Daniel went to his room and closed the door behind him. He dutifully took off his jersey, and hauled at the shoulders of his costume. He screwed up his face and wriggled about until one shoulder was on. Then the other. He took a few cautious steps. The legs wouldn’t move very far, and his shoulders felt pinned down. All in all he felt strung-up and uncomfortable. But at least it was on. Experimentally, he put on the owl head. It was all dark and scratchy, and he couldn’t see properly out of the eye holes. He felt as though he might be dead. He breathed loudly and miserably at himself for a few seconds, then took the owl head off and put it on the bed. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to wear the head bit. But then perhaps that would be worse. He opened his door and waddled out onto the landing.
‘Well, that doesn’t look too bad!’ Anthea’s voice was truculent with relief. ‘Where’s Andrew? Andrew!’ she called. ‘Come out and show us your costume!’
Andrew appeared at the door of his bedroom, holding the owl suit in one hand. Daniel felt a twinge of shock. Something had happened to Andrew’s costume. One wing dangled sadly from his hand, and there were ragged bits of cloth sticking up from it.
‘I tore it,’ said Andrew unrepentantly. ‘By accident. I was trying to pull it on, like you said.’ He held out the furry bundle to Anthea. ‘It’s all spoilt,’ he added, as though she might not have understood him. ‘I can’t wear it in the parade.’
‘Andrew! You naughty boy!’ Daniel winced at his mother’s furious voice, as she held up the poor torn costume. But his immediate, overriding feeling was one of relief. If Andrew’s costume was ruined, they wouldn’t have to wear them. He caught Andrew’s eye, and Andrew grinned at him. He must have really pulled at his costume to tear it, thought Daniel. It was quite strong stitching. Maybe he’d even cut it. But nobody could prove it wasn’t an accident. It was a really good idea. He grinned back at Andrew and began to shrug at the shoulders of his costume.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Anthea’s voice caught him off-guard. ‘Put your costume back on!’
‘What?’
‘Put it back on! You’re wearing it to the parade.’
‘But . . .’ Daniel looked from her scarlet face to the placid expression of his brother, unable to believe his ears. ‘But it’s not fair!’ he cried. ‘Why do I have to wear it if Andrew doesn’t?’
‘Andrew has been a very naughty boy,’ his mother said sharply. ‘And he will be punished. But that’s got nothing to do with what you wear to the parade.’
‘It has!’ Daniel couldn’t believe no-one was going to admit the injustice in this. ‘I don’t want to wear this crappy costume if Andrew doesn’t!’
‘Don’t speak like that!’ Anthea’s voice was like steel.
‘I’ll paint my face,’ Andrew suggested sweetly. ‘Like last year. Then we’ll both be dressed up.’
‘It’s not the same!’ said Daniel savagely. He wrenched furiously at the seams of his costume. ‘It’s not bloody well the same! You know it isn’t.’ With a shudder of horror, he gave up on the seams and looked desperately from Andrew to Anthea.
‘It’s unfair,’ he said. ‘It’s bloody fucking, fucking bloody unfair.’ And before Anthea could react, he swept backwards into his room and slammed the door.
CHAPTER TEN
The Silchester ECO parade always followed the same pattern. At eleven o’clock, all the regular members of the society, plus spouses, children and dogs, plus those members who felt guilty about never going to meetings, plus various hangers on, met at the playing fields of St Catherine’s School. They picked up piles of leaflets to hand out, accepted cups of coffee provided by the school catering staff, and then plunged joyfully into a general mêlée of greetings and gossip.
It was normally at least an hour before they could be assembled into any kind of order, and given yelled instructions on the route of the parade, its purpose, and the supportive messages sent by sympathetic members of the town council. This year, Jonathan had been asked to give the instructions, and as he raised his voice above the hubbub, he wondered, not for the first time, whether all this really helped the cause. Half the people here, he thought, casting his eye over the animated faces—most happily chatting and oblivious to his words—had only come for the sociable atmosphere and free mulled wine at the end of the march. They would glance carelessly at the leaflets as they handed them out; they would protest noisily that it was really terrible about all those poor little . . . a hesitation, a glance down at the pamphlet . . . oh, yes, birds. Of course. The poor birds. Criminal, really.
But they had no idea of the real work and ethos of the society. They had no idea of the hours of research carried out by the regular members; of the patient, careful lobbying which went on all year; of the original aim of the founder members to further the environmental cause peacefully. Without force; without polemic—but with reasoned arguments.
This annual parade was almost the antithesis of the original aim of the society, characterized as it was by noisy, ill-informed protestations and, on some occasions in the past, violence. The violence—due mainly to teenage gatecrashers—had been brought under control in recent years, but the whole affair was still riotous and unfocused. Those in the society who periodically suggested bringing the tradition of the parade to an end, however, were shouted down—the society needed a public profile, it was argued. It needed to take the message to the people in the streets.
What message? thought Jonathan, as he surveyed the motley crew in front of him, squinting in the bright winter sun. What message was this lot going to bring to the streets? Some of them probably barely knew what a bird was, let alone an endangered species. His eyes roamed gloomily over the rows of faces, most of which he didn’t recognize or only dimly remembered from previous marches. Then his gaze fell, with sudden affection, on two little figures at the side of the crowd. One he recognized as Andrew Witherstone, who had only recently joined the society as a junior member. He was dressed in brown cords and a duffle-coat, and his face was decorated with face paint and a yoghurt pot beak. Standing next to him, holding his hand, was the thin and glamorous Mrs Witherstone, whom Jonathan had never met but only heard about. She was looking down disapprovingly at the other smallish figure, which must be, Jonathan decided, Daniel Witherstone. It was, however, difficult to tell, because whoever it was was wearing a luridly coloured furry owl costume.
Jonathan was fond of the Witherstone boys, particularly of Daniel, who had a stoic approach to life with which Jonathan could sympathize. When he had finished giving out the instructions to the assembly, he climbed down off the makeshift podium and went over to greet them.
‘Mrs Witherstone? How do you do? I’m Jonathan Chambers.’
‘Hello!’ said the woman brightly, her eyes darting about. ‘Do call me Anthea.’ Her gaze fell on his head. ‘Is that a mask?’
‘This?’ Jonathan tugged at the elastic round his chin. ‘It will be when I put it on properly. It’s supposed to be a duck.’ He smiled at her. ‘We’ve been doing a lot of work this year on the natural habitat of ducks in the area. In fact . . .’ Anthea wasn’t listening.
‘You see, Daniel?’ she exclaimed. Jonathan winced at the sudden strident note in her tone. ‘Lots of people are in costumes.’ The owl shook silently. Anthea looked up and met Jonathan’s questioning eyes.
‘You wouldn’t believe a boy of twelve could be such a baby, would you, Mr Chambers?’ she said, her voice carrying loudly over the heads of the crowd. ‘He’s made such a terrible fuss about wearing this costume.’
Jonathan eyed the costume and thought that if he were Daniel he would have made a fuss, too. But he couldn’t say that to the mother.
‘You look very impressive,’ he said, trying to catch Daniel’s eye through the plastic eye holes of the costume. ‘Very smart,’ he added. You look ridiculous, he added to himself.
Anthea was looking around distractedly.
‘I don’t suppose you know,’ she said, ‘if the headmaster of Bourne College is he
re?’ Jonathan raised his eyebrows.
‘Geoffrey?’ he said. ‘I think he said he was going to try to make it. But he’s very busy.’ He shrugged. ‘There are so many people here, he could have arrived and I wouldn’t have noticed it. Why? Did you need to speak to him?’ Anthea didn’t reply. As he had spoken, her expression had changed. Now she fixed him with a suspicious gaze. Jonathan wondered what was wrong. ‘Would you like me to give him a message?’ he hazarded.
‘Do you mean,’ said Anthea, ‘that you actually know the headmaster of Bourne College?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Jonathan, in puzzled tones. ‘He’s become very involved in the society, you know. And then, of course, I used to work with him . . .’ His attention was distracted by a shout from behind. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Anthea. ‘I think the parade’s about to begin.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Anthea. She gave him a sudden, unnerving smile. ‘We can walk along beside you. That’s if you don’t mind.’ Jonathan looked at her thin, intense face. Then he looked at Andrew, snapping the elastic on his beak, and the miserable owl-form of Daniel.
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It would be a pleasure.’
As they moved off, shuffling in an unsteady mass towards the gates of St Catherine’s, Daniel felt as though he was going to expire with humiliation. He felt boiling hot and achy inside his owl head, and although he wasn’t actually crying, he knew that if anybody else addressed a remark to him, he would probably start.
It was just so unfair. So unfair. It had been Andrew who had been naughty. And it was Andrew who had got the reward of not having to look stupid. A painful shudder of injustice ran through Daniel and he eyed his mother’s back with a hateful resentment. He’d been the one who struggled into his owl suit, even though it was definitely too small; he’d been the one to do what his mother said. And it was he who was being punished.
He eyed Andrew, happily walking along, talking to Mr Chambers, secure in the knowledge that he didn’t look like a nerd. He was sure Andrew had torn that costume on purpose. Andrew always got what he wanted, even if it meant doing really naughty things; things which Daniel wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do. He didn’t ever seem to feel worried about being caught and he didn’t ever feel guilty. At least, not guilty like Daniel felt. Even when Andrew was in big trouble and really told off, he cried for a bit and then forgot about it. When Daniel was in trouble, it haunted him for days. I’m disappointed in you, his mother would say, and his heart would squirm inside him, and his chest would heave, and he would feel a slow, dull mortification creep over him.
As they turned into College Road, Andrew came dancing up to Daniel, who scowled at him before remembering that his face was hidden.
‘Mummy’s talking about your scholarship,’ said Andrew cheerily. ‘To Mr Chambers.’ Daniel’s heart sank. He didn’t want to be reminded of his scholarship. ‘She said if you didn’t win, you wouldn’t be able to go to Bourne,’ said Andrew. Daniel’s head jerked up.
‘Really?’ His voice shook slightly. ‘Daddy said it didn’t really matter.’
‘She said the fees were terribly high,’ reported Andrew. He gave a little skip, and stretched his yoghurt-pot beak out from his face on its pieces of elastic.
‘D’you think you’ll win?’ Daniel gave a hopeless shrug.
‘Dunno.’
‘Jack Carstairs says his brother is going to win it,’ said Andrew. ‘He says his brother can do long division in his head. Really big numbers.’
Daniel slouched down in his costume, feeling suddenly defeated.
‘When I’m in your form,’ said Andrew, suddenly slipping off his plastic beak and swinging it at his side, ‘I’m not going to do any scholarships.’ They passed a rubbish bin, and Andrew deftly slung the beak into it.
‘They’ll make you,’ said Daniel, without any conviction.
‘No they won’t,’ said Andrew confidently. ‘I bet you they won’t.’ He pulled a piece of chewing-gum out of his pocket and began to unwrap it. As he put it into his mouth, Anthea turned round.
‘Andrew!’ she called. ‘What are you eating? Is it chewing-gum?’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ called back Andrew politely. ‘One of the grown-ups gave it to me.’ Anthea gave a doubtful nod, and turned back again.
‘Did a grown-up really give it to you?’ said Daniel.
‘Yes,’ said Andrew. ‘A shopkeeper gave it to me after I gave him twenty pence.’ He began to shake with giggles and, against his will, Daniel found himself unable to help joining in.
Marcus felt bad about Daniel. As he drove out of Silchester, taking care to avoid the roads allocated for the parade, he told himself that he should have stepped in; battled with Anthea; prevented this charade with the costumes from going through. Daniel had looked utterly miserable as he got into Anthea’s car; as far as Marcus could make out, it was now only he who was having to wear the costume. Which certainly seemed unfair.
Hannah, like him, plainly thought the whole thing was ridiculous, and Marcus had caught her opening her mouth a couple of times as if to speak. But in the end she had obviously decided it wasn’t worth her sticking her neck out for. And he couldn’t blame her. If anybody should have said anything, it was himself.
A feeling of guilt assailed him as he parked the car in a side-street and began walking towards the hotel where he and Liz were to meet. If he’d volunteered to go along on the parade, he thought, perhaps he could have done something to cheer Daniel up. They could at least have gone out for lunch or something. He had a sudden vision of a joyful family lunch at the Boar’s Head in Silchester; of a happy, relaxed Anthea; of a smiling Daniel; of Andrew playing the fool and making them all laugh.
And instead of that he was here, meeting his mistress in a secret daytime assignation. It was a thought which had filled him with excited anticipation all week. But now his excitement was tempered by a sudden feeling of dismay. He looked distastefully at the chrome-and-glass doors of the hotel as he walked up to the entrance. It had always been his idea to use hotels for their meetings; to choose outfits which were big and impersonal and a fair way from Silchester. Now he regretted his decision. Hotel bedrooms were such sordid places. And today he felt rather sordid himself.
‘Afternoon, Mr Witherstone!’ Marcus turned in startled horror. Coming up the street behind him was a familiar, grizzled, anoraked man. ‘It’s Albert,’ the man added unnecessarily, as though Marcus couldn’t remember who he was. ‘You remember me! From the Panning Hall estate.’ Marcus flinched, and quickly looked around. No one he knew seemed to be in sight, thank God.
‘Hello, Albert,’ he said, trying to keep his voice brisk and business-like. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well indeed, thank you, Mr Witherstone,’ said Albert. He paused, and sniff ed loudly. ‘Haven’t seen you in Panning recently,’ he added. ‘Finished your work there, no doubt.’
‘Yes, my work there is finished,’ agreed Marcus shortly. He stopped. The entrance to the hotel was just ahead on his left. But he didn’t necessarily want Albert watching him go in. On the other hand, the less said about Panning Hall, the better.
‘So, how much was the place worth in the end?’ Albert’s voice rang cheerfully through the air, and Marcus jumped. ‘You don’t mind my asking?’ added Albert. Marcus’s heart began to beat faster. This was intolerable. He should have got away while he could. He should have ignored Albert altogether. He should have gone with Anthea and the boys on the ECO parade. He shouldn’t be here at all.
‘It’s just that a few of us in the village were wondering,’ Albert was saying.
‘Yes, well, I wouldn’t wonder if I were you,’ snapped Marcus. ‘It’ll be a while yet until we can finalize things. Strictly speaking, we shouldn’t even be talking about it.’ He looked impressively at Albert, as though with the full weight of the legal system behind him.
‘Oh really?’ Albert looked disappointed.
‘Yes,’ replied Marcus quickly. ‘And now, I’m going to ha
ve to go, I’m afraid. I have a meeting for which I’m already late. So nice to see you again. Goodbye.’ And he strode up the drive of the hotel without looking back at Albert, his heart thumping, and his face sweating, as though he’d survived some sort of near-accident.
Liz had already arrived at the hotel, and Marcus found her comfortably ensconced in front of the television, sipping a gin and tonic from the mini-bar. A tiny flash of irritation went through him. Of course, he was the one with money; he could hardly expect her to start paying the bills for these rooms. But the reticence which she had once touchingly displayed when it came to the mini-bar and phone and all the other extras had soon melted away. She was learning fast, he thought grimly. Then he chided himself. Was he begrudging his lover one simple gin and tonic?
‘Hello there,’ he said cheerfully, not quite having to force the smile to his lips. Liz got up and came towards him.
‘Hi.’ Her lips met his warmly and he felt himself relaxing. ‘Drink?’ She waved in the direction of the mini-bar with the gracious air of a hostess.
‘I think I’ll have a whisky.’
Liz picked up the remote control and turned off the television.
‘Marcus,’ she said seriously, ‘I’m afraid we’re in a bit of trouble.’
‘What?’ Marcus whipped round, open bottle in hand. He looked at Liz’s face and his heart plummeted. What was it now? Hadn’t he had enough trouble already? Several alarming scenarios appeared simultaneously in his mind. She was pregnant. Her husband had found out. Oh fuck. What was it? A vision of Leo’s corpulent face appeared inexplicably in his mind. It couldn’t be anything to do with him, could it? Was Albert’s appearance outside no coincidence? Were the police waiting in the lobby? Shit. Shit! He glanced warily at the door. ‘What do you mean?’ he almost whispered.
A Desirable Residence Page 16