Breaking and Entering (10 page)

Penny was on edge as well: pitching into Pippa, pouring out apologies to him, scattering parcels on the stairs in her haste to find the key, though she would hardly need it yet – they were still nowhere near the top. He stopped on the third-floor landing to rest his aching legs. The stairs were steep and narrow, meant only for emergencies, and carpeted with nothing but fag-ends. A door slammed in the passage to his right. He turned to see a bare-chested man emerging from the bathroom, clad in dirty corduroys, with a towel slung round his neck. Penny's fellow-guests did little to reassure him. Two floors below, a couple of well-oiled lads had lurched past him to their room, tattoos of naked women on their arms.

He dared not stop for long. Pippa's shrieks were still resounding through the stairwell, and any moment some outraged resident would start protesting at the noise. She was also flailing with her feet and fists, battling to get down, snail-trails from her runny nose smeared against his suit.

‘Pippa,
stop
it!' Penny snapped. ‘You really are a little beast.'

He winced at her sharp tone, as if the rebuke were directed at him. All three of them were angry now, he realized with a twinge of fear, as he tramped on up the stairs. The gleaming magical afternoon had shattered like a fragile toy.

‘Almost there – thank God!' Penny pounded on ahead to open the door.

He caught her up, stared appalled at the tiny shabby room, which was completely filled by its meager-sized twin beds. There was no space for anything else: no chest of drawers or wardrobe, not even a small chair. And as for refinements such as bedside lamps or a mirror on the wall, this hotel had clearly vetoed them as an unwarranted expense. Penny's battered suitcase lay open on the floor, disgorging clothes and clutter (including some scanty undergarments he felt embarrassed to have seen). The room was dim and shadowy, lit by an unshaded bulb dangling over one bed.

The apology of a window looked out on a flat concrete roof which, like the stairs, had been used as a spare ashtray.

‘Can you put her on the bed?' said Penny, moving a sweater and a furry frog to make more room for Pippa. ‘She usually has a bath, but there's no way I'm going to give her one tonight. She seems to have quietened down at last, and I can't face another bout of screaming.'

He laid the child on the flimsy cotton coverlet, astonished at the change in her. She had switched from hysteria to torpor in a matter of two minutes.

‘Where's my book?' she asked, groping out a sleepy hand.

‘Down there by the case. Be an angel, Dan, and throw it over, will you? I can skip her bath, but not her precious story. However tired she is, we still have to plough through
Peter Rabbit
– right on to the camomile tea!'

Daniel passed her the book, then stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed. It was time for him to leave. This was a private ritual between mother and child, and he'd only be in the way; already felt uneasy about seeing the child undressed. Penny had removed her top and was now pulling off the leggings and the white pants underneath. ‘Goodbye, Pippa,' he called, averting his eyes from her body.

She didn't answer, just swivelled her head on the pillow and looked at him in silence, a long and searching look, then turned back to her mother. ‘Is he going to find my Daddy now?'

Penny blundered out of the room, pushing past him almost rudely. He realized she was crying, but trying to hide the fact. She ran on down the passage, dived into the bathroom and banged the door.

‘Where's Mummy gone?' Pippa sat up, instantly alarmed.

‘Just to the … er … toilet.' He didn't know what word they used. ‘You know – to have a pee-pee.'

The child appeared suspicious, while he himself was fretting about what he ought to do. Surely he should go and comfort Penny, yet how could he leave Pippa on her own? Besides, wouldn't she get cold lying naked on the bed like that? ‘Have you got some pyjamas?' he asked her.

She shook her head.

Stalemate.

‘Well, why don't you get into bed? You'll be warmer under the covers.'

Another shake of the head.

In desperation, he picked up
Peter Rabbit
. ‘Would you like me to read you your story?'

‘No. I want Mummy to read it.'

‘She will in just a second. But I could start it, couldn't I? And look – tuck these blankets round you. You must be freezing cold!' He was terrified she'd shriek again, so he scooped the covers over her, perched on the edge of the bed and opened the book before she had time to object.

‘ “Once upon a time,” ' he read, feeling slightly ridiculous in this unfamiliar role, ‘ “there were four little rabbits and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and …” '

‘No, you don't say it like that.'

‘Like what?'

‘You say it like
this
.' She plucked the book from his hand, repeated the passage by heart in a slow and singsong voice, pausing on each name, and ending with a triumphant cadence for ‘PE-TER!' as her mother slipped back into the room.

‘Sorry,' Penny murmured, avoiding his eyes. Her own eyes were inflamed.

‘Ssh, Mummy, I'm reading.'

Daniel stood up, started edging towards the door. ‘Look, I … I really must get back. I don't want to be a nuisance.'

‘You're not a nuisance at all.' Penny sounded agitated, still not that far from tears. ‘Please stay. I'd like you to. Just let me get Pippa settled, then we can sit and talk.'

He subsided on the bed again, watched her rummage under the pillow, pull out a crumpled tee-shirt – adult size.

‘We left in such a rush, I forgot to pack half our things, so the poor kid's been sleeping in this.' She pulled it over Pippa's head, tucked the blankets round her again, then retrieved the book and began to read. He listened to the opening words – third time. Penny's intonation was identical to Pippa's: rhythmic, lulling, strangely comforting.

‘ “ ‘Now, my dears,' said old Mrs Rabbit one morning …” ' (Mrs Rabbit's voice was different – fusspotty and clucking.) ‘ “You may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr McGregor's garden.” '

He found himself utterly absorbed, hanging on to every word. He had never heard the story before. In fact, it occurred to him that he'd probably missed out on all the classic children's books: he certainly couldn't remember his own mother ever reading to him. All he could recall was his black nanny: a bolster of a woman with polished shiny skin, whose white teeth seemed to split her face every time she laughed. She had laughed a lot, a huge happy wobbling laugh, and would sometimes hug him close to her, so he'd become part of the wobble himself.

‘ “Then old Mrs Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella, and went through the wood to the baker's. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns …” '

Listening to the homely words, he felt unaccountably moved; felt himself changing into Penny's second child – a normal English child who hadn't grown up in a warm indulgent land, then been banished to another country; a cold and punitive place, where he'd never so much as glimpsed a currant bun.

‘ “Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears …” '

Daniel glanced at Penny as her voice became a sob, but saw with relief that the tears were only in the text this time. The child was enacting them too, wiping her eyes on the sheet. The pair were accomplished performers, milking every ounce of emotion from the tale, Pippa mouthing the words in time with her mother's voice. That voice continued hypnotically as Penny turned each page. He was reluctant for the story to end, wished he could demand ‘More, more!', the way Pippa had when he'd pushed her on the swings. Though the child said nothing as her mother closed the book. Her eyes were shut already, and she gave only a brief murmur in reply to Penny's ‘Goodnight, pet.' He watched the goodnight kiss, irrationally jealous.

‘She's dead to the world,' Penny whispered, moving from Pippa's bed to her own, and patting its tattered counterpane. ‘Come and sit down here, Dan. I'm sorry I can't offer you a drink or anything. Even the water in the bathroom comes out brown and murky!'

‘That's all right. I've drunk quite enough for one day.' He found he was also speaking in a whisper, constrained not just by the sleeping child, but by the strangeness of the situation. He would have felt less nervous sitting in a proper chair, or ensconced in another restaurant, protected by the noise and bustle, the general bonhomie. The bed was hard and lumpy, and he was so close to Penny now, he could see the pattern of the freckles on her skin. If anyone had asked him, he'd have said that he disliked freckles, but hers were somehow attractive, gave her face a certain childlike charm.

‘Actually I don't know why we're whispering. Once Pippa's asleep, I doubt even a bomb would wake her. I'm much the same myself. I set three alarm clocks last month, when Phil was away and I had to go to a wedding at the other end of England, and I slept through the whole damned lot!'

He suppressed a stab of envy. Sleep wasn't his strong point. He cleared his throat to tell her how he'd never needed an alarm clock in his life, not even when he'd been working in Tanzania and had to be up at five A. M. But she was speaking again herself, and in a very different tone from the jokey one she'd used for the alarm clocks.

‘Look, I … I'm sorry I got upset, but I keep thinking about Phil, and what will happen to Pippa if he doesn't' – she swallowed – ‘come back. It's been weighing on my mind, especially this last hour or so. In fact, the longer I was with you, the worse it seemed to get. I eventually decided I shouldn't see you any more, just say goodbye and thank you, and leave it at that. I'm sorry,' she repeated, pulling at a strand of hair, which sprang back to its wiry curl the minute she let go of it. ‘You must have thought me really grouchy, but I was feeling so screwed up, you see, and though we'd had a super day, that only made things …'

The sentence petered out, leaving Daniel grappling with new guilt, though he wasn't sure exactly what he'd done. He tried to steer the conversation from himself to Phil again, having a hunch it would be safer. ‘Was your husband very fond of Pippa?' he asked, cursing himself for using the past tense, which sounded as if he'd already written Phil off. It was a stupid question anyway. Penny was obviously upset about the breaking of the closest kind of bond.

‘Well, no, he's actually rather cool. He puts up with her, but not much more than that. You certainly couldn't call him the proud and doting father. Mind you, I don't think Phil is very fond of anyone – except himself, of course.' She gave a bitter laugh, which jolted Daniel as much as her words.

‘Don't get me wrong – I'm not saying he's all bad. And to be fair to him, he never wanted a kid at all. That was the whole trouble. You see, we only got married because I … I discovered I was pregnant, and I panicked.' She reached out for the furry frog and sat it on her lap, began twiddling its limp legs. ‘Lots of girls would have … you know … got rid of the baby, or maybe had it and stayed single. But I didn't have the guts to do either. It was crazy, in a way. I was only just eighteen and about to start at art school, but I chucked up everything and got hitched to a man who'd planned to sail round the world on a trimaran, not settle down with a wife and kid. We were both resentful, naturally. We'd both lost out on our dreams, and got landed instead with a load of dirty nappies and a whopping great down-payment on a Hoover Keymatic.'

She laughed again, unconvincingly. ‘I'm afraid it's not a very original story. It must happen to hundreds of couples, and maybe some of them are lucky and live happily ever after. I was even stupid enough to imagine that Phil and I were happy in our way. I mean, he's got a reasonable job now, so money's not so tight, and though he's away a hell of a lot, and not exactly the world's best father, I've got masses of my own friends, and my sisters all live near, and …' She broke off, turned the frog the wrong way up and stroked its green-striped stomach. ‘I don't know why I'm telling you all this, except I feel so … muddled. All afternoon I've been watching you with Pippa, and you're absolutely brilliant with her. It sort of churned me up, made me realize how Phil never gets involved with her like that, yet he's her father, for God's sake.'

Daniel said nothing. Absolutely brilliant? Penny must be joking. He was only too aware that what he shared with Phil was the fact he'd never wanted children either. The relationship between parent and child was too dangerous, too precarious. Supposing your own flesh and blood hated or resented you? And was it fair to pass on genes which might land the kid with problems – not illness necessarily, but fears, inadequacies?

Penny's hands seemed unable to keep still. She had abandoned the frog, but was now fiddling with the bedcover, poking her finger through one of the small rips and pulling the loose threads. ‘I sometimes used to think he had doubts about
being
her father. He hinted at that once, though there's not a shred of truth in it. But he's the suspicious type – maybe because he was having affairs himself – ones I never knew about, long before this Arab girl. And I suppose part of the trouble is that Pippa looks nothing like him at all. I mean, she's not just got my hair, but my eyes, my type of skin, even the same shaped nose. Phil's entirely different – he's dark with brown eyes, and much brawnier altogether. Wait a sec – I'll show you!'

She scrabbled in the suitcase, finally came up with a snapshot wrapped in clingfilm, pressed it into his hand. ‘That's him! My other half.'

He could hardly bring himself to look, and when he did he felt still more confused. He had somehow been imagining a crude and hardened man, but Phil looked harmless, even sensitive, and quite astonishingly young – not a man, a boy. He was smiling in the photograph, a shy apologetic smile, and his big brown spaniel-eyes seemed to plead for kindness, not invite contempt.