Breaking the Chain (6 page)

Phoebe looked through the crowd at Peter as he made his speech. He was said to be very charming and irresistible to women. Phoebe couldn’t see it herself. He’d never been charming to her. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t pretty. Perhaps he was snooty about the way she spoke. Perhaps she wasn’t good enough.

‘Fifty years ago this month,’ Peter was saying, ‘Hitler’s troops
had invaded Russia and were beseiging Moscow. By the end of November 1941, things were desperate. The temperature had fallen to minus 40° centigrade, but the severe winter weather and the arrival of special troops from Siberia combined eventually to defeat the Hun. This month the news is not as desperate, but interesting in its own right. The oil-well fires in Kuwait have been extinguished ahead of schedule. Leningrad is to revert to being called St Petersburg. The JET laboratory at Culham has achieved a high-temperature nuclear fusion. A particularly good display of the aurora borealis was visible from Shetland to Bristol – but they told us about it after it had happened, which is no damn good. Terry Waite has been released from captivity in Beirut. Robert Maxwell has apparently died in very fishy circumstances. A vast iceberg 55 miles long and 35 miles wide, covered in penguins and with its own microclimate, has broken off from Antarctica and is drifting northwards into the shipping lanes. And there was a small tornado in a village near Cambridge. Bad as well as good news.’

Ten minutes into his speech and he hasn’t so much as mentioned his wife yet, Phoebe thought.

‘Fifty years is a long time,’ Peter continued. ‘How does anyone ever achieve it? In my case you may put it down to three parts inertia to one part an innate and reckless optimism. For in my book there is always hope,’ Peter said, smiling, ‘and for me, of course, Hope with a capital H!’

Hope’s lips twitched obediently but without enthusiasm. Her grey eyes looked bleak. She must be so jarred off with jokes about her name, Phoebe thought, watching her as she stood beside her husband. Fifty years of marriage and he’s still making them; worse still was that crack about inertia. That was unforgivable!

There were toasts at the end of the speech and cheers for the happy couple. Peter’s Chambers (for whom, at 72, he was still working) presented them with an elegant stone plinth topped with a brass sundial. Phoebe thought that Peter suddenly looked very tired. She often found it difficult to remember that he was an elderly man; he was so vigorous and bombastic.

‘I wasted time and now doth time waste me,’
Rick quoted into her ear.

‘True,’ Phoebe said, turning to look at him. ‘But Peter didn’t really waste time, did he?’

‘He should have been Lord Chancellor, or at the very least a judge,’ Rick said, ‘but he was too anti-establishment, too unreliable, too busy with other ploys. Now I think he wishes he had climbed the greasy pole.’

There was a sudden blinding flash and the clunk of a camera shutter. Phoebe hadn’t noticed the presence of the press until that moment. ‘Perhaps he’ll be in the papers,’ she said. ‘That should please him.’

In the event, it was herself and Rick who featured the next day, under a small headline:
‘HARVEST MOON BUGS GREENS.

‘Actor Roderick Moon, seen here with a sister-in-law at his parents’ Golden Wedding celebrations, spoke yesterday about his support for the destruction of the tropical rain forest by the people of Madagascar. “What else can they do?” he said. Moon (41) who starred in the controversial disaster movie
A Lemur Too Far,
made in Magadascar [sic] in 1988, spoke of the Malagasy’s need to harvest whatever natural resources they had available. “After all, they’ve got to live, poor sods,” he said …’

‘Does he mean it?’ Phoebe asked, pausing in her reading out loud, to question Duncan.

‘I don’t suppose he c-cares one way or the other. It’s all p-publicity,’ Duncan said.

Phoebe read on.

‘The Worldwide Fund for Nature, Friends of the Earth and other environmental pressure groups who last week launched a campaign for a cessation of logging in Madder-gascar [sic] were today critical of Mr Moon’s comments. “The man’s a complete air-head,” their spokesperson said today.’

Phoebe giggled. ‘So much for publicity,’ she said. ‘More like ridicule.’

‘H-He thrives on it,’ Duncan said. ‘C-Column inches is what c-counts.’

‘Well, I think it’s all wrong,’ Phoebe said. ‘They say that the sea round Madagascar is all red with the soil that’s been washed off the bare mountainsides, like blood.’

‘Mmmm,’ Duncan said, concentrating on eating his breakfast.

‘Don’t you care?’ Phoebe put the paper down and picked up her toast and marmalade.

‘Mmmm?’

‘Doesn’t it matter at all to you?’

Duncan sighed. ‘There’s n-not a lot either o-of us can d-do about it is there? I’d c-calm down if I were you.’

Later that night, soon after they had turned off the light to sleep, Phoebe lay in their bed next to Duncan, glad simply to have got the family party over and done with, and to have reached home safely without their van breaking down en route.

‘Did you enjoy the Golden Wedding?’ she asked him into the dark.

‘I think it was a s-success,’ Duncan said drowsily.

‘Yes, but did you enjoy it?’

‘What’s the d-difference?’

‘All the difference in the world,’ Phoebe said. ‘I want to know whether you personally enjoyed it, how you
felt
about it. Was it nice to see people you hadn’t seen since your childhood? Did any of them tell you anything interesting? Are you surprised that your parents’ marriage lasted so long? What are your impressions?’ Duncan only grunted. Phoebe felt a familiar exasperation rise up and overpower her. She sat up and switched on her bedside lamp.

‘Why won’t you ever
talk
to me?’ she demanded. ‘Why can’t we ever discuss things?’

Duncan turned over abruptly and shaded his screwed-up eyes with his hands. ‘For G-God’s sake,’ he complained, ‘I’m trying to s-sleep. Can’t whatever it is w-wait until morning?’

Phoebe felt a desperate need to explain herself. ‘I just want to share experiences with you,’ she said, ‘and mull them over. It really hurts me that you won’t even meet me halfway. It’s like going to the pictures on your own; when you come out, you’re
dying to talk about the film to someone, and there’s no one there. Life with you is like that all the time. It drives me
mad!
Please, Duncan, couldn’t we just talk?’ Duncan sighed, threw back the duvet and got out of bed. ‘Where are you going?’

‘For a piss.’

‘Then can we talk?’

He turned to her irritably. ‘Look, Phoebe, it’s the middle of the b-b-bloody night. I’m tired. It’s b-been a long day. I want to sleep. I d-don’t understand why you’re suddenly in such a s-state about nothing and I h-haven’t the least i-i-idea what you’re expecting me to s-say.’ He left the room.

Phoebe heard him flushing the lavatory a few minutes later and then he reappeared. She was still sitting up in bed and hugging the duvet over her knees. While he was coming through the doorway she said, ‘Duncan, if you’re going to make a go of being married, you’ve got to adapt. You can’t just go on in the same old way with no effort at all. I mean, if you weren’t prepared for some changes, why on earth did you marry me in the first place?’

She looked up at him. His face was completely closed. Every panel of his armour was firmly in place and offered no possibility of infiltration; no chinks. He doesn’t care, Phoebe thought. He doesn’t give a shit!

‘I’m going to s-sleep in the spare room,’ he said, turning on his heel. ‘I’ve got a l-l-lot on tomorrow and I can d-do without this.’ He closed their bedroom door and she heard him go along the short landing and downstairs to the door at the bottom. He whistled for Diggory, and she heard the dog thunder enthusiastically up the stairs. Then the other bedroom door shut behind the two of them and there was silence.

He always runs away! Phoebe thought furiously. Why is he so feeble? Somehow or another we’ve got to talk. We’ve got to discuss our marriage, the future, babies … his whole attitude to life … even his stammer. There’s so much that needs sorting out and he won’t even
begin.
Perhaps I should go after him …

But she knew that by now he would be curled up in the spare bed with Diggory on his feet for warmth; Diggory, who was strictly not allowed on beds, who left great gobbets of mud, hair and spit on anything he touched, and who was soppily grateful
for any human kindness. Already, in Duncan’s mind, relief would have swept away momentary puzzlement and annoyance. He and Diggory would be blissfully asleep together.

And it was after midnight. And they had both got to go to work tomorrow. And it was, on the face of it, a stupid thing to argue over. Yes, it did appear trivial and unreasonable, but that wasn’t the point, was it? It was only a symptom of the problems underneath. Surely any half-intelligent person could see that? Phoebe let out a long sigh and turned out the light. Then she lay on her back and tried to relax.

Why did he marry me? she wondered. More to the point, why did I marry him? She went through her reasons in an attempt to count her blessings. Duncan was gentle and unaggressive. He was clever at practical things. He was tall and good-looking and had a nice voice. He lived in a lovely part of the country. She had wanted the status of being properly married. She had wanted to belong to a large family. Duncan had clearly needed her. She had felt sorry for him. She loved him.

Phoebe turned over restlessly. It all seemed a bit inadequate; a bit thin? Why did anybody ever get married? Was it only worth it if you had a
grande passion?
What about love maturing into comfortable companionship? Wasn’t that how it was supposed to go? Perhaps it took longer than four years? Certainly it wouldn’t happen if only one partner worked at it … Somehow, she thought, we must talk. We always used to be able to, before we were married, so why not now? Then a brilliant idea struck her. Tomorrow evening she would go to the isolated public phone box at the other end of the village and
telephone
Duncan. Then he would be able to speak without stammering and everything would be a million times easier! And with that encouraging thought, she fell asleep.

Duncan answered the telephone sulkily. This is ridiculous, he thought, paying for the privilege of speaking to my own wife who has walked a quarter of a mile away from me just for that very purpose!

‘Hello,’ he said without enthusiasm.

‘Duncan, this is like old times!’ Phoebe said. Her northeastern accent sounded more pronounced than usual. It
irritated him. It emphasized his belief that he had married beneath him. It encouraged him to think that she was being unreasonable.

‘It seems absurd to me,’ he said.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘just try it for my sake.’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ There was a long pause at the other end.

‘You’re not making it very easy,’ she said finally.

‘Look,’ Duncan said, ‘if we’re going to talk, let’s talk. Silence at this moment is golden only for British Telecom.’

‘Right.’ He heard her take a deep breath. ‘Well, first of all, I’m sorry about last night.’

‘Forget it. It’s not important.’

‘Aren’t you going to say you’re sorry too?’

‘For what?’

‘For not even trying to understand me. For taking it for granted that I was wrong. For running away.’

‘Look, Phoebe,’ Duncan said, ‘if we’re just going to have a rehash of last night, then frankly this is a waste of time. I didn’t understand then what all the fuss was about, and I’m not likely to now. Is that it?’

‘No!’
Phoebe sounded near to tears. ‘Duncan, I want… a baby …’ It was Duncan’s turn to be silent. ‘Well?’ demanded Phoebe. ‘For heaven’s sake, say
something.’

‘But we’ve been through all that,’ Duncan said. ‘We decided that we’re too old, we couldn’t afford the expense, and we’re fine as we are.’

‘You
decided that.
We
never even discussed it!’

‘But you never told me this before we got married. You should have made it clear then. It’s hardly fair to make such an issue of it now.’

‘Well, I naturally assumed that you’d want at least one child. How was I to know –’

‘You should never assume things about another human being,’ Duncan said, conscious of having scored a point. ‘We’re all entitled to our own aspirations.’

‘Don’t be so bloody pompous!’ shouted Phoebe. ‘And as for not assuming … you assume things about me all the time! You assumed that life would go on unchanged after you married me, with no effort from you at all. You haven’t even tried to be a
proper husband. As soon as things get difficult, you rush off with Diggory.’

‘You’re surely not jealous of the dog?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’ She was shouting even louder now. He held the receiver further from his ear and sighed heavily. ‘Why can’t we talk about having a baby? Why won’t you even do me the courtesy of listening to what I’ve got to say?’

‘I
am
listening,’ Duncan said. ‘I’m on the end of this bloody phone, doing precisely that.’

‘Don’t you fancy me any more?’ Now she sounded as though she was actually crying.

‘Of course I do,’ Duncan said crossly. ‘Now who’s changing the subject?’

‘So why do we only make love about once a month? Are you scared I’ll get pregnant?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, why?’

Duncan was caught off guard. ‘I don’t know … It’s a normal enough frequency, isn’t it?’

‘Normal?’
Phoebe seemed ready to explode. ‘There’s nothing normal about the way we make love. There’s damn all at the beginning to get me into the mood, and then it’s in and out in about two minutes flat, and that’s it! If that’s your idea of technique –’

‘I didn’t realize you had any complaints,’ Duncan said stiffly. ‘If it’s so repugnant to you, perhaps we should dispense with it altogether.’

‘What d’you mean, “dispense with it”? Don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? I used to like sex. It used to be the high point of my life. But you don’t seem to have the least idea of what it’s all about! I’ve tried to teach you what works for me, but you never seem to remember it. Don’t you care about how I feel? Don’t you want to satisfy me?’