A Desirable Residence (23 page)

‘Oh yes, we do. But . . .’

‘But what?’

Jonathan was about to say that, if what he’d heard was correct, Daniel Witherstone was one of the local scholarship candidates least in need of extra coaching. But as he opened his mouth to speak, he realized what he was doing. The letter from the bank was still lying in the kitchen, ready to remind him of their troubles as he walked in. He and Liz had promised that they would increase the income of the college. And this was the first request they’d had for Common Entrance coaching. To turn it away would be a crime. He looked up. Anthea was waiting for him to speak.

‘But . . . I’ll have to see where we can fit him in,’ he said weakly. ‘How many lessons were you thinking of?’

‘I thought maybe every day, after school,’ said Anthea. ‘For half an hour, perhaps. Or an hour?’ Jonathan’s heart began to beat more quickly.

‘As it’s private tuition,’ he said hesitantly, ‘it will, I’m afraid, be quite expensive.’ Anthea turned an indignant gaze on him.

‘I don’t mind what I pay,’ she said. ‘My son’s education is worth it.’

At first, Daniel thought Andrew was making it up. He turned round, clutching his warm, sticky glass of mulled wine, and gave his little brother a superior smile.

‘Nice try,’ he said. ‘I’m not
that
gullible.’

‘Did you know,’ said Andrew, momentarily diverted, ‘that they’ve taken “gullible” out of the dictionary?’

‘I told you that joke,’ retorted Daniel condescendingly. ‘You’re the pits, you know that?’ His spirits had been lifted by the mulled wine, and the fact that his ordeal was nearly over. He’d already taken off the headpiece of his costume, and was holding it under his arm like a headless owl-ghost.

‘I’m not,’ said Andrew blithely. ‘Anyway, you’re the one that’s got special coaching.’

‘Shut up,’ said Daniel in irritable tones. ‘You always have to make things up.’ He took another swig of mulled wine. He didn’t exactly like it, but it was better heated up than it was cold and sour in a glass, like wine usually was.

‘It’s true, it’s true,’ insisted Andrew, hopping from foot to foot. ‘Look. They’re talking about it over there. Look!’ His voice squeaked in excitement, and Daniel turned reluctantly round, just in time to see Anthea writing something down in her diary, then putting it away in her bag.

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ he said, as though trying to convince himself. ‘They could be talking about anything.’ But he watched with a sinking heart as Anthea turned, scanning the room with a slight frown on her face, then caught sight of him and pointed him out to Mr Chambers. She was talking intently about something, and Mr Chambers was nodding, and suddenly, blackly, Daniel knew that it must be true.

He took a gulp of wine, and another. Then, with his empty glass, he made his way over to the drinks table.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, in his best Dene Hall voice. ‘My mother doesn’t like mulled wine. Could I have some normal, please?’ One of the ladies behind the table regarded him suspiciously. But the other recognized Daniel, and smiled as she reached out for his glass.

‘This isn’t her glass, it’s mine,’ said Daniel quickly. ‘Would you mind if I took the bottle? I’ll bring it back, I promise.’

Only a few people were left in the room by the time Anthea had finished talking to everyone. She finished her conversation about road bumps with a local councillor, looked around the room, and sharply called out to Andrew, who was under a table, munching his way through a selection of unwanted bowls of crisps.

‘Where’s Daniel?’ she asked shortly. ‘It’s time to go.’ Jonathan, who had been watching Andrew with amusement, heard her raised voice and wandered over to say goodbye. ‘Have you seen Daniel?’ Anthea asked him. ‘Were you talking to him?’ she added hopefully. Jonathan stifled an urge to tell her he had been conversing with Daniel in ancient Greek, and shook his head.

‘Perhaps he’s outside,’ he suggested.

‘That’s a thought. Stay here while I have a look,’ she commanded Andrew, and headed for the door.

Andrew took a few handfuls of crisps. Then he looked up at Jonathan. ‘Daniel’s drunk,’ he said conversationally.

‘What?’ Jonathan looked, aghast, at Andrew. ‘What do you mean, drunk?’ he added.

‘You know, all wobbly, and can’t talk properly and smells all funny,’ explained Andrew. ‘He’s upstairs.’

‘Oh God. I’d better go and have a look,’ said Jonathan.

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Andrew. ‘He said he hates you. And Mummy. And me,’ he added, in tones of surprise. ‘I can’t see what I’ve done wrong.’ He took another handful of crisps and shoved them into his mouth. Jonathan gave him a hard look.

‘Are you always this cheerful?’

‘I think so,’ said Andrew, looking up at him with untroubled eyes. ‘I can’t remember.’ Jonathan sighed.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Stay here. I’ll see what state Daniel is in.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘If your mother comes back, tell her I’ve gone to look upstairs.’

Daniel was in Canon Hedges’s spare bedroom, still dressed up to the neck in orange fur. He was sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, a glass in his hand, staring up at the television.

‘Look!’ he said, as Jonathan came in. His voice sounded blurred. ‘It’s
Scooby Doo
! That hasn’t been on for ages!’ His eyes shot uncertainly about the room, and he smiled beatifically in Jonathan’s direction. When the music began, his head jerked back towards the television set. ‘Scooby-Dooby Doo,’ he began to sing along, in a lurching, quavering voice.

‘Daniel,’ said Jonathan cautiously.

‘Yes?’ Daniel looked up. His expression changed as he recognized Jonathan. ‘I suppose you’ve come to give me some coaching, haven’t you? In bloody Latin and pissy Greek.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Jonathan, hiding a smile.

‘That’s good,’ said Daniel emphatically. ‘Because I don’t want it. That’s all I ever do, work, work, work, and then she says I’ve got to have coaching as well. It’s not fair. It’s bloody well not fair!’ His voice rose to a shout and Jonathan hastily closed the door.

‘Daniel,’ he said again, ‘your mother wants to go home now.’

‘Good!’ said Daniel, waving the bottle at him. ‘Tell her to go home and never come back again.’ Jonathan sighed. He looked at his watch.

‘Stay here,’ he commanded Daniel. ‘I’ll take you home myself.’

Downstairs, Anthea was eager to be off.

‘Daniel’s quite keen to come and see the tutorial college,’ said Jonathan, ignoring Andrew’s torch-beam eyes. ‘I thought we could pop along there now, and then I’ll run him home.’

‘What’s there to see?’ said Anthea suspiciously. ‘It’s just a classroom, isn’t it?’

‘It would be useful if he could have a look at some of the teaching materials before we begin,’ improvised Jonathan hastily. ‘There’s no point wasting time in the first lesson.’ Anthea peered at him.

‘That seems to make sense,’ she said slowly. ‘All right then. You know where we live?’

‘I’m sure Daniel will be able to tell me,’ said Jonathan confidently. ‘But perhaps you should give me directions, just in case.’

On the drive to the tutorial college, Daniel sat silently next to Jonathan, with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. His breaths came quickly and his face looked suspiciously green. When they arrived, he muttered, ‘I feel sick.’

‘Well, we’re here now,’ said Jonathan, getting out and opening Daniel’s door for him. ‘You can be if you want to.’

‘Can I?’ said Daniel. ‘Thank you.’ And, leaning out of the car, he was quietly sick on the Tarmac of the tutorial college drive.

When both Daniel and the drive had been cleaned up, Jonathan sat Daniel down in the staff room with a cup of strong, sweet tea, and made himself a mug of coffee.

‘I feel awful,’ groaned Daniel. He sat hunched forward in his chair, until he was almost bent double, and his fronds of dark hair brushed against his knees. He was now wearing a pair of jeans that had once fitted Alice; the owl suit waited, crumpled and reproachful, in the corner.

‘People generally do,’ said Jonathan, ‘after they’ve drunk too much.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘It’s a sad fact of life.’ He surveyed Daniel. ‘Actually, you’re not looking too bad. We’ll be able to get you home soon.’

Daniel scowled, and took a gulp of tea.

‘I don’t want to go home,’ he said. ‘I hate my mother.’ Jonathan sipped his coffee and waited. ‘Why does she have to keep going on about the scholarship?’ Daniel suddenly burst out. ‘She talks about it all the time. She’s told all my friends’ mothers I’m going to get it.’ He looked up at Jonathan with dark, pained eyes. ‘Last week, I dreamt I went into the exam and just wrote Fuck Off on all the papers. It was brilliant.’ He looked down. ‘I suppose you think that’s really awful,’ he said.

‘Not at all,’ said Jonathan pleasantly. ‘I think it’s completely natural. The great thing about dreams is that you can do things you’d never do in real life. I mean, you don’t really want to do that, do you? I have a feeling that, in real life, you’d like to do well.’ He looked straight at Daniel. ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Daniel shrugged uncomfortably.

‘I dunno,’ he muttered.

‘The thing to remember,’ said Jonathan, ‘is that this scholarship is for you, not your mother. If you’d like to do well in it, you might as well try as hard as you can. It would be a shame if you did badly on purpose, just to spite Mum.’

‘We’re not allowed to call her Mum,’ muttered Daniel. ‘We have to say Mummy. She says Mum’s common.’ Jonathan’s mouth twitched.

‘Well, anyway,’ he said, ‘I’d hate to see you turning into an alcoholic because of your mother.’ Daniel gave an unwilling giggle. ‘I’ll be seeing quite a lot of you over the next few weeks,’ added Jonathan, ‘and if ever I smell wine on your breath, or whisky—’

‘I hate whisky,’ said Daniel. ‘Yuck.’

‘Or Tia Maria,’ said Jonathan, ‘or Baby Cham—’ Daniel giggled again. ‘I’ll be right round to tell your mother,’ Jonathan finished. He looked seriously at Daniel. ‘I mean it.’

‘OK,’ muttered Daniel. ‘Thanks.’ He looked up and smiled at Jonathan. ‘Thanks a lot.’

‘And don’t worry,’ said Jonathan, going over and putting on the kettle again. ‘Coaching won’t be so bad. I’m quite human, really. We’ll have a good time.’ He smiled at Daniel. ‘Honest.’

Piers’s audition for
Summer Street
was in the first week of January. Ginny waved him off on the early train to London, then stood on the platform, staring down the tracks, hugging herself in the cold and hoping. She allowed herself a brief mental picture of him arriving back that evening, throwing open the door of the carriage, and, with shining, triumphant eyes, scooping her up in his arms, shouting, ‘I got the part!’

A stab of agonized hope ran through her, and for a moment she stood, transfixed by the vision; two tears trembling on her lower lids. Then, as they fell, she turned briskly away and began walking out of the station. She was, she realized, even more tense about this audition than she’d thought she was. They had had a strained Christmas at her parents’ house in Buckinghamshire, with Piers increasingly edgy, and her mother following Ginny about the house with questioning, criticizing eyes. The reason for her criticism had become clear late on Christmas Eve, when she had suddenly launched into a catalogue of the daughters of her acquaintances who had, in recent months, provided their mothers with grandchildren, and then, almost in the same breath, asked Piers what work he had lined up for the next year.

Ginny would have loved it if he could have told her parents that everything was OK; that a big part was in the offing; that they would soon have enough money for five children. But Piers was insistent that they should keep the audition a secret from them.

‘If I tell them I’m going for the part, and don’t get it,’ he said, ‘I’ll never hear the end of it. It’ll be a nightmare.’ Which Ginny had to admit was quite true. But, then, he was going to get it. He had to get it.

As she turned into Russell Street, she imagined him in the train, perhaps going over the script for a final time; muttering the lines under his breath. Not that he needed to. They both knew that cursed script backwards by now. They all did. She and Duncan, and even little Alice, had been through it so many times, they could say the lines in their sleep. Duncan’s game of declaiming a phrase and seeing who could carry on had been gradually honed down until now he merely had to give one word, and the rest of them would all chime in with the rest of the sentence. In the end they’d had to declare a veto on it.

He couldn’t have done more preparation. Ginny muttered to herself as she went up the path, trying to build a sense of reassurance. He’d done everything he could. But then, it wasn’t the preparation that would get him the job. It was whether they liked him.

She pushed open the front door, and stood in the gloomy hall, feeling suddenly stranded. Now that it was happening, now that Piers was actually on his way to the audition, she seemed to have lost her focus. There was nothing she could do; no help she could give him. He was on his own.

And so was she. Duncan had gone to Scotland for an extended Christmas break, and although she’d relished the quiet house at first, she was, incredibly, beginning to miss him. Especially today. She could have done with someone there to break the silence; distract her from her own thoughts. She walked into the sitting-room, feeling rather discouraged, and sank into a chair, still with her coat on. She looked at her watch. Only a quarter past nine. The audition wasn’t until after lunch. An entire empty morning stretched ahead of her before Piers would even ring. Let alone before they’d hear the result. Oh God. The result. A pang of excitement shot through her, and she got to her feet impatiently. She couldn’t stand a whole morning in the house on her own, waiting for the phone to ring. She needed stimulation, distraction, people, light and warmth. She needed office banter. Anything, anything at all, but her own obsessive thoughts.

Marcus arrived at work at about eleven, to find Ginny sitting on the floor of his outer office, leafing through a heap of client files. Suzy, his secretary, was sitting watching her and filing her nails at the same time, and a cafetière full of coffee sat snugly on the floor between them.