Wednesday's Child (16 page)

So where was Sandra? Banks turned the lights on, then went into the kitchen thinking he might find a note. Nothing. Feeling anxious and irritated, he sat down, turned on the television and started switching channels: an American cop show, a documentary on Africa, a pirate film, a quiz show. He turned it off. The silence in the house closed in on him. This was absurd. Normally he would change into jeans and a sports shirt, pour a drink, put some music on, perhaps even smoke a cigarette if both Sandra and Tracy were out. Now all he could do was sit down and tap his fingers on the chair arm. It was no good. He couldn't stay home.

Grabbing his jacket against the evening chill, he walked along Market Street past the closed shops and the Golden Grill and the
Queen's Arms. The light through the red and amber coloured windows beckoned, and he could see people at tables through the small clear panes, but instead of dropping in, he continued along North Market Street, quiet under its old-fashioned gas-lamps, window displays of gourmet teas, expensive hiking gear, imported shoes and special blends of tobacco.

The front doors of the community centre stood open. From the hall, Banks could hear a soprano struggling through Schubert's “Die Junge Nonne” to a hesitant piano accompaniment. It was Saturday, amateur recital night. He took the broad staircase to his left and walked up to the first floor. He could hear voices from some of the rooms, mostly used for the meetings of local hobby clubs or for committees of various kinds. The double glass doors of the gallery were closed, but a faint light shone from behind the partition at the far end of the room.

Banks walked softly down the carpeted gallery, its walls bare of pictures at the moment, and stopped outside the cramped office at the end. He had already heard Sandra's voice, but she was unaware of his presence.

“But you can't
do
that,” she was pleading. “You've already agreed—”

“What? You don't give a … Now look—” She moved the receiver away from her ear and swore before slamming it down in its cradle. Then she took two deep breaths, tucked loose strands of blonde hair behind her ears, and picked up the phone again.

“Sandra,” Banks said as gently as he could.

She turned round and put her hand to her chest. Banks could see the angry tears burning in her eyes. “Alan, it's you. What are you doing here? You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“Look, it's not a good time. I've got so damn much to do.”

“Let's go for a drink.”

She started dialling. “I'd love to, but I—”

Banks broke the connection.

Sandra stood up and faced him, eyes blazing. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

He took her arm. “Come on. Let's go.”

She shook him off. “What are you playing at?”

Banks sighed and sat on the edge of the desk. “Look at you,” he said. “You're frustrated as hell.” He smiled. “You look pretty close to murder, too. I think it's time you took a break, that's all. God knows, you've helped take my mind off my problems often enough when you've watched me beating my head against a brick wall. I'm just trying to return the favour.”

Sandra bit her lower lip. Some of the anger left her eyes, but the tears still burned there. “It's just that bloody Morton Ganning,” she said. “He's only pulled out of the show, that's all.”

“Well, bugger him,” Banks said.

“But you don't understand.”

Banks took her coat from the rack by the office door. “Come on. You can tell me over a drink.”

Sandra glared at him for a moment, then smoothed her skirt and walked over. Before she could put her coat on, Banks put his arms around her and held her close. At first she stood limp, then slowly, she raised her arms and linked them behind him. She buried her head in his shoulder, then broke free, gave him a playful thump on the arm and that cheeky smile he loved so much. “All right, then,” she said. “But you're buying.”

Ten minutes later, they managed to squeeze into a small corner table in the Queen's Arms. The place was busy and loud with the jokes and laughter of the Saturday night crowd, so they had to put their heads close together to talk. Soon, though, the noise became a background buzz and they no longer had to strain to hear one another.

“He's the most famous of the lot,” Sandra was saying. “He's got paintings in galleries all over the country. It was going to be a hell of a coup to get him, but now he's backed out. He's a real bastard.”

“I thought the idea was to give locals a chance, the lesser-known ones?”

“It is. But Ganning would have drawn a damn good crowd. Indirectly, he'd have got them all more publicity, given them more chance of making a sale.”

“For the right reasons?”

“That doesn't matter. So what if they come to see
his
work? They'd see the others too.”

“I suppose so.”

Sandra sipped her gin and tonic. “I'm sorry to go on about it, Alan, really I am. It's just that I've been so involved. I've put in so much bloody work it makes me boil.”

“I know.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

Her blue eyes hardened. “Yes it is. I can tell by your tone. You're not complaining, are you? That I haven't been doing my little wifely duties—cooking your meals, washing your clothes?”

Banks laughed. “I didn't marry you for your ‘little wifely duties' as you call them. I can look after myself. No. If I am complaining at all, it's about hardly seeing you over these past few weeks.”

“Like I hardly see you when you're on a case?”

“Touché.”

“So what do you mean? You expect me to be there whenever you decide to come home?”

“No, it's not that.”

“What is it then?”

Banks lit a cigarette, playing for time. “It's … well, just that the house seems so empty. You're never there, Tracy's never there. I feel like I'm living alone.”

Sandra leaned back in her chair. She reached out and grabbed one of Banks's cigarettes. “Hey,” he said, putting his hand over hers. “You've stopped.”

She broke free. “And I'll stop again tomorrow. What's really bothering you, Alan?”

“What I said. The empty house.”

“So it's not just me, what I'm doing?”

“No, I don't suppose it is.”

“But you take it out on me?”

“I'm not taking anything out on you. I'm trying to explain what the problem is. For Christ's sake, you asked me.”

“Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on. Maybe you need another pint.”

“Wouldn't mind.”

Sandra held out her hand. “Money, then.”

Banks looked gloomily into the last quarter-inch of deep gold liquid in his glass while Sandra threaded her way to the bar. She was right. It wasn't just her at all. It was the whole damn situation at home. He felt as if his children had suddenly become different people overnight, and his wife hadn't even noticed. He watched her coming back. She walked slowly, concentrating on not spilling the drinks. It was absurd, he felt, but even after all these years just seeing her made his heart speed up.

Sandra placed the glass carefully on the beer-mat in front of him and he thanked her.

“Look,” she said, “I know what you mean, but you have to accept things. Brian's gone. He's got his own life to lead. When did you leave home?”

“But that's not the same.”

“Yes it is.”

“It was stifling in Peterborough, with Dad always on at me and Mum just taking it all. It wasn't the same at all.”

“Perhaps the circumstances weren't,” Sandra allowed. “But the impulse certainly is.”

“He's got a perfectly good home with us. I don't see why he'd want to go as far as bloody Portsmouth. I mean, he could have gone to Leeds, or York, or Bradford and come home on weekends.”

Sandra sighed. “Sometimes you can be damned obtuse, Alan Banks, do you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“He's left the nest, flown the coop. For him it's a matter of the farther the better. It doesn't mean he doesn't love us any more. It's just a part of growing up. You did it yourself. That's what I mean.”

“But I told you, that was different.”

“Not all that much. Didn't you use to get on at him all the time about his music?”

“I never interfered with what he wanted. I even bought him a guitar.”

“Yes. In the hope he'd start playing classical or jazz or something other than what he did.”

“Don't tell me you liked that bloody racket any more than I did?”

“That doesn't matter. Oh, what's the use. What I'm trying to say is that we didn't drive him away, no more than your parents drove you away, not really. He wants to be independent like you did. He wants his own life.”

“I know that, but …”

“But nothing. We still have Tracy. Enjoy her while you can.”

“But she's never home. She's always out with that Harrison boy, getting up to God knows what.”

“She's not getting up to anything. She's sensible.”

“She doesn't seem interested in anything else any more. Her schoolwork's slipping.”

“Not much,” Sandra said. “And I'll bet yours slipped a bit when you got your first girlfriend.”

Banks said nothing.

“Alan, you're jealous, that's all.”

“Jealous? Of my own daughter?”

“Oh, come on. You know she was the apple of your eye. You never were as close to Brian as you were to her. Now she seems to have no time for you, you resent it.”

Banks rubbed his cheek. “Do I?”

“Of course you do. If only you could bring as much perception to your own family as you do to your cases you wouldn't have these problems.”

“Knowing is one thing, feeling all right about it is quite another.”

“I realize that. But you have to start with knowing.”

“How do you cope?” Banks asked. “You've been like a stranger to me these past few months.”

“I didn't say I'd been coping very well either, only that I've been doing a lot of thinking about things.”

“And?”

“It's not easy, but we've reached that time where our children are no longer children. They can no longer keep us together.”

Banks felt a chill run through him. “What do you mean they can't keep us together?”

“What I say. Oh, for God's sake don't look so worried. I didn't mean it
that
way. Maybe I didn't choose the best words. The kids
gave us a lot in common, shared pleasures, anxieties. They'll still do that, of course, though I'm sure more on the anxieties side, but we can't relate to them the same way. They're not just children to be seen and not heard. You can't just order them not to do things. They'll only rebel and do worse. Remember your own childhood? You were a bit of a shit-disturber even when I met you. Still are, if truth be known. See Brian and Tracy for what they are, for what they're becoming.”

“But what did you mean about them keeping us together? It sounded ominous to me.”

“Only that we won't have them to gather around for much longer. We'll have to find other things, discover one another in other ways.”

“It could be fun.”

Sandra nodded. “It could be. But we've both been avoiding it so far.”

“You too?”

“Of course. How many times have we spent an evening in the house alone together these past eighteen years?”

“There's been times.”

“Oh yes, but you can count them on the fingers of one hand. Besides, we knew Brian would be back from Boys' Brigade or Tracy from the Guides, or they were up in their rooms. We're not old, Alan. We married young and we've got a lot ahead of us.”

Banks looked at Sandra. Not old, certainly. The earnest face, her eyes shining with emotion, black eyebrows contrasting the blonde hair that hung down over her shoulders. A lump came to his throat. If I walked into the pub right this moment, he thought, and saw her sitting there, I'd be over like a shot.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

Sandra tossed back her head and laughed. People turned to look at her but she paid them no attention. “Well, I've got this bloody show to organize still, and it's not all been a matter of staying late at the gallery to avoid facing things. I
do
have a lot of hours to put in.”

“I know that,” Banks said. “And so do I.”

Sandra frowned. “There's still nothing on that missing child, is there?”

Banks shook his head. “No. It's been five days now since she was abducted.”

“Just imagine what her poor mother must be going through. Have you given up hope?”

“We don't expect miracles.” He paused. “You know something? She reminds me of Tracy when she was that age. The blonde hair, the serious expression. Tracy always did take after you.”

“You're being sentimental, Alan. From the photo I saw in the paper she didn't look a bit like Tracy.”

Banks smiled. “Maybe not. But I'm on another case now. That reminds me. Have you ever heard of a bloke called Adam Harkness?”

“Harkness? Of course I have. He's pretty well known locally as a patron of the arts.”

“Yes, he mentioned something like that. Has he given your lot any money?”

“We weren't as needy as some. Remember that bumper grant we got?”

“The oversight?”

“They still haven't asked for it back. Anyway, he's given money to the Amateur Operatic Society and a couple of other groups.” She frowned.

“What is it?”

“Well, some of the arts groups are a bit, you know, leftish. They tend to get blinkered. It's the old package deal: if you're against this, you have to be against that too. You know, you have to be pro-abortion, anti-apartheid and green to boot.”