Breaking the Chain (29 page)

He had chosen gardening in order to please his mother, as it was a passion of hers. Duncan could never bring himself to admit that it hadn’t worked. He still hoped that it would, one day. He had stayed close by her in Somerset when his brothers moved away. He thought, perhaps subconsciously, that once they had all gone, and his father was spending most of his time in London, he and his mother would be on their own together again, and that he would be able to make up for years of lost time and preoccupation. He had spent weeks building her the pond, but she had taken it all for granted and been much more interested in some scheme of Herry’s; some ridiculous property speculation. Now, of course, she would blame him for his father’s death. If he had never built the bloody pond in the first place, then Peter would still be alive.

After his death Duncan had hoped perhaps to retrieve the situation, once he and Hope had each got over the worst of their grief. Then there really would be just the two of them again. Duncan could take his father’s place, in a manner of speaking … could prune her apple trees, direct her gardener, pluck the odd pheasant for her – not that Peter had ever done any such thing – get close to her. He shifted restlessly again. Everyone and everything seemed to be against him. In the event it hadn’t turned out like that at all. Hope, far from settling down sorrowfully to a comfortable widowhood with her one faithful son, was gallivanting off to London all the time, going to concerts, playing in recitals, even contemplating a musical voyage round the world! She was busier than ever! He was left like a spare prick at a wedding … which reminded him of Phoebe.

It was just over a month since he had seen her. Where did she fit into all this? In truth, she didn’t. Duncan hadn’t chosen her. He’d had marriage to her imposed upon him, and she didn’t fit into his scheme of things at all. Initially he had felt nothing but relief when she had packed her bags and gone. She had slept in the spare room on the night of their final row and had not got up to prepare his breakfast the next morning. He’d
done without, just to show her, and gone to work as usual. By the time he came home in the evening there was no sign of her; no blue Polo, no clothes in the wardrobe, no Phoebe, no hassle. Ah well, he thought. If she isn’t here, then at least I don’t have to worry about whether she’s telling me the truth or not!

Duncan had expected that he would settle back very quickly into his old routines. He had years and years experience of living alone. It was a situation he knew he was very comfortable with, and now he would have the additional companionship of Diggory.

But imperceptibly, and without conscious thought on the subject, Duncan began to realize that all was not well. At first he assumed that he was just out of practice with cooking. He found it an unmitigated bore and chore. He couldn’t be bothered with it; with the forethought necessary to ensure that you had a meal to eat when you were hungry and not two hours afterwards. He hated shopping, so he did it as little as possible. He congratulated himself on spending virtually no money. His low point came three weeks after Phoebe had left, when after a particularly fatiguing day’s work, he discovered that he had only dog biscuits and grapefruit juice for supper. Roughage and vitamins, he told himself gloomily, it’s all there. So he ate it.

You miss Phoebe, a voice said inside his head. If she were here you’d be on meat and three veg, not a daily diet of beans on toast and ruddy Winalot! It’s worth it, Duncan silenced the voice firmly, for the peace. Yes, he missed her. He missed her the way a man might miss his housekeeper. It’s very pleasant to have meals on time, sandwiches prepared for lunch, clothes washed and ironed, beds made, rooms cleaned. But, he told himself firmly, it is not essential.

He managed to maintain this attitude for a further week before even more subversive thoughts arrived to disturb him. Phoebe may have been a misfit at the beginning, but she had contrived to change her environment to suit herself, and once changed it remained to taunt him. There were reminders of her everywhere he looked, even though she had taken her personal things with her. She had left their wedding presents. She had left all her lampshades and curtains and the rug in the sitting room. She had even left some of her pictures on the walls and
books on the shelves. Perhaps she was intending to come back. Perhaps she was just teaching him a lesson.

Once Duncan allowed himself to hope, he was lost. He was forced to admit that it wasn’t just the external environment she had changed, it was him as well. He had grown to depend upon having her around, encouraging him when he was down, pushing him gently to get things done at the right time, exclaiming with delight over things he had made or built; being on his side.

He had thought that he despised such need. It was unnecessary weakness. He hadn’t realized how insidiously it had crept up on him while Phoebe was with him, and had now become a part of his life. It was as though he was unfitted to be solitary any more. He had been domesticated by stealth! Duncan did not resent this. He accepted it as inevitable. He’d finally joined the human race, and blown it, all in one go. How typical, he thought bitterly. The ultimate failure!

He got out of bed and went downstairs to make himself a pot of tea, turfing Diggory outside for his morning leak as he did so. Then, without thinking, he put the tea things on a tray and brought it back upstairs, as he had often done when Phoebe was there. As he carried it into the empty bedroom he was poignantly conscious of her absence. He set the tray down defiantly and climbed into bed again, picking up his full mug for a sip. As he sat there alone he could hear the song of a blackbird in the garden outside. It was a cool, windy, March Saturday morning. He had a number of jobs to do, but couldn’t think coherently about doing any of them. His brain refused to function.

No, he thought at last. It’s no good. I can’t shrug off this failure as I have all the others. This one won’t go away. He began in earnest to mourn the loss of his wife.

Fay sat up in her comfortable king-sized bed on Friday evening, three days into April, and leaned back luxuriously against her pillows. Life at last seemed to be working out to her satisfaction. If she could just get Phoebe a job in London, then there was every chance that she would stay. Fay smiled at the thought of her and wondered what it was about Phoebe that she found so endearing. It was her straightforwardness, she decided, her candour. Phoebe
was the only person she’d ever met who could genuinely be called true-hearted. Fay could easily understand why Phoebe had hidden Nancy’s diaries from Duncan. It wasn’t because she was devious or dishonest. It was because she knew Duncan wouldn’t have understood them and would have sneered. It was a fine gesture of female solidarity on Phoebe’s part. Fay didn’t share Phoebe’s totally partisan feelings about Nancy, but she was interested in her diaries and keen to read the juicy bits and find out about the parts of her life which had impinged upon the Moon family. She decided to skip all the day to day bits about Nancy’s working life as a university lecturer and read just the meat of the story. As she began to flip through the pile, she was amused to find Nancy’s account of her own wedding.

Saturday, 18 May 1968. Decided to go to the second Moon son’s wedding after all. I’m not sure why P. asked me – we hardly see each other at all these days, and when we do we’re very polite and distant. Was curious to see them all after so long, and comforted by the thought that in all the crowd no one would notice me at all. P. looked marvellous as always and made a very witty (though not always kind) speech. H. was manifestly hostile, about which I can’t complain. I don’t envy her new daughter-in-law! The groom (Conrad) although young, looked like a portly stockbroker and isn’t nearly good enough for his bride. She was quite lovely – reminded me of my Eleanor in her youth. Spoke to P. briefly but it was forced and awkward. Perhaps I should have contained my curiosity and not gone. Managed to keep out of all the photographs and slipped away early. Somehow I don’t think I shall see P. again. It’s a melancholy thought.

Thursday, 11 October 1973. To Harley Street for my usual session. The Shrink: ‘And to what do you attribute your present condition, Dr Sedgemoor?’ Me: ‘Lack of love,’ at which he turned and gave the other trick-cyclist a significant look, as if to say, ‘See what I mean?’ I don’t know if this therapy is doing me any good. I’ve been very down lately ever since the first anniversary of Eleanor’s death. Am
I having a nervous breakdown? They say not. Anyway – I’ve decided to rewrite my will. I’ve no one to leave my things to, now that E. is gone, so I’ve decided to leave all to P. (even though I haven’t seen him for five years) in memory of happy days. I shan’t care what becomes of my belongings once I’m dead and they may be of use, even if it’s only to remind P. that I once existed.

Saturday, 31 January 1981. So today I’m 60, officially an ‘Old Person’. I don’t feel any different inside except perhaps that I have attained a state of Single Blessedness at last. It’s a long time now since married women were suspicious of me, and men were overeager to help me out. Nowadays I am simply a person in my own right, and a threat or an invitation to no one. The gods be praised. To think that in ten years’ time F. and H. will be celebrating their Golden Wedding! I wonder sometimes how Hugh and I would have been, if I hadn’t gone. Could we have made it to fifty years together? Sometimes I regret leaving him. The guilt has never entirely faded. Then again, I did what I had to at the time. Marriage was not for me. The burden of responsibility for another person’s happiness was always too great for me to bear.

Saturday, 25 December 1982. Christmas on my tod. Today I am truly lonely. I have realized too late that I do need the commitment that marriage (or its equivalent) brings. I hope I don’t live to a ‘good’ old age. It’s a bleak prospect. I worry also about the future of this world of ours. It is now twenty years since Rachel Carson wrote
Silent Spring
and ten since
The Limits to Growth
and have we changed anything? Precious little. I’m sure the biosphere will survive my time, but for how much longer? It’s a mess. I can’t decide whether it will be overpopulation or pollution (or both) which will bring the human race to its knees in the end.

NB Must remember to add a codicil to my will. I don’t want to contribute to the destruction of the rain forest when I’m dead – I want to be buried in a paper sack.

*

There was a knock at the bedroom door.

‘Come in,’ Fay called, putting that diary down on top of the pile. ‘Oh, Phoebe, you don’t have to knock. Come in.’

‘I thought you might be asleep,’ Phoebe said.

‘Was Nancy Sedgemoor buried in a paper bag?’ Fay asked her.

‘I don’t know. I doubt it,’ Phoebe said, looking startled. ‘Why?’

‘She says here, in 1982, that she wants to be.’

‘Oh yes, so she did.’ Phoebe stood awkwardly at the end of the bed. ‘Fay?’ she said tentatively.

‘What is it? Come and sit down,’ Fay patted the bed beside her.

Phoebe looked embarrassed. ‘I’m sixteen days late,’ she said apologetically. ‘My period should have come on March the eighteenth and it’s never late as a rule. I wouldn’t bother you about it, but it’s been worrying me and I can’t get to sl –’

‘Phoebe!’ Fay exclaimed in delight. ‘Wouldn’t it be marvellous if you were pregnant?’

‘Well … I’m not sure now.’

‘But you always wanted a baby.’

‘Yes, but I’m not sure how Duncan will feel …’

Fay almost said, ‘What’s Duncan got to do with it?’ but stopped herself in time. ‘Tomorrow morning, first thing,’ she said firmly, ‘we’ll go and buy a Predictor Kit and then we’ll know for sure. Then we can make
plans.’
She put her arms round Phoebe. ‘Oh, I do hope you are,’ she said.

Phoebe was surprised and pleased at Fay’s reaction to her problem. She had expected her to be concerned, considering the state of her marriage, perhaps even to suggest abortion. The more she thought about the possibility of being pregnant, the more excited she became. Fay had sat back against her pillows again and was regarding her with affection. Phoebe found she had a pent-up flood of things she wanted to discuss.

‘What signs did you have at this stage?’ she began. She wrapped her arms round herself as she spoke. The heating had gone off some time before and Phoebe had forgotten to put on her dressing gown. She shivered.

‘Here,’ Fay said, pulling her duvet aside, ‘pop in here or you’ll catch your death. There’s masses of room.’ Phoebe hesitated. ‘It’s quite safe,’ Fay said almost crossly. ‘I’m not going to molest you.’

‘It’s not that …’ Phoebe said at once, but couldn’t think what else might be holding her back, and so was stuck for an explanation. To overcome this awkwardness and to avoid hurting Fay’s feelings, she climbed in beside her and they sat side by side. Fay put out a warm foot and touched one of Phoebe’s.

‘You’re freezing!’ she exclaimed.

‘I’m fine,’ Phoebe said, flinching.

‘Right,’ Fay said briskly, withdrawing her foot, ‘symptoms of pregnancy, let’s see – sickness obviously, sore breasts, having to pee all the time – although that comes later – Oh yes, I remember I had an odd sort of metallic taste in my mouth too. Trouble is, I can’t remember when any of them started. I was never actually sick. I just felt bloody.’

‘I’ve been feeling a bit sick,’ Phoebe confessed, ‘but it’s probably all in the mind. Maybe it’s because I’ve been worrying about it. Duncan really doesn’t want children, you see … I don’t know what he’ll say … if I am. I sort of assumed that things were all over between us, but if I am … then I suppose they can’t be, and I’m not sure if I really want that. It’s all such a muddle.’

‘Mmmmm,’ Fay said encouragingly.

‘You see,’ Phoebe said earnestly, ‘if I’m to fit in properly with Duncan, then I have to suppress about ninety per cent of my own personality. I can do it. I
have
done it, but it’s awfully hard … and I don’t think I want to any more.’

‘Why should you?’ Fay agreed.

‘The trouble is,’ Phoebe said, ‘Duncan doesn’t know how to love someone. He has no idea of what love is. He seems to
have a great chunk of humanity just left out somehow, like a robot.’