A Desirable Residence (22 page)

‘What?’

‘That before either of us gets into that bath, I’m going to make up for the way I behaved earlier on.’

‘No, really, it doesn’t matter . . .’ Liz blushed. But Marcus bent slowly towards her, and began to kiss her with a gentle determination.

‘If we’re both going to feel bad about being here,’ he said softly against her skin, his hand descending between her legs and pushing them firmly apart, ‘it’s only fair if we both have a turn at feeling good as well.’

Marching into Silchester that afternoon, Alice felt absolutely wonderful. She had arrived at twelve Russell Street to find everyone outside, drinking steaming coffee in the wintry sun. Piers and Ginny were sitting on the ledge of the open french windows; Duncan was standing on the grass, declaiming melodramatically from a script.

‘What do you think, Alice?’ he said, looking up as she came round the side of the house. ‘Could I get a part in
Summer Street
? I think I’ll be . . .’ he glanced at the page ‘. . . I’ll be Muriel the grandmother. She’s got some tremendous lines. Listen to this, “Oh, Rupert, when will you ever take life seriously?” ’ He clasped his hands and looked skywards. Alice giggled.

‘Shut up, Duncan,’ Piers said lazily. ‘Chuck it here.’

‘It’s the script for Piers’s audition,’ explained Ginny, as they went inside to get the coffee pot and a mug for Alice. ‘It arrived this morning.’ She grinned at Alice and, as they entered the kitchen, gave the excited skip she had not permitted herself in front of Piers.

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Alice, with gratifying awe. ‘Is it a real script? Like on the telly?’

‘Yes,’ said Ginny, beaming. ‘Just the same.’

‘That’s so cool!’ said Alice. ‘I wish I had one.’

‘I know,’ said Ginny. ‘I’m going to keep it afterwards, and leave it around on the coffee table. Whatever happens.’

‘But Piers will get the part,’ said Alice, with a surprised conviction. Ginny turned round. Her eyes were sparkling.

‘I know he will,’ she said. She hugged herself. ‘I know he will. I can’t wait.’

They had gone back into the garden, warmed by a shared enthusiasm, to find Piers standing up and Duncan throwing his coffee dregs into the flower-bed.

‘Christmas shopping!’ he announced. ‘Come on, Alice, I bet you haven’t got my present yet, have you?’ He gave her a penetrating stare and she giggled and blushed.

‘Not yet,’ protested Ginny. ‘I’ve got things to do first.’

‘Well, hurry up!’ said Duncan. He clapped his hands. ‘We can’t sit around all day drinking coffee, you know!’

Eventually they managed to leave the house, Ginny still complaining loudly at Duncan. But Alice could tell Ginny wasn’t really cross with him. She seemed too happy to be cross. Everybody seemed happy. And Alice felt especially happy. She was sandwiched cosily between Piers and Duncan, and, as they all strode energetically along towards the town centre, she felt as though it was their steps which were moving her along; as though she wasn’t having to make any effort at walking herself. She felt cushioned from the cold air, cushioned from the rest of the world, with these tall male figures either side of her. Or at least, she amended in her mind, one tall figure and one stocky figure. She knew Duncan didn’t mind being called stocky. In fact he quite liked it; he’d once been called ‘stocky and appealing’ in a review in
The Scotsman
.

But Duncan wasn’t the point. It was Piers. It was the fact that she was walking along the road, right next to Piers. She was so close to him that she could feel his jacket through her sleeve, and smell his aftershave, and when they turned the corner a squirm of delight went through her as he put a guiding hand on her arm.

As they turned into Market Square, though, her heart gave a squirm of a different sort. Piling into the square, at the far corner, were the leaders of a bright, noisy, jolly crowd which, she knew, was the ECO parade. She couldn’t see her father, but he would be there somewhere. Dressed in some crappy bird mask, handing out leaflets, being all worthy. She would die if they met him.

She looked distractedly around the square, trying to think of some reason for them to leave. But it was difficult. All the main shops were around the square, as well as Duncan’s favourite coffee shop. She could see him eyeing it already. And at any moment now, he would notice the parade. She couldn’t bear it.

‘Which shops are we going to?’ she began, in an unnaturally high voice. But it was too late.

‘Look!’ Duncan’s voice rang out above hers. ‘Look over there! Who are all those people?’ Everyone followed his gaze. Alice scanned the crowd nervously for her father’s slight figure.

‘Let’s go and have a look,’ said Ginny. ‘It looks like a demonstration.’

‘In Silchester?’ said Duncan, in mock-surprise. ‘My dear!’ He looked up at Piers, whose expression was distantly blank, and gave him a nudge with his elbow. ‘Wake up, love,’ he said. ‘Stop thinking about
Summer Street
.’

‘I’m not,’ said Piers irritably. ‘I wish everyone would stop going on about it.’ He directed a frown at Ginny and she went pink.

‘Come on,’ she said hastily. ‘Let’s go over and see what’s going on.’

As they neared the other side of the square, a short plump woman accosted them. She was dressed in sensible black trousers and a grey anorak, but her reddened, wrinkled face was framed by the yellow beak of a bird’s head, clumsily made from papier mâché. She thrust a leaflet at Duncan, and he gave a little cat-like skip backwards in real or perhaps simulated alarm. Ginny glanced over Alice’s head at Piers, and her lips began to quiver. Alice heard Piers give a muffled snort of laughter, and she looked away in mortification. The woman was Mrs Parsons, who used to babysit Alice. It would be so embarrassing if she said anything to her. But at the moment, her attention was with Duncan.

‘I’d like you to take this leaflet, young man,’ she said. She tried to put a leaflet in his hand, and he firmly put his hands behind his back.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said politely, ‘but I’m allergic to leaflets.’ He peered at the leaflet. ‘And I’m terribly environmentally unfriendly. Let it all go to pieces, that’s what I say.’ He beamed at her. ‘So it’s probably not worth wasting your precious paper on me.’

‘Duncan!’ exclaimed Ginny. ‘He doesn’t mean . . .’ But the woman was glaring at Duncan.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’ she trumpeted. ‘The environment is only on loan to us. We’ve got a duty to look after it. What would you say to your children if the rainforests disappeared?’ She fixed him with a triumphant stare. Duncan appeared to give the matter some thought.

‘I’d say, “There used to be rainforests,” ’ he said eventually. The woman glared at him angrily. Alice turned away, trying to hide her face behind her scarf.

‘Let me have a leaflet,’ put in Ginny, in mollifying tones. ‘Thank you very much. Duncan!’ she hissed angrily as the woman stomped off. ‘That was awful!’

‘I know,’ said Duncan, wrinkling his brow, ‘I shouldn’t be like that . . . but I mean,
honestly
! Just look at them! They look like extras from
The Muppet Show
.’ Ginny looked at the milling, jostling crowd in bird costumes and masks and, in spite of herself, gave a little giggle.

‘They’re well-meaning people,’ she said sternly. ‘I bet you’ve never given up your Saturday in aid of a good cause.’

‘I don’t call dressing up a good cause,’ retorted Duncan. ‘I call it work. And anyone who dresses up without being paid for it has got to be a sad, hopeless character. I bet all these people dress up in medieval clothes when they’re not being birds,’ he continued, looking around at the crowd. ‘They go off to some gloomy old castle, and spend the weekend curtseying and saying Begad and thinking they’re being cultured.’

Alice listened with an unbearable mixture of embarrassment and indignation. What Duncan was saying sounded all witty and clever, and made her want to laugh. But it wasn’t true about her father. He didn’t really like the dressing up, he’d always said that. And he’d never ever dressed up in medieval clothes. She stood perfectly still, feeling her cheeks burning, hoping desperately he wouldn’t come along; hoping that Duncan would soon get bored with the parade and drag them all off for coffee like he usually did. But he was still watching it avidly.

And then it happened.

‘Hello, Alice!’ Whipping round to the right, Alice felt her heart plunge downwards in a fiery trail of mortification. Her father was standing in front of her, wearing a duck mask on top of his head, smiling benevolently at her and holding out one of his leaflets. ‘Have your friends all got one of these?’ he said, and smiled at Duncan. Alice felt paralysed with embarrassment. She didn’t know what to say; she couldn’t risk speaking in case she giggled, or even worse, burst into tears.

Ginny glanced at Alice’s scarlet face, and came to her rescue.

‘Hello,’ she said brightly, extending a leather-gloved hand. ‘You must be Mr Chambers. I’m Ginny Prentice, your tenant. And this is my husband, Piers. And this is our friend, Duncan.’

‘Hello, Mr Chambers,’ said Piers. His voice resonated confidently round the square and he gave Jonathan a practised, charming smile.

‘Hello,’ said Duncan, in a strangely subdued voice.

‘Hello, all of you,’ said Jonathan heartily. ‘Do call me Jonathan.’ He glanced at Alice and she turned her head away, deliberately avoiding his eye. His smile faded, and there was a short, awkward pause. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on with your shopping,’ he said eventually. ‘I hope the parade isn’t too much of a nuisance to you.’

‘Not at all,’ said Ginny warmly. ‘We were just admiring it.’

‘Oh good,’ said Jonathan, a pleased surprise in his voice. Again he glanced at Alice, and her fixed stare hardened.
Go away
, she thought.
Just go away and leave me alone
.

‘I like your mask,’ said Duncan suddenly, in chastened tones.

‘Do you?’ Jonathan pulled it down over his face. ‘Actually,’ he said, his voice muffled, ‘I’m not too keen on costumes. But, you know, you have to go along with these things.’ He pulled the mask up again and beamed at Duncan. ‘If it attracts attention, then it’s worth doing, I suppose.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Duncan earnestly.

Ginny glanced round. Piers’s attention was elsewhere and Alice was still staring tautly at a far corner of the square. ‘Well,’ she said, smiling at Jonathan, ‘we must be getting on.’

‘Yes, well,’ Jonathan rubbed his hands together, ‘I must be going, too.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Time for some mulled wine.’

‘Mulled wine!’ said Ginny. ‘Lovely!’

‘It’s a bit of a tradition to finish the parade with mulled wine in one of the houses in the Cathedral Close,’ explained Jonathan. ‘One of the canons is a member of our society. He was asking after you,’ he addressed Alice tentatively. ‘Canon Hedges. You remember him?’

‘Oh, yeah. Right.’ Alice forced the words out like grape pips, and resumed her staring. Jonathan gave rather a crestfallen smile to Ginny.

‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ he said.

‘Good luck,’ said Duncan plaintively. ‘I hope you save lots of birds.’

‘Duncan!’ Ginny scolded as soon as Jonathan was out of ear shot. ‘He’ll think you’re taking the piss.’

‘But I wasn’t!’ wailed Duncan. ‘I feel awful! Alice, why didn’t you tell us your father was in the parade?’ Alice shrugged miserably. Now that her father had gone, she felt even worse. A painful remorse burned in her chest; an unwanted guilt made her head feel heavy. And yet she still cringed resentfully when she remembered her father’s appearance; his jolly voice; his stupid mask.

‘That’ll teach you, Duncan,’ Piers said cheerfully.

‘But I didn’t mean it!’ Duncan grabbed Alice’s shoulder. ‘Honestly! I didn’t mean any of that stuff! I just said it because . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know why I said it. Anyway, I didn’t mean your father.’ Alice somehow managed to grin at him.

‘I know you didn’t,’ she said.

‘Well, I thought your father was really nice,’ said Ginny, with emphasis. ‘Really nice. Gosh . . .’ She seemed about to say something else, then stopped herself. ‘Didn’t you think he was nice, Piers?’ she said, instead.

‘Oh yes,’ said Piers vaguely. ‘Good bloke.’

He put an arm round Ginny’s shoulders, and Alice’s cheeks burned with renewed misery. Ginny and Piers must think she was a real cow to her father, she thought frantically. They’d probably hate her now. They’d probably stop asking her round. She’d never see Piers again. She couldn’t bear it. Everything was absolutely awful.

As Jonathan was making his way slowly to the Cathedral Close, he felt a tapping on his shoulder. For a brief, hopeful moment, he thought it might be Alice, coming to have some mulled wine after all. But as he turned round, he saw the thin, bright face of Anthea Witherstone.

‘I was very impressed by what you were saying earlier,’ she said, regarding him intently.

‘What?’ Jonathan gave her a puzzled look. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite remember.’

‘About the classics,’ Anthea said. ‘About the superiority of a classical education.’

‘I’m not sure I quite said that—’ Jonathan began to protest. But Anthea wasn’t listening.

‘I quite agree with you,’ she interrupted. ‘There’s something so, so . . .
distinguished
about the classics, isn’t there? Homer and Plato, and all those Greek gods . . .’ Jonathan gazed at her in bemusement as she prattled on. He’d been told that Mrs Witherstone was frightfully clever and highbrow. But she didn’t seem to have a sensible idea in her head. Then a phrase suddenly grabbed his attention.

‘. . . which is why I’d like Daniel to come to you for extra coaching,’ she was saying. He stared at her.

‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch all of that.’ He gave an apologetic gesture towards the surrounding, chattering crowd.

‘I’d like Daniel to come to you for extra coaching,’ Anthea repeated, a slight note of impatience in her voice. ‘In Latin and Greek and . . .’ she waved her hand vaguely, ‘. . . whatever else. For his Bourne scholarship.’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘You do
do
extra coaching, don’t you?’