oh I do wish Duncan was!

Now as she watched, Herry clapped Duncan on the back and they all laughed. Perhaps Duncan is a bit jealous of him, Phoebe wondered, even though most of his property speculations are dismal failures. He’s so much more out-going. He probably
enjoys life more. I wonder why he’s wearing jeans to this do. You’d think he’d make more of an effort for such a special event.

Champagne was brought round on trays and the speeches started. Conrad, as the eldest son without a speech impediment, began. He said that the first fifty years of marriage were the worst, and then described in affectionate terms all the things that his parents had managed to achieve in spite of being married to one another. It was an urbane and witty speech. Phoebe was glad that Duncan had not been called upon to perform it. Stammering was certainly useful sometimes. She wondered how Hope and Peter had lasted together for so long. They didn’t seem especially happy; Hope in particular. Phoebe had never seen them touch each other; never a casual hand on a shoulder, a light kiss on the back of a neck, or a teasing tweak of an ear. They appeared to be totally buttoned up. She couldn’t tell if they even liked each other, and fifty years was a lifetime … Phoebe wondered how long she and Duncan would stay together. She was beginning to feel restless and broody. The cottage and garden were hard work and now rapidly losing their charm. Her job was dull. Duncan was dull. Phoebe had hoped for conversation, friendly arguments, some sort of mental stimulation;
any
form of stimulation. She had expected Duncan’s well-educated family to be abuzz with ideas and challenges, but the successful ones were too busy, and the nonachievers too lazy, or so it seemed to Phoebe. The only one who did have ideas was Peter. He talked enthusiastically about anything and everything, but he used his quick mind and his wide superficial knowledge as a weapon, to seek out other people’s weaknesses and reveal to them their inadequacies. It was never a friendly chat, always a duel. He didn’t converse, he cross-examined. It was demoralizing.