Breaking and Entering (18 page)

He sank down on the bench, which he now had to himself. The Italians had trooped off; in fact everyone had vanished, leaving him alone. He had wanted peace and quiet, but instead of revelling in his solitude, he found it strangely threatening. He could see the clock dial in his mind, the little golden orb of the sun travelling steadfastly round the earth. Those Tudor astronomers had got it totally wrong, and perhaps their twentieth-century counterparts were equally wide of the mark. Man knew next to nothing; simply needed to persuade himself that he was making sense of a senseless universe. He stared down at his hand: a tracery of fine pink scratches, encrusted with congealing blood. He thrust both hands in his pockets, started pacing round and round the cramped deserted space. He almost wished those schoolgirls had caught up with him; rebellious Alexandra answering her teacher back. Anything to connect him to humanity.

He swung round at the sound of his name – Penny's voice, rising in excitement as she ran towards him, launching into a garbled explanation of why she'd been so long. Someone had been taken ill – nothing serious, just a touch of heat-stroke – but she'd stopped to help and …

‘Penny, listen!' he implored, cutting her off in mid-sentence. ‘You'll never leave me, will you? I want you to promise – now, this instant – say you'll …'

‘Daniel, whatever's wrong? You sound quite hysterical.'

‘Nothing's wrong. Just promise you won't leave me.'

‘Well, of course I won't. Why should I?'

‘You'll never go off with anyone else, or lie to me, or deceive me?'

‘Darling, what
is
all this, for heaven's sake?' She stepped back in bewilderment, eyed him with concern. ‘You've been so strange these last few weeks, and I was hoping things were better. Don't spoil our lovely day. It
was
good, wasn't it – I mean, the lunch and everything?'

He nodded, gripped her hand.

‘By the way, what about the prize?' She tilted her face towards him, suddenly coquettish as she pursed her lips, mimed a kiss. ‘Aren't you going to claim it?'

He seized her by the shoulders, repeated the first kiss he'd ever given her – that violent, frenzied, greedy kiss in the Hotel Manchester. He sensed her trying to pull away; heard voices, muffled giggles. Reluctantly he opened his eyes to see half a dozen cameras pointed at them. A party of Japanese had burst into the heart of the maze and were recording the kiss for posterity on their Nikons and Yashicas. He didn't care – he wanted it recorded. These were his witnesses, bearing testimony to the fact that he and Penny were committed to each other for the next seven times seventy years.

‘Fantastic cake!' said Sonia. ‘One of Penny's creations, I take it?'

Daniel nodded. His wife's designer birthday cakes were nothing if not original. This one was in the shape of a frog squatting on a lily-leaf, its mouth agape, and a gold and purple butterfly alighting on its tongue, ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY PIPPA!' was written on the frog's green back, and thirteen candles circled the base. The only problem was who would blow them out? Pippa was upstairs, had refused even to come down to greet her guests.

Sonia touched an admiring finger to a bulging marzipan eye. ‘I don't know where she gets her ideas. It's all I can do to produce a plain round Victoria sponge!'

Daniel murmured some inanity. He always found it difficult to talk to Phil's mother. Phil himself had been working in the Middle East for the last five years or so, having finally married Khadisha, who had obtained her own divorce only after a mammoth battle involving her whole extended family. Since arriving in Bahrain, he had broken off all contact with his daughter and ex-wife, perhaps exhausted by contention, or simply trying to avoid the strain of divided loyalties. But Sonia, for her part, was determined not to lose touch with her grandchild. Daniel tried to be relaxed with her, but the guilt he felt about stepping into Phil's shoes invariably affected his behaviour; made him tense and tongue-tied. Not that Sonia ever blamed him, or hinted at regrets of her own. On the contrary, it was more likely to be Penny's mother who would voice her worries openly, or make sly digs about his snobbishness or his smoking.

He swallowed his sliver of Polo, replaced it with another. He was doing jolly well: four packets of Polos a day was far less reprehensible than two packets of cigarettes. He glanced swiftly round the room – red hair in preponderance, even a red setter. Penny's sisters were there in force, with their respective children, husbands, dogs, plus a few good friends and neighbours. Pippa's birthday bash had become an established event, and although this year she had made it clear that she didn't want a party in any shape or form, Penny had hoped (vainly) that if the usual crowd showed up, it might bring about a cure; coax the deaf-mute back to life.

‘I did once go to cookery classes,' Sonia was saying, as she settled herself back on the sofa after admiring the frog-cake. ‘But I'm afraid it was very basic stuff and I didn't actually learn much.'

‘They're a waste of time, those classes,' Penny's mother remarked, squeezing up to make more room for Sonia. ‘Either you
can
cook or you can't.'

‘Well, I'm not so sure,' said Daniel diplomatically, perching on the sofa arm. ‘Penny's managed to teach me quite a lot.' It needed tact to juggle both the grandmas, who couldn't be more different, not only in their views, but their appearance. Sonia was grey – grey hair, grey face, grey frock – whereas Kay loved daring colours, like her daughter, and though her hair had faded, it was still the famous Hethrington red.

‘How's your job, dear?' Sonia asked Daniel, pointedly changing the subject.

‘It's going pretty well, thanks.' He knew the question was just a social formality rather than an expression of genuine interest, yet he was still tempted to enlarge on it. The conversation so far hadn't moved beyond the drought, the recent tube strikes and Sonia's arthritis, whereas his work was one of the topics he could discuss with real enthusiasm. But he'd probably only bore them if he started sounding off about the soul-searching his job involved: the constant daily struggle reconciling high ideals with a chronic shortage of funds. Funny things, families: supposedly your nearest and dearest, who were meant to understand and empathize, yet you were often more aware of a yawning gulf between you; a sense of inhabiting different worlds.

Penny didn't have his hang-ups. She and her sisters were kindred souls, chiselled from a single block. She was sitting with them now – Ros, the eldest (who had the bluest eyes, the wiriest hair, and four freckled gingery sons), deep in discussion with his personal favourite, Jo (married, rather surprisingly, to the platitudinous Fergus), while the youngest sister, Lindsay, was sponging trifle off her daughter's dress and trying to restrain her squirming baby. All their faces were animated as they chattered excitedly away, exchanging jokes and news, their talk punctuated by frequent bursts of laughter. He was astonished Penny could laugh like that when her only child was moping on her own upstairs, and had shown not the slightest interest in her presents or the cake. As far as he was concerned, Pippa's silent absence was a source of grief, of shame. He kept wondering what she was doing – reading, crying, staring into space? Or maybe she resented all the rumpus, and couldn't wait for the invasion to be over.

Kay's chirpy voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Did I tell you that I'm going up to Edinburgh? It's one of those Bargain Break things, with all your meals thrown in, and the coach fare there and back.'

‘Lovely,' he said vaguely. ‘When are you off?'

‘The weekend after next. We're leaving at the crack of dawn on Friday, but they pick you up at your door, thank heavens, and then drop you back at midnight on the Sunday.'

‘Sounds good.' He racked his brains without success for something more inspiring to say. ‘Have you been to Scotland before?'

‘No, never. You know me, Daniel. I'm a real old stay-at-home.'

‘Well, make sure you see the castle. It really is impressive.' His eyes strayed back to Penny. She and her sisters had been joined by two bohemian types – her old next-door neighbours from Streatham. They were all huddled on the floor amidst a tide of boisterous offspring. Lindsay's baby was now crawling around half-naked, while another tot (he wasn't sure whose) was dismantling a plate of sandwiches, licking out the cream-cheese filling and smearing the residue on its face. The chaotic scene stirred uneasy memories of the months before his marriage, when he'd felt swamped by Penny's family and friends – unknown and daunting people from what he called her ‘former life' – with no one of his own to redress the balance. Even Alison was here, with her obstreperous six-year-old. He had promised to be nice to her, though he was secretly alarmed that she seemed set to become a permanent encumbrance since their Hampton Court encounter. Not only were she and Matthew staying the whole weekend, but Penny had agreed to spend next Saturday helping her move house.

‘I suppose you miss all your trips to Africa,' Sonia was saying. ‘Didn't you use to go there several times a year?'

He suddenly felt claustrophobic closeted indoors; changed the scene to Kenya – the Masai Mara national park. He was driving north to south; no one sharing the terrain with him save a herd of wildebeest browsing in the distance, or a flock of crested hoopoes flapping up into the limitless horizon. He could even smell African smells: wood smoke, bush fires, heat and dust and dung.

‘I keep hoping to take Penny there,' he said, aware that Sonia was still awaiting some reply. ‘And Pippa too, of course – show them where I was born, and where I used to work. But somehow we always seem too busy, and anyway I'm afraid three air fares would probably break the bank!'

Kay bit into her sausage roll, spraying pastry flakes on her lap. ‘The nearest I've got to Africa is watching that new series on the box. Have you seen it, Daniel? There's this doctor-chappie who's trying to build a clinic in the wilds of …'

Her words were cut short by a dramatic squall of rain, slamming at the windows, putting paid to all conversation. A flash of lightning lasered through the sky, followed almost instantaneously by a deafening crack of thunder.

‘Wow!' exclaimed Ros. ‘We were saying only yesterday how desperately we needed rain, and someone's answered our prayers with a vengeance. Arthur,
sit
!'

The lunatic red setter was plunging about the room, excited by the violence of the storm. His windscreen-wiper tail swept a tumbler from the coffee-table, cascading orange squash all over the rug.

Daniel swore under his breath. Penny had her hands full trying to calm the frightened children, so he dashed out to the kitchen for a cloth. He couldn't see one anywhere, and there was so much mess and clutter they would need a veritable army to restore the place to order. Every available surface had been used for sandwich-making and still bore its jumbled cargo of fillings, chutneys, spreads. The sink was chock-a-block with baking trays and cake tins, and the setter's muddy paw-prints patterned the pale floor. He jammed the fanlight shut, to stop the rain coming in. It was sheeting down outside, battering his geraniums, turning the lawn into a swamp. He stared out at the overflowing gutters, recalling last year's barbecue – the sun shining serenely and a normal, happy Pippa larking with her friends. They usually held the party in the garden, but today's early morning forecast had warned of a break in the weather, so they'd had to change their plans. He should have taken a much stronger stance and cancelled the whole thing. It was farcical to celebrate a birthday when Pippa was so miserable and had refused point-blank to invite any of her classmates, even her best friend.

He rubbed the misted window, though it was difficult to see beyond the rain-lashed patio. A year ago, he had been out there in his bush-hat, grilling sausages and spare ribs, while the girls played some ear-splitting pop music. He remembered complaining about the din, yet now he would give anything to hear that raucous noise again, or see his daughter cavorting around doing her Michael Jackson take-off.

He rummaged in the cupboard for a cloth, but found only dirty dusters, caked with polish. He was tempted to give up; leave not just the puddle on the rug, but escape from the whole shambles. If he slipped out the back way, nobody would notice he had gone. He could tramp across the common in the rain and let the drenching downpour flush away his gloom.

He closed the cupboard door, forced himself to go back to the sitting-room, his host's smile firmly in place. Ros's husband, Brian, was mopping up the spillage with his handkerchief; his two youngest sons floating cheese-straw boats on what remained of the orange lake.

Brian squeezed out his hankie, then used it to wipe both sticky faces. ‘The usual peaceful family gathering!' he joked. ‘Sorry about our pooch! They say owners take after their dogs, but I hope I never get as neurotic as dear Arthur.'

Daniel smiled apologetically, fearing Brian could read his thoughts, suss out his aversion to uncontrollable dogs. He stole a glance at his brother-in-law – a broad and burly type, exactly the same age as himself, but who had viewed his fortieth birthday as a milestone, not a trauma. Of course, Brian had more to show for it – those four strapping sons, to start with – and had better things to do than worry about soggy rugs or a few scratches on the furniture. Nor did he fret about his bald patch; merely laughed it off, instead of wasting time and money on bogus lotions and potions which promised miraculous regrowth. Secretly, he envied Brian his easy-going attitude, his total lack of vanity or angst, but the two of them were poles apart and there seemed very little prospect of their ever closing the gap. In fact, no one in this room really shared his interests and ideals – or his wretched self-absorption, come to that – and he suspected all his brothers-in-law regarded him as a bore, if not a prig.