Swiftly changing the subject, Duncan enquired about everyone’s Christmas plans, but even that was not without risk since only Stewart, who was taking Laura to Lanzarote, was looking forward to the break. Ken would be entertaining his widowed sister-in-law, whom he had loathed for forty years but whose presence he tolerated since it gave him the necessary excuse to escape from his wife for a few hours. Brian would be with his family, his primacy threatened by the return of his younger brother from London. Jake would be at his lodgings, although banished upstairs in deference to his landlady’s children. Rowena would be paying her annual visit to her sister in Canterbury, where the solicitude of her three nieces would underline her daughter’s disaffection.
Duncan’s greatest concern was Sheila, so much so that despite an already crowded table he had resolved to invite her to Ridgemount for Christmas lunch when she forestalled him by announcing that she had volunteered to help out at Castlemaine. Jean Davison, the manager, whom she knew from a folklore class, had seized on the offer of an extra pair of hands and she herself was glad to have found a way to spend Christmas with her mother. Moreover, it would allow her to assess the deterioration in her behaviour that the staff had ascribed to Dragon’s arrival at the home. Defying hopes that he would interact with the other residents, he had remained as reclusive as in his hut, even shunning a belly-dancing display by the cook’s daughter. The problem was that the acute gender imbalance put his presence at a premium. According to Jean, on some unconscious level (the only one on which most of them still functioned), the women interpreted his indifference as rejection. Egged on by Sheila’s mother, they had ganged up on him: mocking and mimicking him like feral five-year-olds. Witnessing it for herself, Sheila would have a chance to reason with – or, at any rate, constrain – her mother before things spun out of control.
‘I hope you’ll give yourself a little Sheila time as well,’ Duncan had said when she outlined her arrangements.
‘Why? What would I do with it?’ she replied, extending his concern beyond Christmas.
The meal ended with brandy for everyone except Sheila, who with rare self-awareness announced that she was ‘already a bit squiffy’, and Jake, who had offered to drive her, Rowena and Brian home. Advising them with deceptive flippancy to cash the cheques before they bounced, Duncan handed out their Christmas bonuses. Sheila then gave him a present from the staff, which custom obliged him to open on the spot.
‘A plant!’ he said, his relief after last year’s James Bond cufflinks tinged with fear that he would let it die.
‘Not just any plant, a money plant,’ Sheila said. ‘Your office needs cheering up. And we all know that finances are tight. I’ve read up on the feng shui, so I can show you exactly where to put it. In the left-hand corner opposite the door.’
‘It’s very kind of you all. Thank you,’ Duncan said, struggling to conceal the leaf that he had ripped off with the wrapping paper. ‘When I was a boy, my mother used to tell me that money doesn’t grow on trees. Let’s hope this proves her wrong.’
Holding the pot at arm’s length like a baby with a full nappy, he returned to Mercury House. He knew that he should be grateful not just for the gift but for the coded acknowledgement of his plight. Instead he felt pained that they should suppose, even jokingly, that it might be relieved by recourse to an ancient superstition. The bank loan was due for repayment in less than a month. With no white knight on the horizon, he and Dudley Williams were engaged in detailed discussions with executives, lawyers and accountants from both Newscom and Provident. He was no longer in any doubt that he would have to sell the company to one of these two local media giants, and that he and his family would receive next to nothing for their shares. His principal objective was to reach a deal that would preserve the title, protect the staff and, above all, guarantee their pensions.
At half past twelve it was too late for his nightly call to Ellen, so he rang her as soon as he woke up. Busily packing for Sue’s Caribbean trip, she did little more than confirm that she and Neil would come round at seven for dinner with him and Jamie. It was a meal that filled him with a mixture of excitement and dread. After dithering over the menu, he had opted for pizza as both adolescent-friendly (he would even let them eat out of the box if it helped) and cheap. The need for frugality depressed him. He promised himself that as soon as Christmas was over, he would reveal the full extent of his debts to Ellen. If there were the slightest chance of their sharing a future, he had to warn her that it might not be as rosy as she had supposed. His fear was not that she would leave him – she had experienced the emptiness of colour-supplement living during her marriage – but that she might feel duty-bound to stay.
Struggling to stave off the gloom, he set out to collect Jamie, although ten minutes of scraping the frost from Rocinante’s windscreen and another five of coaxing her temperamental engine to start did little to relieve his apprehension. It was not only their first Christmas together since the divorce but their longest period under one roof since Alison had turned her house in Umbria into holiday lets three years earlier. Although he and Linda had agreed to alternate custody at Christmas, it had seemed churlish to force the issue when Jamie might be staying with his mother, stepfather and Rose (not to mention the all-important Craig) at Geoffrey’s villa in Antigua. This year, however, things were different. If his relationship with Ellen were to succeed, it was essential that their sons become friends and Christmas offered the perfect opportunity.
Jamie, of course, had rebelled: threatening to run away, go on hunger strike and even phone Childline. When that failed, he printed out evidence from the web on the importance of sunlight for children’s bone development, melatonin balance and mental well-being, to which Duncan replied that the first would be achieved by a healthy diet and the second and third by regular sleep and exercise. Changing tack, Jamie outlined the educational benefits of immersing himself in a Third World culture. When Duncan wryly assured him that he would learn more by spending one day helping out at the Morley Road refugee centre than ten issuing instructions to Geoffrey’s housemaids and pool boy, Jamie accused him of being a sad loser and ruining his life.
He was particularly incensed that, while he was being kept at home, Craig was taking Sue. For his part, Duncan was astonished that Ellen had allowed her to go, not least after Frances’s announcement that she would be giving her a bedroom with Craig since they were both sixteen and she refused to be kept awake by creaking floorboards. With a persistence that put Jamie to shame, Sue wheedled and pleaded, screamed and insulted and threatened to cut herself, until Ellen was browbeaten into submission.
Linda too would be spending Christmas away from her daughter. Duncan’s surprise at her willingness to let him have Jamie had paled beside the news that she was going to Antigua without Rose. The red eyes and puffed cheeks with which she greeted him at the door attested to the wrench.
‘Come on in,’ she said, leading him through the hall. ‘Forgive the mess,’ she added, although the three suitcases, pile of gift-wrapped presents and crate of disability aids were neatness itself to one accustomed to the Mercury reporters’ room.
‘What time are you flying tomorrow?’ he asked.
‘Nine thirty. But Derek’s determined to take advantage of the hotel meal deal, so he wants us there by six tonight. Meanwhile I have to finish packing, deliver those presents to my parents, shut up the house and take Rose to respite.’
‘Can’t Derek help?’
‘Yes, of course. But he’s chosen this morning to have his hair cut. Don’t ask.’
‘Well, at least I can take Jamie off your hands. Is he ready?’
‘As much as he’ll ever be. I asked if he wanted me to do his packing. He said he never wanted me to do anything for him again.’
‘No change there then!’
‘Still, I’ve got more important things to worry about than Sir’s moods. I’ve…’
She had no need to finish the sentence since Duncan knew that, other than a weekend
in Newcastle two years ago when she had accompanied Derek to his cousin’s wedding, it would be the first time that she had ever spent more than an afternoon apart from Rose. Despite all the hazards of travelling: from being hoisted on to the plane like cargo, through the tortuous sanitary arrangements, to the curiosity and even hostility of their fellow passengers (most blatant in the woman who held up a flight for an hour after claiming that Rose was ‘an ill omen’), Linda had insisted on including her in every trip. This time, however, Derek, who by his own avowal knew better than to oppose his wife where their daughter was concerned, was adamant that she needed a complete break. Not only was the relentless strain of caring for a paralysed four-year-old taking its toll on her, but she would require every ounce of strength for the forthcoming battle with the LEA.
The first salvo had been fired a fortnight earlier when the Chief Education Officer sent them a draft copy of the revised statement of Rose’s educational needs, which, despite Ellen’s report, concluded that she would be best served by the greater classroom and therapeutic support available at a specialist school. They were given fifteen days to make representations, after which the LEA would review the evidence and issue a final statement. If, as seemed likely, that upheld the original verdict, they had the right of appeal. Knowing Linda, Duncan was certain that she would not rest until she had exhausted every avenue; knowing Ellen, he was equally certain that she would support her all the way, notwithstanding her private admission that there was little hope of the tribunal’s ruling against the Local Authority.
‘Come and say hello to Rose,’ Linda said, ‘and I do mean “say”. She’s been waiting all morning to show you her new talker.’
He followed Linda into the living room where Rose was sitting in front of her bright-red VOCA. ‘How’s my favourite girl?’ he asked. ‘I hear you’ve become quite the chatterbox.’
Rose turned towards him, with her neck thrust back and face screwed up as though a wasp were circling beneath her chin, in what Linda had assured him was an expression of pleasure.
‘You’re looking very pretty this morning, Rose. Are you excited about your stay in the country?’ Duncan asked, careful to choose one of the yes/no questions in which she was practised.
‘Wait for it!’ Linda said.
Rose pressed a key on the VOCA, which responded with the phrase: ‘My name is Rose.’ Despite the science-fiction flatness of the voice, Duncan realised that, except for nebulous vowels and hacked consonants, these were the first sounds he had ever heard her produce.
‘Hello, Rose. My name’s Duncan,’ he replied, eager not to betray his emotion.
‘We’ve transferred all the symbols from her communication book to her talker. And Derek’s made her a new page specially for Christmas: tree, present, card, turkey, cracker – not that she’ll ever be able to pull one. We tried it out last Sunday at my parents’. At first Mum was thrilled, but then she suggested we add another couple of symbols for “please” and “thank you”!’
‘Same old Brenda!’
‘Ask her who she went to see last week,’ Linda whispered.
‘Who did you go to see last week, Rose?’ Duncan asked.
With an effort that made him ashamed of his idle chatter, she pressed another key, sending the symbols gliding slowly across the screen. Even so, they moved too fast for her to control and, as she stopped at the turkey instead of Father Christmas, her back arched and her head twisted, her arms and legs stiffened, and her jaw clenched in frustration.
‘Don’t worry. We all make mistakes,’ Duncan said. ‘My newspaper does it the whole time.’ He tried to think of an example, but the only one that sprang to mind was Rowena’s report of the Council’s new ‘meretricious’ rather than ‘meritorious’ community composting scheme, which he half suspected had been deliberate and which in any case would mean nothing to a four-year-old. ‘I remember,’ he improvised. ‘Last week, we put “a doggy day” instead of “a foggy day”.’
Rose’s head jerked, her eyelids fluttered and her tongue rolled in her mouth. ‘Yes, darling, it is funny,’ Linda said.
Duncan was framing another question when Jamie marched in. ‘OK then, are we off?’ he asked.
‘Good morning, Jamie. It’s good to see you too.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
‘Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?’ Linda asked.
‘Like you care!’
‘I dare say he’ll scrape by,’ Duncan said.
‘Well then, you’d better say goodbye to your sister,’ Linda said.
‘’Bye Rose,’ Jamie said. ‘Have a nice time in kennels.’
‘Jamie!’ Duncan said, grateful for once for the ambiguity of Rose’s reactions.
‘That’s a cruel thing to say.’ Linda’s eyes welled with tears.
‘You’re the one who’s cruel,’ Jamie said. ‘Leaving us here while you swan off to the sun.’
‘I’m a wreck, Jamie.’ Linda’s voice was as raw as her eyes. ‘Don’t worry; it’s nothing serious. I just need to recharge my batteries.’
‘You should apologise to your mother,’ Duncan said.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ Linda said. ‘How about saying sorry to your sister?’
Jamie’s façade of indifference crumbled as he approached Rose, dropped to his knees and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Bye-bye, Rose. Have a great Christmas. I’m sure you’ll make loads of new friends.’ He kissed her on the lips before walking to the door.
‘What about me?’ Linda asked. ‘Don’t I get one?’
‘No.’
With a commiserative shrug, Duncan moved to Linda, knowing that the light kiss he planted on her cheek was no compensation for her son’s rebuff. ‘Have a wonderful holiday. And you too, Rose. Don’t forget I’m bringing Jamie to see you on Boxing Day.’
He followed his son out to the car. As they drove off in an unusually tractable Rocinante, Jamie switched on the radio, destroying any chance of conversation. Arriving at the flat, he shut himself in his bedroom, not emerging until lunch: Sainsbury’s sweet-and-sour chicken, the first of the ready meals that would be the staple of his stay.
‘So what would you like to do this afternoon?’ Duncan asked. ‘I’ve looked in a certain local paper and there’s not much on at the cinema. But do check in case there’s something I’ve missed. Otherwise, at 4.30 the Local History Society is joining forces with the East Sussex Paranormal Association for a ghost walk in the castle ruins. It’s billed as suitable for children of ten and over.’
‘Ten!’
‘And over. That just means it’s too frightening for little kids.’
‘Sorry, Dad, but I might be scarred for life. Anyway, I’ve arranged to meet up with some friends.’
‘You never said.’
‘You never asked.’
‘Do I know them?’
‘Are you a paedo?’
‘What?’
‘Then why would you know them?’ Jamie’s tone mellowed. ‘They’re just guys from school.’
‘I know this wasn’t the holiday you planned,’ Duncan said, trying a new approach. ‘But we’re going to have fun. I want us to use this opportunity to grow closer.’
‘There you go again,’ Jamie said. ‘Why must you spell it out? It makes everything harder.’
‘I feel we’re drifting apart. There are great swathes of your life I know nothing about.’
‘What do you expect? I don’t live with you. When I talk to Mum, it’s natural. She asks about school, what I’ve done today, stuff like that. With you, it’s like “So tell me what you’ve been doing since I saw you last week?” and I have to think of something special. We have to discuss things like we’re in a book.’
‘Everything you do is special to me.’
‘No, it’s not. That’s dumb! You mean like every time I take a shit?’
‘You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.’
‘No, I’m not, Dad. Honest! It’d be easier if I was.’
‘W
ell, you’re here for the next two weeks. Let’s hope we can have the kind of casual conversations you have with your mum.’
‘Will you pass me the soy sauce please?’ Jamie asked, enunciating every word.
After an uneasy lunch, far from feeling hurt by Jamie’s departure, Duncan was glad of a few hours to himself before what threatened to be an even more strained evening. He was in the middle of washing up, adding his light tenor to the darker tones of Leporello’s Catalogue Aria on the radio, when Jamie poked his head round the kitchen door. ‘I’m off then.’
‘Be sure to be back by 6.30. We have guests.’
‘Who?’
‘It’s a surprise,’ Duncan said, choosing to defer the risk of an outburst.
Typical! You say you want to spend time with me, then you fill the house with strangers.’
‘Wait and see. Surely you’re not going out like that?’ He looked askance at Jamie’s bomber jacket and jeans.
‘What should I wear? A suit and tie?’
‘A coat. There’s a force 10 gale blowing outside.’
‘I haven’t got a coat.’
‘What?’
‘I mean I haven’t brought one.’
‘Wear mine,’ Duncan said, chiding himself for not having checked earlier. ‘It’ll swamp you but…’
‘You’re joking, right? I’d rather get frostbite. I’d rather my fingers fell off and my toes fell off and my nose fell off and –’
‘I get the picture. Then at least wear a scarf. If you haven’t brought one, take mine from the hall cupboard.’ Jamie grimaced. ‘I mean it.’
Jamie went out and a moment later Duncan heard the reassuring squeak of the cupboard door.
‘Fucking hell!’
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