Breaking the Chain (9 page)

‘A week?’ Hope said. ‘Don’t you realize that it’s Christmas in less than that time? A week yesterday to be precise.’

‘Oh I’ll be back by then.’

‘But what about all the preparations; the ordering of the drinks, the getting in of supplies? I rely on you to help, as you very well know. I understood that it couldn’t be helped last year, but this year you promised –’

‘Couldn’t you call upon Duncan and thingy?’

‘Duncan’s too vague, as you well know.’

‘Well … but it would be an excellent chance for you to get to know the girl better. She could be just what you need; a daughter figure, on the spot. A little seasonal cooking together, sharing recipes, that sort of thing, and she’d grow on you in no time, you’d see.’

‘I don’t know why you persist with that ridiculous notion of yours,’ Hope said crisply. ‘Phoebe is no daughter of mine. I’m sure it’s very necessary for Duncan to have a wife –I’m much relieved he has – but that’s no reason for giving such a person the freedom of my house, let alone my kitchen. And anyway,’ she gave him a look of triumph, ‘Mrs B. would never countenance
me
in her precious domain, let alone someone like her.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘That reminds me; almost dinner time,’ she said. ‘Stew tonight, I believe.’

‘Ah,’ said Peter.

‘What d’you mean, “ah”?’

‘That was the other thing I’ve been meaning to tell you. It’s no great loss, as I’m sure you’ll quite soon come to realize for yourself. The woman is hopeless at cooking meat, as we all know; overdoes it quite horribly.’

‘You don’t mean … Mrs B. hasn’t …?’ Hope clutched convulsively at the arms of her chair.

‘She’s probably taken her own things and gone home by now,’ Peter said smoothly. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I’m afraid she gave in her notice last night.’

*

‘Peter’s sloped off again and Mrs B.’s left, and I really am at my wits’ end,’ Hope said to Phoebe on the telephone. ‘Christmas is ghastly at the best of times, but this year I just don’t know how I’m going to face it …’

Phoebe, who had hoped to see as little as possible of her parents-in-law over the looming festive season, found herself volunteered to cook Christmas dinner for ten.

‘I take it you can cook?’ Hope asked her, dismissively, as if the times when Phoebe had entertained them to meals in her own house were of no account.

Phoebe wondered why she was being so gruff with her. Anyone would think that Hope’s crisis was
her
fault! It wasn’t the usual way people asked favours of each other, and if she hated asking so much – which she clearly did – then why do it? Phoebe supposed it probably was unreasonable to expect to find another cook at such short notice and over Christmas too, but there were such things as catering firms …

‘Well enough,’ she answered, feeling inadequate. ‘I’ve never actually done Christmas dinner for so many, but –’

‘We may be eleven,’ Hope said, cutting in. ‘Brendan still hasn’t told me whether he’ll be here or not. It is too bad of him; most discourteous.’

Phoebe, grateful that Hope’s displeasure was temporarily diverted to somebody else, ventured a suggestion. ‘Why not get Fay’s company to help?’

‘Good gracious me! Do you know how much these London firms cost? Quite out of the question!’

Why don’t you do it yourself like a normal person? Phoebe wanted to ask. Instead she said, ‘Well, what about Fay herself? She’s a trained c –’

‘Fay? How can Fay possibly do it? She’s got young Jack to consider. A mother’s place at Christmas is with her children, after all. That’s why I thought of you.’

You tactless, selfish, bad-tempered old cow! Phoebe thought furiously.

‘Well?’ Hope demanded.

Phoebe took a deep breath and supposed she would have to
do what was expected of her with as good a grace as she could muster. ‘Um … right,’ she said, ‘yes.’

Peter, sitting comfortably in the best seat on the shuttle to Manchester, stretched his legs, sipped his Famous Grouse, admired the bright castles of cumulus cloud which were visible from his aircraft window, and smiled to himself. He reckoned he’d handled things pretty well. He had managed to postpone this meeting until now, so that he could miss the dreary commercial acceleration towards Christmas. He wasn’t good at that sort of thing anyway. He had never sent a Christmas card in his life. That was what wives were for; they actually enjoyed such exchanges.

Wives; Peter was relieved to get away from his at such a time. Hope always seemed particularly down at Christmas, unreasonably negative. Peter was glad to escape to a lighter atmosphere unpolluted by blame. He wondered if Mrs B. was making pejorative remarks about him in the village. It would be nothing new if so. The village would take it with its usual pinch of salt, he was sure. It was quite something when a woman like Mrs B. came out with such a ready put-down, though. He had had to admit a reluctant admiration for her when she had side-stepped him neatly and hissed ‘Sexual harASSment!’ through clenched teeth. Personally he would put the stress on the first syllable of harassment, not the second, but it was a common enough mistake. Education by television had a lot to answer for, he thought. Either way, he had been on to a winner. If she had acquiesced, it would have been a pleasant interlude. She had particularly nice teeth, when unclenched. But if she took offence, as she did, then there opened up the likelihood that a better cook could be employed, and also the possibility of manoeuvring Phoebe into Hope’s home, hearth and good books; two birds with one stone!

Thinking of birds reminded him suddenly of Nancy. She had been such an avid observer of the natural world. Peter remembered her once or twice taking him out into the countryside, enthusing about it all and trying to teach him the names of things – which he had instantly filed in the out drawer of his memory. Peter preferred assignations to be held in comfort,
without ants or grass stains. To him the country looked pretty enough when the weather was good. It was quite pleasant to see it occasionally, but the actuality of it was inconvenient and messy. He had reluctantly yielded to Hope’s pressure years ago when the boys were babies, to buy the house in Somerset, but he had always spent as little time there as possible.

Nancy and Hope actually had quite a lot in common! He’d never considered that fact before. He wished that Hope hadn’t vented her feelings on Nancy’s bedroom, but he supposed that it wasn’t unreasonable under the circumstances; rather like being fought over. He smiled again, feeling rather smug. There was nothing in Nancy’s flat that he had really wanted. He wasn’t sentimental over things. He had all the material possessions he needed anyway. It was good sense to pass that sort of thing onto the next generation.

Christ! An irritating worm of half-remembered urgency had been eating away at the edge of his consciousness ever since he had heard that Nancy had died and left him everything. Now, suddenly, the message had got through.

‘The bestiary!’ he said aloud to himself. ‘Whatever happened to the bloody bestiary?’

Phoebe was reading one of Nancy’s diaries, picked out at random. She had decided from the beginning to ration her reading of them to make them last as long as possible. Earlier on she had spent a large part of the afternoon waiting for more than an hour in her doctor’s surgery, in spite of their appointments system, and then finally, in a supremely undignified position and with some discomfort, she had had her intrauterine coil removed. Next she felt she needed cheering up; a treat of some kind. These days she looked forward to reading the diaries as do avid readers who have newly discovered an author who really speaks to them. She felt like one who has just splurged all her money on a great heap of that special writer’s books. On the rare occasions when she had money enough to buy several books at once, half the fun for Phoebe was to be gained while they were yet unread, in the happy anticipation of losing herself in the narrative and being transported elsewhere. The delicious tantalizing certainty of future satisfaction was, of
course, even more acute if deliberately postponed, to be realized eventually little by little. However, this sort of iron control could not be managed indefinitely, and it always vied in Phoebe’s thoughts with the shame-faced wish to be just a little ill, so that she could stay in bed and read nonstop all day.

She still hadn’t told Duncan about the diaries and it seemed almost too late to do so, for she would now have to admit that she had taken them surreptitiously, and give an account of herself. She didn’t really know why she had done it in the first place, so she couldn’t possibly explain it to Duncan. Anyway, she thought, the diaries would make uncomfortable reading for him. They were all about Nancy’s life and what she was thinking at the time; her hopes and fears and interests and ambitions. They were not Duncan’s sort of thing at all. Phoebe had a good hour before he was likely to come home, so she had turfed Diggory out of the best armchair and curled herself up happily in his warm imprint, to read.

Saturday, 6 May – Weekend in the country. Pressure high and weather wonderful. Oaks in leaf and ash just starting. Apple blossom in cottage garden is in its full glory. At elevenses, as I watched, the nettles outside the kitchen window were smoking with pollen at each puff of wind. Mr Grave says I should assassinate them with Paraquat, but I need them as food plants for the butterflies, I tell him. His garden next door is always regimented in manicured blocks of bedding plants in summer. He favours garish colours which clash fiercely. He probably thinks I’m indolent, and resents all the weed seeds which drift his way! I suspect that he nips over the fence and murders things when we’re in London. Tried cuckoo-calling this afternoon and got one to respond by flying directly over my head. Saw its stripes! Very hawk-like in flight. Did a lot of weeding. Hugh sat in the sun and burnt his shoulders – silly ass. Claude caught a grey squirrel and ate only its head – horrid cat! Cockchafer banging at the window p.m. A good day.

Phoebe read on rapidly until she came to a more personal bit.

*

Saturday, 10 June – At last! some time alone with P. He was in Suffolk last week, so we agreed to meet in Aldeburgh. Weather grey but dry, thank goodness. White Lion very comfortable. Only
just
remembered to use his name and take the label off my suitcase! He was late (of course) but we had most of the afternoon and eventually went for a walk along the beach. Sea quite rough. Fishing boats pulled high up the sloping shingle. Town crouched low behind them. Wonderful great expanse of sky. Walked north a little way, then south to the Martello tower, then down beside the estuary. Identified lovely yellow horned poppies, sea pea and hound’s-tongue on beach and dittander, burr chervil, sea wormwood and mugwort amongst others on saltmarsh. Marvellous names! Pointed them out to P. who was really interested. Poor darling has always lived in towns and never had a chance to
see
the world around him. He thanked me for educating him! Beautiful sailing boat anchored on the River Alde. Felt like commandeering it and sailing away with P. over the grey horizon. He said, no use – he gets seasick – no soul! Good dinner p.m. P. told me hysterically funny stories, mostly about recent cases, and we laughed until we cried. I can’t bear to think that it will be all over again tomorrow, until the next snatched spur-of-the-moment encounter. P. didn’t bother to phone H. Perhaps things aren’t good between them. I phoned Hugh. He sounded rather ratty, so I feel bad. It’s only
one night,
for God’s sake! and time is rushing by twice as fast as normal – too fast, as ever.

Things don’t change, Phoebe thought with a pang. She looked at the date. Nancy must have been in her thirties then. Extramarital affairs were the same in the fifties as, Phoebe had discovered to her cost, they were in the seventies; the only difference these days was that you didn’t have to forge your lover’s wife’s name in the hotel register. Now nc one cared who slept with whom as long as they paid the bill and didn’t steal anything. She turned the page and read the rest of Nancy’s illicit weekend.

*

Sunday, 11 June – Breakfast in bed: champagne and fresh orange juice – wickedly expensive! P. quite amazingly indefatigable. I shall remember him every time I sit down for weeks to come … not that I don’t think about him all the time anyway. Will we ever be allowed to live together openly? I can’t believe that we won’t – it would be too cruel of the fates. Perhaps H. will die suddenly and after a decent (but short) interval I shall leave Hugh, and we … What rubbish! No one ever dies when you want them to, except in fiction. She’ll probably go on for eternity, locked into her own private abyss. What a waste of life and passion! Poor darling P., I hope that the 1. and p. I’ve shared with him this weekend will last him until next time – whenever that is.

The back door banged shut and Phoebe heard Duncan talking affectionately to an ecstatic Diggory, whose welcoming tail was beating a tattoo on the door of the dresser. Phoebe hastily leapt to her feet and slipped into the utility room. Once there, she put the current diary into its safe daytime hide-out. The rest of the diaries she kept in her old trunk under the bed. The one she was reading lived in the trunk at night, and by day in the one place which Phoebe knew would be completely safe from casual discovery by Duncan: inside the washing machine.

Fay braced her feet against the footwell of her husband’s car as they drove on Christmas Eve, west down the M4 to Somerset. Conrad habitually drove too fast, and it always frightened her. She had told him that this was so on countless occasions, but he never seemed to remember. She knew that he considered himself to be a more than usually competent driver with super-fast reflexes, but she didn’t share his confidence. In the back seat Jack strained against his seat belt and whined that he was bored. He was resting his chin on the life-sized pink plastic skull of the baby doll he had insisted on having for his birthday two weeks before, and from which he was now inseparable. Fay wished that her daughters had opted to come with them for Christmas at their grandparents’ house, to help amuse
their little brother, but now that they were grown up it seemed that they had better things to do. She couldn’t blame them. Given the choice she too would have gone elsewhere. The Moon sons were however very hot on family solidarity, even Brendan who might have been expected to stay away, would undoubtedly be there. Peter always made sure of that.