Breaking the Chain (23 page)

‘Are you all right?’ she asked him.

‘Not r-really,’ Duncan said. ‘We’ve just f-found the w-will. Father’s left all his m-money to b-bloody B-B-B-Brendan!’

The following Sunday Phoebe knew she was ill. Her throat was dry, her nose streaming, her temperature was up and her very bones ached.

‘Go to b-bed then,’ Duncan said.

‘I think I’ll have to. I’m sure I caught it from someone on the train. People shouldn’t travel on public transport when they’re infectious, should they? Selfish pigs!’ Phoebe said. ‘I’m sorry. Will you be okay?’

Duncan nodded. ‘What about b-breakfast?’ he asked.

‘There’s bacon and eggs in the fridge for you. Could you bring me up some toast and a glass of orange juice?’

‘Right.’

As soon as Phoebe had climbed into bed and sunk her head and shoulders onto a pile of cool pillows, she knew she had done the right thing. She really was ill. She really was justified in staying in bed, even though there was so much to be done. The cottage needed hoovering. There were piles of dirty washing and a basket full of ironing. Duncan would need cake for his packed lunches the following week. They were nearly out of dog biscuits … It’s no good, she thought, Duncan will have to cope.

Outside it was raining, a steady drizzle. Phoebe pulled the duvet comfortably up to her chin and watched the raindrops collecting and running down the windows. She began to relax and feel warm. After a while she detected the aroma of frying bacon on the air, and shortly afterwards the unmistakable smell of burning toast. A quarter of an hour went by and Phoebe was just beginning to think that Duncan had forgotten to bring up her breakfast, when she heard his step on the stairs. He came into the bedroom holding a tray awkwardly, trying to avoid spilling the overfull orange juice. Phoebe pulled herself more upright to receive it but at the last moment, as Duncan placed the tray on her knees, the glass slid to the edge of the tray and
tipped over spilling orange juice in a lake onto the tray and over its edge into the duvet. Phoebe’s first reaction was one of pure rage: I
can’t even be ill in peace without bloody Duncan screwing it up!

Oh, Duncan,’ she wailed, ‘for God’s sake!’ Duncan grabbed at the glass and only succeeded in spilling more orange onto the bed. ‘Just leave it,’ Phoebe snapped, struggling out from underneath. ‘Get a cloth, can’t you?’ Duncan removed the dripping tray to the windowsill and put it down with a crash. Then he went out without a word. Phoebe meantime was soaking up as much orange juice as she could with a handful of paper tissues from the box by her bed. She heard Duncan going downstairs again. Where the hell was he going? Didn’t he know there was a cloth next door in the bathroom? Of course not – when did he ever clean the bath?

By the time Duncan had got back with the dishcloth, Phoebe had already got the bathroom cloth, had stripped the duvet cover off and was examining the damage.

‘It’s gone right through,’ she said angrily. ‘I’ll never get the stain out now!’

‘Here’s the c-c-cloth,’ Duncan said, proffering it.

‘The whole thing needs washing,’ Phoebe said, brushing it away and bursting into tears. Her head ached. Her throat hurt. She felt wobbly on her feet. It was all too much.

‘Why the hell couldn’t you watch what you were doing?’ she asked him.

‘I d-didn’t do it on p-p-purpose,’ Duncan said, getting angry as well.

Why is it, Phoebe wondered, that he never admits he’s in the wrong and
never
apologizes? ‘Just go away,’ she said, in exasperation. ‘I’ll sort it out myself. And take the tray with you,’ she added as an afterthought. Duncan picked it up without a word.

When he had got to the bottom of the stairs and closed the door with a bang, Phoebe made herself sort things out. She took the duvet and its cover into the bathroom and ran six inches of cold water into the bath. Then she pushed the stained parts of both under the water and left them in a heap to soak. They only owned one duvet, so Phoebe was reduced to getting out the old
blankets from a cupboard and finding herself a clean top sheet. By the time she had remade the bed, her headache was twice as bad and she was exhausted. She crawled into it and lay there with her eyes shut. If only Fay were here instead of useless Duncan! she thought. Then I’d be properly looked after. Perhaps I should leave him. Perhaps I should go and share a flat with Fay and get a job in London.

Fay had made a spur-of-the-moment decision. It was something she might well regret in the future, but she was sure she ought to do it anyway. She picked up the telephone in her parents’ kitchen in Cornwall and dialled a number.

‘Hello?’ Duncan said.

‘Duncan, it’s Fay. Look, Jack and I are driving back to London today. We’re just about to set off. I wondered if we might call in on you on the way?’

‘Oh,’ Duncan said, ‘yes.’

‘How’s Phoebe?’

‘She’s got flu. She’s in bed.’

‘Oh poor thing. Tell her not to worry about lunch or anything. I’ll come and cheer her up.’ Duncan said he would.

Fay gave Jack half a travel sickness pill, strapped him into his seat, kissed her parents goodbye and set off. It was going to be a long journey, but she was buoyed up by the thought of seeing Phoebe again. Jack picked up her good mood and they sang songs and listened to story tapes as they progressed steadily eastwards through the rain.

It was still drizzling when they arrived at the cottage, Duncan let them in. Fay had wondered if Duncan would be gruff with her in solidarity with Conrad, but he seemed much as usual.

‘I want to do some h-h-hammering in Duncan’s shed,’ Jack announced.

‘That’s a good idea,’ Fay said quickly. ‘I don’t want him to catch Phoebe’s flu,’ she explained to Duncan. ‘Do you mind?’

As Duncan allowed himself to be taken by the hand and walked towards the shed, Fay slipped up the stairs to Phoebe’s bedroom and knocked softly on the door. There was no answer.
Fay put her head round the door and looked in. Phoebe was just waking up and looked rather puffy about the eyes, but there was no mistaking her delighted surprise.

‘Fay! How marvellous. I was just wishing you were here, and all of a sudden you are!’

‘Didn’t Duncan tell you we were coming?’

‘No. I was horrible to him this morning, so I expect he’s fed up with me. Oh no!’ Phoebe sat up suddenly. ‘It’s lunchtime and I haven’t anything nice to give you …’

‘We’ve already eaten,’ Fay said firmly, ‘and we can’t stay long. We’ve got to get back to London.’ She smiled at her. ‘How are you?’ Her hair was a mess and she looked younger and vulnerable. Fay wanted to hug her.

‘Pretty grotty, but it’s only flu. I hope you don’t catch it. Don’t get too close!’

‘Is there anything you’d like?’

Fay made her up a jug of squash and some scrambled egg on toast. They talked about Jack’s progress in Cornwall, about Peter’s death and about Conrad’s reaction to it.

‘You haven’t changed your mind about divorce?’ Phoebe asked, eating the egg with gratitude.

‘No,’ Fay said. ‘I’m sorry for all the brothers, but it doesn’t make any difference. It’s just tough on Con that it’s all happening at once.’

‘Duncan’s very upset about the will,’ Phoebe said. ‘So is Herry. He phoned Duncan about it. They hardly ever speak to each other as a rule.’

‘Phoebe,’ Fay said, taking the plunge, ‘there’s something I want to tell you; something I ought to have told you before. I haven’t been quite straight with you and it’s been worrying me a lot.’

‘Goodness,’ Phoebe said in surprise, ‘you make it sound very dramatic!’

‘I just don’t want us to stop being friends. I really value your friendship, you know?’

‘I value yours too,’ Phoebe said stoutly. ‘Of course we’ll still be friends, whatever it is you’re going to say. Nothing could change that.’ She reached out and touched Fay’s sleeve, smiling.

Fay took a deep breath. ‘The reason I’ve stayed married to Conrad for so long is that I’ve had support from other people,’ she said. ‘They’ve given me the love that I needed. They’ve bolstered me up and kept me going. They’ve even improved my relationship with Conrad. Jack is proof of that!’

‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’ Phoebe said. ‘You told –’

‘I’m talking about affairs, Phoebe,’ Fay interrupted, ‘love affairs. Without them I should have given up long ago, or gone of my rocker like Poppy. My last one finished in February four years ago, two months after Jack was born. It all got too difficult. There was never time. Since then I’ve been on my own except for Conrad and it’s just got worse and worse.’ She signed. ‘That last affair was very special to me. It was the best love I’ve ever known.’

‘Who was it with?’ Phoebe asked. ‘Not that it’s any of my b–’

‘The owner of my present flat.’

‘But I thought you said she was a woman?’ Phoebe said, surprised.

‘She is,’ Fay said quietly. ‘They all were.’

After Fay and Jack had left, Phoebe had plenty of time for thinking. Her first reaction had been one of astonishment; her next one of anger at having been conned. When she had stayed in Fay’s flat, how amused Fay must have been at her naivety! Phoebe cringed at the thought. All her preconceived ideas about lesbians had been blown apart. She didn’t know what to think. Her glib assurances to Fay about the certain continuity of their friendship seemed ridiculous. Could they now even talk to one another without embarrassment? Phoebe didn’t know. Not knowing what to say, she had let Fay go without reassuring her, and had even taken some satisfaction in seeing Fay’s composure crumple as she had left. Phoebe had wanted to punish her for her deception, but also for undermining her own unquestioning and complacent stance. If someone beautiful like Fay could have love affairs with women, then the hitherto clear boundaries between normal and perverted, straight and gay, were suddenly blurred and confusing. If she hadn’t recognized what Fay was,
then how could she identify anyone? Phoebe felt foolish and out of touch with the real world.

Then she remembered the look on Fay’s face as she had gone out of the bedroom, and felt ashamed of herself. Who was she to be so judgmental? Fay had respected her enough to want to tell her the truth and had risked a lot in doing so. She had
liked
Fay. Was anything really so different now? It wasn’t as though Fay had tried to seduce her. That, thought Phoebe, would be something else altogether. Next time I go to London, she decided, I’ll go and see her and make it up. There’s no reason in the world why we shouldn’t go on as before.

In this conciliatory mood, she thought of Duncan too. He had been doing his best. She shouldn’t have bitten his head off about spilling the orange juice. At least she could do something positive about that straightaway. She got out of bed, put on her dressing gown and slippers and went downstairs to the kitchen. Diggory was lying in his basket by the stove, fast asleep, which meant that Duncan was in the house somewhere. Phoebe looked about her. The flagstones on the floor were covered in fluffy clots of dust and dog hair punctuated by small oblongs of dried mud which had fallen from the tread of Duncan’s wellies. The sink was piled with dirty dishes and mugs. The working surfaces were smeared with grease and littered with breadcrumbs. All Duncan’s breakfast things were still on the table, even down to the blobs of marmalade which he had dropped when transferring it from jar to toast on the blade of a knife. Phoebe felt instantly mortified. What must Fay have thought?

‘I’m ill for one day,’ she complained aloud, ‘and the place becomes a complete slum! I can’t bear it. How can I lie and relax in bed, knowing it will get worse and worse? I suppose I shall have to deal with it myself. At least it will be done properly then. How can Duncan not notice such squalor?’ She felt put upon and full of resentment, and it was in that frame of mind that she went through into the sitting room to find him.

Duncan was at his desk doing his accounts. His notebooks were open in front of him and his calculator was
switched on, but he was leaning with his head in his hands, weeping.

‘Duncan?’ Phoebe said, taken aback and instantly concerned. He looked up at her and his eyes were extra blue, luminous with tears. ‘What is it?’ He seemed as though he was trying to speak but couldn’t. Phoebe saw him sitting there, hunched in misery, wordless and hopeless, and was flooded with compassion for him. She went over and put her arms round his head, holding it against her and stroking it gently. She had never seen him cry before and the sight was unbearably pathetic.

‘Darling Duncan,’ she said, ‘it’s all right. I’m here.’ He buried his face in her breast and put both arms round her waist, shaking with sobs. She stood like that for some time, holding him, kissing the top of his head and murmuring encouragement, and all the time she was thinking, He needs me. He
does
need me! It made her forget that she was angry with him. It made her forget that she was feeling ill. It made everything all right.

After a while Duncan disengaged himself and she sat down on the desk facing him as he blew his nose in a grubby handkerchief.

‘It’s F-Father,’ he said. ‘I n-n-never knew him.’

‘I understand,’ Phoebe said gently. ‘I never knew mine either.’

‘I c-can’t talk a-a-about it,’ Duncan said rather desperately.

‘It’s all right,’ Phoebe said again. ‘You don’t have to. I know what you mean. Don’t feel you have to say anything at all.’ Duncan looked at her in surprise and relief, and Phoebe knew then that, quite by chance, she had found the way to get through to him. ‘I’ll make us some tea,’ she said, and whilst they drank it, Duncan began to talk to her about his father.

‘He never p-p-praised me,’ he said. He spoke hesitantly at first and then with more and more confidence. Phoebe held his hand and let him go on without interruption until he had talked himself out. Then he heaved a huge sigh and smiled ruefully at her.

‘Enough of me,’ he said. ‘What a-about you? Aren’t you i-i-ill?’

‘I do feel rather exhausted,’ Phoebe admitted.

‘Go b-back to b-bed,’ Duncan said kindly, ‘and I’ll fetch us a Chinese for s-supper later on.’

Phoebe found herself escorted upstairs again, kissed on the forehead and tucked into bed. To hell with the mess downstairs, she thought. What does it matter? Duncan needs me.