The twinkle in Grammaticus simply vanishes. His rigid gaze rests on his granddaughter, and she glares back, just the way she did at her father in the kitchen. She's spoken up in a spirit of disloyalty, and she's standing her ground. For Henry, the word 'scan' triggers an unwanted memory, a prick of work anxiety about a hundred-andninetythousand-pound
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shortfall in the funds the Trust has set aside for the purchase of a more powerful MR! scanner. He's written the memo, he's been to all the meetings. Was there something else he should have done? An e-mail to be forwarded perhaps. Of scanning in poetry, he's in no position to say that 'wilfully' is an improvement on 'bravely'.
Grammaticus says, 'Well, there you go. It doesn't scan. How about that? Henry, how are things at the hospital?'
In more than twenty years he's never asked about the hospital, and Henry can't permit his daughter to be brushed aside. At the same tune, it's wondrous: three years apart, and these two are falling out within the minute.
He gives a plausible impression of being amused in saying lightly to Grammaticus, 'My own memory plays far worse tricks than that.' Then he turns to Daisy. She's backed off a pace and looks like she might be searching for an excuse to leave the room. He's determined to keep her there.
'Clear this up for me. How is it "wilfully" scans and "bravely" doesn't?'
She's perfectly good-natured, explaining the facts of life to her father, and rubbing it in for Grammaticus.
"'On your broad main doth wilfully appear" is five feet, five iambs. You know, ti-tum, weak strong. There are always five in this kind of line. "Bravely" would leave it a beat short and it wouldn't sound right.'
While she's speaking Grammaticus is lowering himself onto one of the leather sofas with a conspicuous groan that partly obliterates her final words.
He says, 'Don't be too hard on an old man. "It was no dream; I lay broad waking". Plenty of short lines in Shakespeare, dozens of them in the sonnets. If he'd written "bravely", we'd make the bugger scan.'
'That's bloody Wyatt,' Daisy murmurs below the old man's hearing.
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father have the last word. Unless she wants to fight on until dinner, and beyond.
'I suppose you're right. We would. More gin, Granddad?' There's no audible edge in her voice.
Grammaticus passes her his glass. Till do the tonic myself.'
When that's done, Daisy lets a few seconds pass for the silence to neutralise, then murmurs to her father, Till go and finish the table.'
Perhaps Henry's too preoccupied, or too impatient, to make a decent job of this reunion. Does it matter? If Daisy has outgrown one more tutor in her !i!e, \\ hat's lie supposed to do about that? There's a change in her he doesn't understand, a certain agitation that keeps fading into a smoothness of manner, a degree of combativeness that rises and retreats. And he doesn't wish to be left alone drinking with his father in-law. He longs for Rosalind to arrive home with all her homely skills - the mother's, daughter's, wife's, lawyer's.
He says to Daisy, Td love to see this proof copy.'
'All right.'
Perowne sits on the other sofa, facing Grammaticus across the scarred, polished thakat table and pushes the nuts towards him. They listen to her softly cursing as she rummages in her backpack in the hall. Neither man can be troubled with small talk. Even if they could agree on what's worthwhile talking about, neither would have any interest in the other's opinion. So they remain in contented silence. Sitting down comfortably for the first time since he entered the house, his feet delightfully relieved of his weight, his mood enhanced by wine and three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach, his hearing still faintly impaired by Theo's band, his thighs aching again from the squash, Perowne abandons himself to a gentle swell of dissociation. Nothing matters much. Whatever's been troubling him is benignly resolved. The pilots are harmless Russians, Lily is well cared for, Daisy is home with her book, those two million marchers are goodhearted souls, Theo and Chas have written a fine song,
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Rosalind will win her case on Monday and is on her way, it's statistically improbable that terrorists will murder his family tonight, his stew, he suspects, might be one of his best, all the patients on next week's list will come through, Grammaticus means well really, and tomorrow - Sunday will deliver Henry and Rosalind into a morning of sleep and sensuality. Now is the moment to pour another glass.
He's reaching for the bottle and checking his father-in law's drink when they hear a loud metallic jiggling from the hall, a scream from Daisy, a baritone shout of To!' followed by the thunderous slam of the front door which sends concentric ripples through the poet's gin; then a soft thud and grunt of bodies colliding. Theo is home and embracing his sister. Seconds later, entering the sitting room hand in hand, the children present a tableau of their respective obsessions and careers, precious gifts, Henry unjealously concedes, from their grandfather: Daisy holds a copy of her bound proof, her brother grips his guitar in its case by the neck. Of all the family, Theo is by far the most relaxed with Grammaticus. They have their music in common, and there's no competition: Theo plays, his grandfather listens and tends his blues archive - now being transferred to hard disk with the boy's help.
'Granddad, don't get up,' he calls as he leans his guitar against the wall.
But the old man is getting to his feet as Theo comes over, and the two hug without inhibition. Daisy comes and sits beside her father and slides her book into his lap.
Grammaticus has hold of his grandson's arm and is enlivened, rejuvenated by his presence. 'So. You've a new song for me.'
The proof is aquamarine with black lettering. As he stares at the title and its author's name, Perowne slips his arm around his daughter's shoulders and squeezes, and she moves closer to him to see her book through his eyes. He sees it through hers, and tries to imagine the thrill. At her
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age he was a swotting fifth-year medical student in a universe of Latin names and corporeal facts, far removed from such possibilities. With his free hand he turns to the title page and together they read the three words again, and this time they're bound within a double-edged rectangle, Mi/ Sauci/ Bark, Daisy Perowne, and at the foot of the page, the publisher's name followed by London, Boston. Her boat, of whatever size, is launched upon the transatlantic currents. Thco is saying something, and he looks up.
'Dad. Dad! The song. What did you think?'
When the children were tiny, one took care with the even distribution of praise. These high-achieving kids. He should have been discussing the song earlier when he was alone with Grammaticus. But Henry needed his drifting half-minute of positive thinking.
He says, 'I was swept away.' And to everyone's surprise, he tips his chin towards the ceiling and sings with tolerable accuracy, 'Let me take you there, My city square, city square.'
Theo takes from his coat pocket a CD and gives it to his grandfather. 'We made a recording this afternoon. It's not perfect, but you'll get the idea.'
Henry returns his attention to his daughter. 'I like this London, Boston. Very classy.' He traces the tiny block capitals with his finger. Over the page he reads with relief the dedication. To John Grammaticus.
In sudden anguish, Daisy is whispering in his ear, 'I don't know if it's right. It should have been to you and Mum. I just didn't know what to do.'
He squeezes her again and murmurs, 'It's exactly right.'
The don't know if it is. I can still change it.'
'He put you on the path, it makes perfect sense. He's going to be very happy. We all are. You did the right thing.' And then, in case there's any trace of regret in his voice, he adds, There'll be other books too. You can work your way round the whole family.'
Only then is he aware, from tremors in her form huddled
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up against his own and a flush of body warmth, that she's crying. She pushes her face into his upper arm. Theo and his grandfather are in the other part of the room, by the CU shelves, discussing a boogie pianist.
'Hey, little one/ he says into her ear. 'What is it, my darling?'
She cries harder, soundlessly, and shakes her head, unable to talk.
'Shall we go upstairs to the library?'
She shakes her head again, and he strokes her hair and waits.
Unhappy in love? He tries to resist speculation. There's no particular instance from her childhood he can remember, but it's a vaguely familiar experience from long ago, waiting for her to recover and tell him what's making her cry. She was always eloquent. All those novels she read as a child, especially after her grandfather took her in hand, schooled her in the accurate description of feelings. Henry leans back and patiently, lovingly holds his daughter. She's no longer tearful, but she continues to press her head into his shoulder and her eyes are closed. Her book lies open on his lap, still at the dedication page. Behind him, Theo and his grandfather are discussing recordings and personnel, and like true devotees, they speak in murmurs, making the room feel calm. Grammaticus has another gin in his hand, his third perhaps, but is eerily sober. Perowne feels pins and needles moving along his upper arm where Daisy's head is pressing. He looks down at her fondly, at what little he can see of her face. Not even the first traces of ageing or experience around the corner of her visible eye, only clean taut skin, faintly purple, like the peripheries of a bruise. The outward show, the new toys of sexual development obscure the fact that childhood tails away slowly. Daisy had breasts and periods when her bed was still so stuffed with teddy bears and other soft animals there was barely room for her. Then it was a first bank account, a university degree, a driving licence that concealed the lingering, fading child
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which only a parent can still recognise in the newly formed adult. But watching her now, he knows that however she cuddles against his side, this is no innocent. It's likely her mind is turning fast, faster than his can, perhaps around a broken mosaic of recent events - raised voices in rooms, flashes of Parisian streets, an open suitcase on an unmade bed, whatever is distressing her. You stare at a head, a lushness of hair, and can only guess.
This second dreamy interlude may have lasted five minutes, perhaps ten. At one point, as the logic of his thoughts begins to disintegrate, he closes his eyes and lets himself drift backwards and down, a pleasant sensation confused with notions of a muddy tidal river, and of untying with clumsy fingers a knotted rope that is also a means of converting currency and changing weekends into workdays. But even as he sinks, he knows he mustn't sleep - there are guests, and other responsibilities he can't immediately identify. At the sound of Rosalind opening the front door he stirs and looks expectantly across his left shoulder. Daisy too half raises her head, and the conversation between Theo and Grammaticus breaks off. There's an unusually long pause before they hear from the hall the sound of the door closing. Perowne thinks his wife might be burdened with shopping or packages, or legal bundles, and is about to get up to help when she comes in. She moves slowly, stiffly, apparently wary of what she is about to find. She's carrying her brown leather briefcase and she's pale, her face is stretched, as though invisible hands are compressing and pulling the skin back towards her ears. Her eyes are wide and dark, desperate to communicate what her lips, parting and closing once, are unable to tell them. They watch as she stops and looks back at the doorway she has come through.
'Mum?' Daisy calls out to her.
Perowne disentangles himself from his daughter and rises to his feet. Even though Rosalind is wearing a winter coat
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over her business suit, he imagines he can actually see the racing of her pulse - an impression derived from her rapid, shallow breathing. Her family is calling her name and beginning to go towards her, and she's moving away from them, and backing herself against the high living-room wall. She warns them off with her eyes, with a furtive movement of her hand. It isn't only fear they see in her face, but anger too, and perhaps in the tensing of her upper lip, disgust. Through a quarter-inch gap between the hinged side of the door and its frame, Perowne sees in the hall a form, no more than a shadow, hesitate then move away. From Rosalind's reaction they sense a figure coming into the room before they see it. And still, the shape Perowne can see in the hall hangs back: he realises well before the others that there are two intruders in the house, not one.
As the man enters the room, Perowne instantly recognises the clothes; the leather jacket, the woollen watch cap. Those two on the bench were waiting for their chance. A moment before he can recall the name, he recognises the face too, and the peculiarity of gait, the fidgety tremors as he positions himself close, too close, to Rosalind. Rather than shrinking from him, she stands her ground. But she has to turn her head away to find at last the word she has been trying to articulate. She meets her husband's eye.
'Knife,' she says as though to him alone. 'He's got a knife.' Baxter's right hand is deep in the pocket of his jacket. He surveys the room and the people in it with a tight pout of a smile, like a man bursting to tell a joke. All afternoon he must have dreamed of making this entrance. With infinitesimal tracking movements of the head his gaze switches from Theo and Grammaticus at the far end of the room, to Daisy, and finally to Perowne just in front of her. It is, of course, logical that Baxter is here. For a few seconds, Perowne's only thought is stupidly that: of course. It makes sense. Nearly all the elements of his day are assembled; it only needs his mother, and Jay Strauss to appear with his
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squash racket. Before Baxter speaks, Perowne tries to see the room through his eyes, as if that might help predict the degree of trouble ahead: the two bottles of champagne, the gin and the bowls of lemon and ice, the belittlingly high ceiling and its mouldings, the Bridget Riley prints flanking the Hodgkin, the muted lamps, the cherry wood floor beneath the Persian rugs, the careless piles of serious books, 'he decades of polish in the thakat table. The scale of retribution could be large. Perowne also sees his family through Baxter: the girl and the old fellow won't be a problem; the boy is strong but doesn't look handy. As for the lanky doctor, that's why he's here. Of course. As Theo said, on the streets there's pride, and here it is, concealing a knife. When anything can happen, everything matters.