A Desirable Residence (15 page)

As he drove home, he thought gloomily about how much there was still to do if he was to carry out a full valuation. He had covered only a fraction of the property. Would it be possible, he wondered, to find some impressionable junior who would do some of the legwork for him without asking questions? But even as the thought entered his mind, he knew the answer was no. The latest bunch of juniors in the office were pushy, ambitious creatures, who were uniformly desperate to attract attention and further their careers. They worked late, volunteered for extra tasks, and had the temerity to look askance at Marcus when he sloped off early to pick up Anthea and the boys. Any old-fashioned deference to senior status seemed to have vanished from this lot; any opportunity for personal gain was grabbed with glee; loyalty was an alien concept. He would be safer doing the whole thing on his own. And certainly, as far as the cut he would receive from Leo went, it would be well worth it.

He was working out in his mind how long the whole affair was likely to take as he pulled up to a set of traffic lights in outer Silchester—and when he heard a sudden knocking on the car window, a spasm of foolish terror went through him. He looked up in guilty alarm, almost expecting to see the face of a policeman. But it was the smiling face of Ginny Prentice.

‘Marcus!’ she cried. ‘Can I cadge a lift into town?’ Without waiting for an answer, she opened the passenger door and clambered in. ‘Oh, sorry, I’m on top of your papers. Shall I move them?’ Marcus made a grab for the Panning Hall papers.

‘I’ll do it,’ he muttered, shoving them on the back seat. Christ. This was all he needed.

‘What luck to see you!’ Ginny was exclaiming, as she settled into her seat and put on her seat belt. ‘I’ve been showing a load of journalists round that new development in North Silchester.’

‘Oh really?’ Marcus forced himself to pay attention. ‘New developments aren’t really my line.’

‘No, well . . . This one’s really nice. As they go. And I think the journalists liked it. We gave them all champagne in the show house,’ she added inconsequently. ‘That’s why I couldn’t take my car. I’ve had rather a lot of champagne. I was going to take a taxi.’ She giggled, and looked at her watch. ‘Are you going back to the office? I promised to go in and see Miles. But it’s a bit late now, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is,’ said Marcus. He was trying desperately to think of an alternative topic to that of work. Anything. As long as she didn’t ask him where he’d been . . .

‘So, where have you been?’ said Ginny conversationally. ‘Skiving off ?’ Marcus could feel his neck growing warm.

‘Oh, nowhere in particular,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light. ‘Just a meeting. Very boring.’

‘That’s the trouble with you lot!’ exclaimed Ginny. ‘How am I supposed to provide interesting stories for the press if you describe everything as boring? I bet you’ve just been to see some lovely house . . . it didn’t have a ghost, did it? One of the nationals is doing a story on haunted houses, and we don’t seem to have any!’

‘No,’ said Marcus. ‘No ghosts.’

‘Are these the details here?’ said Ginny, reaching behind Marcus for the Panning Hall papers.

‘No! No, they’re not,’ cried Marcus. ‘That’s something else.’ This was unbearable. He put his foot down on the accelerator and increased his speed. He had to get into town and Ginny out of the car.

‘Oh, OK,’ said Ginny. She dropped the papers and gave him a curious look.

‘How’s your house, anyway?’ said Marcus abruptly. Ginny paused.

‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she said. ‘Lovely. Actually, we met the daughter the other day. Alice Chambers. The daughter of the woman letting the house out.’ She eyed Marcus carefully.

‘Oh right,’ said Marcus abstractly. Thank God. They were onto another subject. ‘Nice, is she?’ he added, for good measure.

‘She’s a lovely girl,’ said Ginny, and gave Marcus another side-long look.

They passed the rest of the journey in silence. Ginny looked out the window, and remembered the faces of Marcus and Liz on the day when she’d first visited the house in Russell Street. She’d thought it odd at the time, for them to have waited so long together, and to have been drinking champagne. And now, Marcus had obviously spent the afternoon doing something he didn’t want her to know about. Something must be going on between those two. It must be.

Marcus sat still, and willed Ginny not to ask any more questions about that afternoon. Of course, there was nothing wrong in telling her he’d been carrying out a valuation. Perfectly legitimate work. And with anybody else, he might have done. But not Ginny Prentice. Ginny wasn’t in public relations for nothing. He’d never met anyone with such a fertile imagination; such an eye for a story. If she caught even a whiff of what he’d been doing, she’d put together all the other pieces in no time.

As they approached the first major junction before Russell Street, Ginny gathered up her bag and pile of folders.

‘Drop me here,’ she said. ‘That’s completely brilliant.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘Thanks, Marcus! One less taxi fare to charge to Witherstone’s!’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Marcus, forcing a smile to his lips. And as he drove off, he reflected that he really meant what he said. At home, a row was in progress. When Marcus stepped in through the front door, he found Anthea, Daniel and Andrew still standing in the hall. Daniel’s face was bright red; he looked bunched up and uncomfortable in his blazer and school rucksack, and he was speaking in a raised, distressed voice.

‘Everyone’s been laughing at me all day,’ he was saying, as Marcus entered.

‘Nonsense,’ said Anthea briskly.

‘It’s true,’ said Andrew dispassionately. He had taken off his blazer and was sitting under the huge, heavy oak hall table, running a car idly up and down the legs. ‘They were laughing at him.’

‘What’s all this about?’ said Marcus in a hearty voice. ‘Hello, darling.’ He kissed Anthea, took off his coat and hung it up in the hall cupboard. ‘Daniel, why don’t you take off your blazer? You’ll feel better then.’

‘No I won’t,’ muttered Daniel, but he allowed his father to take his rucksack off his back, and began to unbutton his blazer, with rough, jerky movements.

‘Now, come on, Dan,’ said Marcus, when Daniel was unbuttoned and looked a bit calmer. ‘What’s gone wrong?’

‘Everyone’s been laughing at me at school because Mummy told all the other mothers that I always translate all my homework into French for fun.’ His voice trembled. ‘For fun!’ he repeated, on a rising note. ‘Edward White’s mother told him and he told the whole class and they kept laughing and pretending I can’t understand things if they’re not in French, and calling me Danielle.’

‘Well then, they’re very immature and stupid,’ said Anthea. ‘Just ignore them.’

‘You always say that! It’s not fair! And it’s all your fault! Why did you have to tell them that?’

Yes, why did you? Marcus wanted to repeat. He eyed Anthea suspiciously, then changed his expression to a supportive smile as she turned to face him.

‘It’s all nonsense,’ she said, in a defensive voice. ‘I was just having a conversation about homework with some of the other mothers, and I must have mentioned that time when we had Jacques Reynaud’s children over. Do you remember? They were gabbling away in French all evening. And they did translate Daniel’s homework into French.’

‘Yes, but that was a game!’ shouted Daniel, his chest heaving in frustration. ‘And it was only once! You told them I did it all the time because I found it fun.’

‘I didn’t tell them anything,’ said Anthea sharply. ‘I expect Edward White’s mother wasn’t listening properly.’

‘Could you have given them the wrong impression?’ said Marcus carefully.

‘Of course not!’ Anthea was sounding rattled. ‘This is ridiculous. If those other boys want to make fun of you, it’s because they’re jealous, that’s all. Now, go into the kitchen. Hannah’s got your tea.’

When the boys had left, Daniel resentfully slouching, Andrew trailing his car happily along the wall, Marcus looked sternly at Anthea. He knew exactly what she was like in the company of the other mothers at the school gate: unable to stop herself from boasting about the boys’ prowess; unable to let another parent’s story go without capping it, even if that meant embellishing the truth. She couldn’t help it; it was bigger than her.

‘What did you say to those mums?’

‘Nothing! I said nothing.’ Her eyes fluttered round. ‘It’s not my fault if a lot of silly boys decide to pick on Daniel.’

‘They seem to pick on him rather a lot. And it’s often because of something you’ve said.’

‘What do you mean?’ A fiery spot of colour appeared in each of Anthea’s cheeks. ‘What are you accusing me of?’

‘I just think you should be more careful of what you say. Daniel’s under enough pressure as it is at the moment, without being made the laughing-stock of the class.’

‘I see. So you think I’m deliberately trying to make him a laughing-stock, do you?’ Anthea’s eyes flashed at Marcus.

‘Of course not—’

‘Do you know how much I do for him? How many hours I spend helping him with his homework, listening to him practise, ferrying him around?’

‘I know you do!’ said Marcus, suddenly pushed to the limits of frustration. His day had been stressful enough, without all this. ‘Well, maybe you should do a bit less!’ Anthea paused, for a shocked second, then turned slowly away, bowing her head slightly. Oh fuck it, thought Marcus. He’d played right into her hands.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said. He went over, and put a hand on her bony, cashmere-covered shoulder. He felt the muscles relax; felt Anthea begin to give a little. Then suddenly into his head popped a twin vision of Liz’s well-covered generous shoulder, warm and naked apart from a blob of lotion. He flushed slightly, and shook his head to dispel it. Christ. Who was he to lecture Anthea? ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve had a hard day. Let’s just forget it, shall we?’

She turned to face him, and he saw the unmistakable light of guilt in her eyes. She had been boasting to the other mothers. And she knew she had. But something in her would refuse to allow her to admit it. It was a familiar pattern. When she was in this mood, she would deny any charge until she was in a state of hysteria. Marcus shuddered at the memory of previous arguments; scenes of increasingly wild accusation on his part and shrieking denial on hers. He always gave in first; always would give in first. It simply wasn’t worth doing anything else. And so they all had to carry on, allowing her the pretence that she was innocent; suggesting other explanations; letting the ripples of arguments die down without identifying a satisfactory cause. The boys would learn soon enough that the easiest route was always to go along with her; to fudge the truth for a quiet life.

But it wasn’t fair. Like a small boy, Marcus found himself repeating the words to himself, even as he began to massage Anthea’s shoulder; even as he cupped her face affectionately in his hand.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair
.

Later on that evening, he went to say good night to Daniel, who was propped up in bed, avidly reading a Biggles book. Marcus sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘I hope this whole French thing will have blown over by tomorrow,’ he said honestly. Daniel shrugged mutely and turned pink. ‘I hate to say it,’ added Marcus, ‘but Mummy does have a point when she tells you to ignore it. You must know what it’s like if you’re teasing someone. If they ignore you completely, it gets boring.’ There was silence. Daniel gave no impression of having heard. Marcus waited.

‘She did say it,’ said Daniel suddenly, in a low, aggrieved voice. ‘I know she did.’

‘Well, maybe she said something without meaning to,’ said Marcus placatingly. ‘The trouble is,’ he continued, ‘that Mummy is so proud of you, she finds it difficult not to tell everybody when you do well.’

‘I know,’ said Daniel despairingly. He glanced up at his father. ‘We don’t tell her things, sometimes, because all she’d do is tell everybody straightaway.’ He paused, and looked at his father for a reaction. Marcus felt unable to speak. ‘Andrew got a star in his comprehension last week,’ continued Daniel, ‘and he didn’t tell Mummy. And he made me promise not to either. We told Hannah, instead.’ Marcus looked at Daniel’s earnest face, and felt a creeping sadness in his chest. Had it really come to this? That in order to get along as a family, they all had to have secrets from each other? That the only person they could confide in was the housekeeper?

‘Well, I can see why you might want to keep things like that quiet,’ he said eventually. He fingered Daniel’s blue-and-white-striped duvet, and a smell of fresh-laundered linen rose up in the air. ‘And I think—’ He broke off and looked at Daniel. ‘I think you might be wise.’

He got up abruptly and paced to the other side of the room, picked up a model car on the mantelpiece, and turned it over idly in his fingers. ‘But, you know,’ he said, suddenly, not quite looking at Daniel, ‘Hannah isn’t the only person you can tell things to.’ He put the car down, and came back to the bed. ‘I won’t go running to Mummy,’ he said softly. ‘If you do well at something, either of you, you must tell me.’ Daniel looked at him solemnly.

‘OK,’ he said.

‘And Andrew too,’ said Marcus.

‘All right,’ said Daniel.

‘And I won’t say a word to Edward White’s mother,’ said Marcus, in serious tones. He caught Daniel’s eye, and they both started giggling. ‘I don’t even know Edward White’s mother,’ added Marcus. Daniel’s giggles got louder; his face turned scarlet and he disappeared under the duvet.

Anthea appeared in the doorway.

‘What’s funny?’ she said. Marcus noticed that she had an automatic note of disapproval in her voice. Was that new? Or had he never picked it up before?

‘Nothing important,’ he said. ‘Right, it’s time to go. G’night, Dan.’

‘G’night,’ said Daniel, emerging from the duvet, still with a gurgle in his voice.

As Marcus passed Anthea in the doorway, she gave him an anxious, mildly suspicious glance. He ignored it, and strode away down the corridor. Behind him, he could hear Anthea’s voice, asking Daniel rather petulantly if he’d brushed his teeth.