Breaking and Entering (38 page)

He could hardly believe how strange things looked around him. Passing through a town, he had gazed afresh at supermarkets, petrol stations, video arcades, marvelling at their novelty like an alien from another planet. He had been out of circulation only for a week, but the daily round of life in the camp had become almost second nature, so that it was so-called ordinary life which now seemed unfamiliar. He'd been tempted to sneak out before, but there was always some compulsory meal, or vital communal meeting to attend, and he'd found himself increasingly caught up in interests and activities which his more inhibited London self would never so much as contemplate. One attraction was the company of Claire. Penny and Pippa might have written him off, but she and Rick thought otherwise, and seemed actively to seek him out. He'd spent a good deal of his time with them, discussing life or God or Greenpeace with the mother, or damming streams and watching birds with the son. He had to admit he'd actually quite enjoyed it, and the weather was so blazing hot, there was every incentive to stay put and laze around.

It was JB who'd suggested that he break free of routine, take himself off for a drive or an excursion – all day if he liked. He'd been suspicious of the suggestion at first. Did the healer want him out of the way, so that he could deepen his relationship with Penny? No. Penny simply wouldn't have the time: too busy with Corinna, or learning overtone chanting and the theory of the chakras. After his initial hesitation, he had agreed with growing enthusiasm, and had set out after breakfast (heavy gritty muesli, washed down with fennel tea). Now it was nearly twelve and he was watching out for a decent pub, where he could stop and have a drink – not some fig and rhubarb brew, murky and lukewarm, or colon-cleansing liquorice-root, but a pint of ice-cold lager.

He retuned the radio to catch the midday news. He had heard it twice already, at ten and then eleven, hungry for information after seven newsless days. But it was only a repetition of the previous two bulletins – mostly bombings, muggings, shootings, strikes and wars. Perhaps there was something to be said for banning newspapers and radios: without them you could almost believe in universal brotherhood and peace. And he no longer even missed his watch, but was beginning to appreciate the freedom from all time-pressures; the sense of days being baggy, shapeless, voluminous things, like comfortable old clothes, instead of rigidly restricting corsets stretched to breaking point.

He coasted down a hill, slowing to a stop as he saw a pub sign on the left – the Plough and Harrow, a pleasant grey-stone building softened by a flowering creeper, with more flowers on the curtains and a board outside announcing ‘home-cooked meals'. As he walked into the bar, he could smell the rich aroma of roast beef, and realized how he'd been missing good red meat. The pub was almost empty, and much more peaceful than the camp – no children, dogs or chanting – yet he felt a frisson of unease at being there at all. Things he would never normally notice sprang out at him as crimes: sandwiches made with sliced white bread, oozing mayonnaise; sugar-loaded chutney, bars of chocolate, crisps. A man was sitting at the bar, peeling the cellophane off a glistening Walls pork pie. He looked remarkably complacent, considering the offences he was committing: cruelty to pigs, adulterating his body with preservatives and additives, consuming saturated fat, and despoiling the environment with non-biodegradable packaging.

Daniel watched him bite into the crust, the smell of greasy pastry tantalizing his nostrils, so that it was all he could do not to reach across and take a bite himself. Instead, he ordered his lager and scanned the menu chalked up on the blackboard. Damn the guilt – he'd enjoy himself for once: tuck in to steak and chips, or roast beef and spotted dick. Penny was learning not just healing methods, but a new philosophy (taught by gurus Happy and Corinna) for developing her ‘real' self, as against the self which served man or child or state. He found it extremely threatening, but today, he decided, he would follow her example and develop his
own
‘real' self; indulge his gluttony to the full.

He took his beer to a table in the window and rummaged for his handkerchief – already unpleasantly damp. He'd gone down with Gerard's cold. In fact, half the camp had caught it, which seemed a shade ironical when not only was the weather so benign, but they were all expending so much energy on living a healthy life. It also gave Penny another reason to banish him and his germs from the tent. He was still sleeping in his lonely shack – sometimes even contemplated asking Claire to share it.

He booted Penny from his mind again, and turned his attention to the middle-aged brunette who had come to take his order. Her top half and her lower half didn't seem to match – the neat white blouse and stylish chignon spoilt by veiny legs and down-at-heel scuffed shoes. He spent some minutes with her discussing the relative merits of the chicken, beef and steak, partly for the pleasure of listening to her musical Welsh lilt, and partly because he was determined to spin out the rare treat of a normal meat-based meal. He was already savouring his beer, revelling in the taste of each slow mouthful, its tangy coolness soothing his dry throat.

He glanced across at the bar once more. The man had finished his pork pie and was now lighting a cigarette. He felt no envy this time, but a smug glow of satisfaction. In the last few days, his once desperate urge to smoke had dwindled into nothing more than an occasional wistful pang. Claire had been a great source of encouragement, telling him about an article she'd read which said it was more difficult to stop smoking than to come off heroin, and that a smoker on twenty a day raised his hand to his mouth seventy-three thousand times a year, which – according to her calculations – meant that he was seventy-three thousand times healthier than he had been a year ago.

Instinctively, he raised his hand to his mouth, though only to take another swig of beer. He wasn't totally convinced by her claim, nor by the accuracy of her maths. Still, she'd meant it well, and had even mixed him up a herbal potion which she assured him would alleviate any last faint cravings. Who knows? – it might actually have worked. Certainly he had no inclination now to go rushing up to the bar to buy a stash of Camels.

He lounged back in his chair, admiring the simple room. No video games or jukeboxes, but an interesting collection of old farm implements hanging on the walls: a primitive-looking hay-rake, an elaborate leather horse-collar and some ancient scythes and gin-traps. A couple of equally ancient codgers had just come shuffling in – regulars, by the looks of them – dressed in heavy tweed jackets despite the heat. They ordered pints of scrumpy and stood leaning against the bar, conversing loudly in Welsh. Daniel cocked an ear. What an extraordinary language it was – r so utterly foreign-sounding, so unlike any other tongue he knew – a private language, spoken by a mere half a million people, compared with the hundreds of millions of English-speakers across the globe. He itched to learn it, to penetrate its secret structure, understand its sagas and its songs. One of the men was speaking with great emphasis, his face solemn and intense. Was he expounding the meaning of life – or merely complaining about his prostate?

Daniel blew his nose again, concealing the grubby handkerchief as he saw the waitress heading for his table with a tray. There was almost too much luxury to take in all at once: a proper china plate on a proper wooden table, instead of a chipped enamel dog-bowl on a groundsheet or a cardboard box; a sizzling slab of meat which didn't taste of wood-smoke; a bread roll so light and soft he half-expected it to float up to the ceiling; real forbidden butter, and a pile of chips so large it reminded him of the firewood he was constantly chopping at the camp, although on this occasion his hands weren't red and aching from the axe. And – bliss! – no vegetables at all, save for a minuscule parsley sprig and half a sliced tomato. He'd had enough of vegetables – soggy marrow, worthy swedes, so-called ‘edible' fungi, flatulence-inducing beans – all cooked without salt or fat.

He showered salt on his steak and bit into it with relish, imagining Rick beside him, shovelling in a cheeseburger and chips. It was strange, the bond between them – a surprise to him as much as to Claire – the rebellious teenage boy and the middle-aged recluse. Except he was no longer a recluse, but had been out and about with Rick, helping him hunt bones, or explore foxes' holes and rabbit warrens. Rick was a true country boy and his interest in the natural world had brought back happy memories of his own time in the bush. He'd forgotten the simple pleasures of messing about in streams, identifying footprints in the mud – stoat and weasel, vole and heron – even climbing trees, which he hadn't done since the age of nine or ten. His only regret was that Pippa refused to join them, despite his continual efforts to include her on the expeditions, his attempts to arouse her interest by showing her rare bird feathers or treasures from the abandoned mine. She hadn't simply declined: she'd been uncharacteristically rude, shunning Rick completely as if he had some infectious disease, and resisting any overtures even from good-natured Claire. He'd suspected she was jealous, and had contrived to talk to her on his own, but had only been resisted in his turn. Finally he had complained to Penny, who had merely shrugged and said if the child was happy with her dog (and the two were indeed inseparable), then why not leave her be?

It was stupid to harbour a grudge against an injured slobbery boxer; but it did hurt to see her conferring with the dog's confounded owners, discussing canine matters with placid Judith and ever-cheery Tony while she cold-shouldered her own father. He had also seen her talking to JB, and immediately feared that the healer might be influencing her against him – that baneful ‘someone' who threatened her well-being.

Well, he mustn't let her spoil his steak, nor his cup of strong black coffee which had never seen an acorn or a dandelion, and which he sweetened with two spoonfuls of wonderfully poisonous white sugar. By the time he'd drunk a second cup, he was in urgent need of a pee, so he slipped out to the gents, nodding to the two old men en route. He shut himself in a cubicle just for the joy of having peace and privacy; peeing in a proper porcelain toilet-bowl behind a locked and solid door, rather than a fly-infested hole-in-the-ground with dogs sniffing and kids sniggering if he took his trousers down. He flushed the cistern gratefully: so much more hygienic than covering up one's droppings with a handful of damp sawdust or a few tastefully arranged leaves. And what luxury to have a proper basin, with unlimited hot water gushing out at the flick of a tap, when he was used to boiling it in a slow and stubborn billy-can over a temperamental fire.

He glanced at the mirror over the basin, recoiling in shock at the unkempt character staring back at him. He had given up shaving after two laborious attempts, and followed Tony's jokey exhortations to ‘grow a beard like mine, mate'. The stubble had been itchy and uncomfortable, but only now did he realize what an utter tramp he looked. A Hollywood suntan gave a chap distinction, but his own burnt-almond skin smacked more of the swarthy gypsy than the film star. There were scratches on his face where he had battled through the undergrowth with Rick, insect-bites pockmarked his neck, and his hair hung limp and greasy. It was a wonder they had agreed to serve him at all, rather than ejecting him from the pub on sight. He slunk back to the bar and bumped slap into the waitress, hurriedly stammering an apology, less for the collision than for his general slatternly state.

‘I've been camping in the wilds, you see, and I simply didn't realize what a mess I looked. I'm afraid I need a shower and shave before I'm fit to be seen in public'

‘Well, you can always have one here. We've got two nice rooms upstairs, both with their own bathrooms, and both empty at the moment. It's normally twenty pounds a night, but I'll charge you just half-price if you only need the room for a couple of hours.'

She was clearly touting for business, though a tenner seemed inordinately steep for a simple wash and brush-up. On the other hand, the thought of lying in a bath, soaking away his stiffness, scouring off the dirt, was definitely appealing. And anyway could he really face the rest of the world for the remainder of the afternoon looking the way he did? He probably smelt foul, too – a pungent cocktail of sweat and dog and wood-smoke.

She finally settled for seven-fifty, and threw in a disposable razor – a pink plastic one which he suspected she had used already for shaving her stout legs. He was too contented to object, however, pottering round the bedroom trying out delights such as electric light, electric kettle, and comfortable sprung mattress, then wallowing up to his chest in a capacious modern bath.

Shaving was more of a problem, the insubstantial blade resisting his tough beard, but eventually he cleared the stubble – and then the clogged and scummy basin. He drifted back to the bedroom and stretched out naked on the bed. He'd half-drawn the curtains to keep the room cool, and the muted light and his torpor from the bath combined to make him drowsy. He closed his eyes, recalling his last bath, the one he'd shared with Penny, attempting to make love to her in a boudoir of pink foam. He stiffened at the memory, trailed his hand down to his prick, imagining not just Penny, but Happy and Corinna too, all lazing in the bubbles. Corinna's buxom breasts were flushed from the heat and steam; Happy's legs were open and he could glimpse her moistening lips just showing beneath her thatch. She and Penny were comparing pubic hair – Penny's thick and flaming; Happy's soft and fair.

He cupped his balls in his other hand – they felt heavy, over-full – continued stroking his stiff prick. The women were all watching him, becoming more and more excited, all wanting him, on heat for him. He stretched luxuriously, ran his tongue slowly round his teeth, still tasting beer and steak. He'd take his time, spin out this last pleasure like the rest; wait till he was so worked up that he could have all three women at once.