Echoes of the Dance (13 page)

Paul encouraged her on, clearly riveted by this group of people and their lives. She found that she was telling him about Mim and her tragic accident and then recounting her own experiences at the stage school. He was by no means a passive listener, however; his questions were intelligent, interested, and often led down other little byways as she proceeded with her story.

Daisy sighed with pleasure as she savoured the evening. For a brief time she'd forgotten her own fears and misery – though they'd talked about those too – and had been totally happy. It wouldn't be true to pretend that she hadn't been aware of him close beside her, though. Once, leaning back in his chair, his knee had touched her own and, at one point, he'd brushed the back of her hand very lightly with his fingers; she'd shivered with a kind of suppressed excitement but he'd moved on again, talking about something else, making her laugh.

He'd noticed the point at which her back began to be troublesome and suggested that it was time to go and, when they'd let themselves into the hall, he'd taken her face in his hands and kissed her briefly but with a tenderness that made her want more; much more.

‘That was such fun,' he'd said. ‘Go to bed, Daisy, you look exhausted. I've been rather selfish, keeping you sitting in that hard chair all evening. Will you be OK?'

And she'd said, ‘Yes, of course,' and, ‘It has been fun, hasn't it?' – because what else could she say? And she'd come upstairs, feeling exalted yet disappointed; happy but oddly dissatisfied. It occurred to her that she knew very little more about him apart from the fact that he'd accepted the post as head of the Art Department at the well-known public school on the edge of the city when the incumbent had died suddenly halfway through the spring term.

Despite that rare gift of accessibility, he was able to hold her at arm's length. ‘We like each other,' he'd said, ‘and we want to get to know each other better,' but she realized, now that she was alone again, that the impression of intimacy was based on the atmosphere that he created – and yet again, as on previous occasions, she'd been left in the hall, despite the goodnight kiss. She told herself that his caution simply might be a result of the break-up of his marriage, something they hadn't talked about at all.

A shadowy shape detached itself from an overhanging bush and ran stealthily along the tops of the walls. Daisy recognized the little local fox, with his half-starved look and ragged brush, and, as she watched him making his nightly journey, she decided that she was expecting too much of Paul. He'd suggested that she should pilot him around the Nureyev exhibition and she'd agreed willingly. He said that he could get away early on Thursday afternoon and they'd made a date. Perhaps she'd invite him to go with her to the Walcot Nation Day; he probably wouldn't know about the annual carnival day, full of fun and nonsense, when Walcot Street was closed to the traffic and became an independent nation. Or she might invite him to one of the Peter Hall summer productions at the Theatre Royal as a thank you for the chance to see the Royal New Zealand Ballet.

The fox had long since disappeared; Daisy turned away from the window and began to get ready for bed.

In the flat below, Paul was sitting at his desk in the small study, staring at some framed photographs of his children. Through the open door he could hear the low-level quacking of a television chat-show with the sound turned low. The noise comforted him, reminded him of home: that small terraced house in Clapham where Tom and baby Alice would have been asleep for hours and Ellie would be getting ready for bed. This flat, charming though it was, had none of the atmosphere or vibes of a home, and it was becoming clear to him that he had no inclination for it to be one.

Only the photographs were familiar to him. He'd taken the flat furnished for three months, at the end of which he'd move into the house in the school grounds that went with his job at Beechcroft, and his instinct told him to sit loose to it: no invitations to Henrietta Street; no colleagues asked back for supper or drinks. The flat was neutral ground between the house in London and the house at Beechcroft School; a kind of no man's land where his life could be put on hold for a period of time.

And Daisy? Paul reached out to move the square silver frame a fraction so that he could see Tom beaming out at him. Well, Daisy was a complication he hadn't bargained for and he needed to think about her very carefully.

‘You should carry a government health warning,' Ellie had told him more than once – laughing though, not being bitchy about it – and he'd shrugged, indicating that it wasn't really his fault.

It was true that his happy nature and easy friendliness had raised problems before now, mainly with his students, and past experience enabled him to see that Daisy was attracted to him: no point in being modest about it. He was drawn to her too. With her narrow face and pointed chin she reminded him of Modigliani's
Jeanne Hébuterne
, that same foxy-dark red hair and those tilted brown eyes, and she was wonderful company. The trouble was, he hadn't been totally honest with her. It wasn't necessarily true to say that he wouldn't be married for much longer, though that was the impression Ellie was giving, but he really hadn't known how to answer Daisy without going into the kind of details that he wasn't yet ready to talk about with anyone.

Paul picked up the photograph, tilting it under the angle-poise lamp, but as he studied it he began to see a different scene superimposing itself over Tom's happy little face.

‘But why are you going away, Daddy?' he asks, taking the small soft toys out of his padded bear house and zipping up the roof. ‘Why can't you stay here with us?'

Paul looks across Tom's head to Ellie, who stands beyond him, arms folded across her breast, her eyes narrowed warningly.

‘It's a job, Tonks. A really good job.'

‘But you've got a job already.'

Paul sees how easy it would be to score points against Ellie, using Tom.

He might say to Tom: ‘But if I take this job it means we could live in a bigger house and you could have a playroom for your toys. And a big garden with a slide and a swing. We could even have a dog. You'd like that, wouldn't you?'

The dog would be a very big bargaining counter: it would weigh in very heavily against Ellie's argument about Tom missing his little friends at the Busy Bees playschool. It might even take some of the sting out of his not seeing Rula, the Polish girl who comes to look after Tom and Alice when Ellie is teaching. Three-year-old Tom adores Rula.

But Paul thinks it would be cheating to play Tom off against Ellie.

Of course, he might say: ‘This is the job I always wanted and if I turn it down it will be the third time I've rejected this kind of post because your mother puts her friends and her own part-time job before my promotion. If I turn this down I might never get another opportunity. I probably wouldn't have been offered this if they hadn't been in a bit of a jam and needed someone in a hurry.'

He might say that but he knows that it would mean nothing to Tom, although Ellie would know that he was making a point he's made a dozen times already. Tom is now putting all the bears back into the house and Paul tries to think of some way he can show Tom why he wants to take the job in Bath.

‘You love going to Busy Bees, don't you, Tonks?' he asks. ‘But I bet you're looking forward to moving up a class next term, aren't you?'

‘No,' answers Tom promptly, shaking his head. ‘I don't want to leave Mrs Porter's class. I love her.'

For a brief moment Paul and Ellie exchange a glance of pure, spontaneous amusement: she guesses what Paul is trying to do and Tom's reaction makes her smile. Paul's attempt is scuppered before he's started and they are locked in a joint appreciation of the situation.

‘Thanks, Tonks,' Paul mutters ruefully. ‘Nice one.'

He looks at Ellie's softened expression and wonders if he can take advantage of this reignition of affection sparking between them.

‘I don't want to leave you or Mummy or Alice,' he tells Tom, his eyes on Ellie. ‘I think we should all go to Bath together. It's a beautiful city. Lots going on.'

‘Living on a campus,' says Ellie levelly. ‘No privacy. Backbiting and pettiness . . .'

Alice wakes up and begins to cry, and she dashes out.

‘What's a campus?' asks Tom.

Paul stood the photograph in its former position, switched off the lamp and went into the sitting-room. A beer and the late night film might distract him from imagining the children asleep, bedclothes flung off, limbs all over the place; or from the thought of Ellie, reading a book, her long dark hair spread across the pillow.

And Daisy? His conscience nagged at him but he refused to think any more about her. In the morning he would decide what he should do about Daisy.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

When Janna came back to the cottage in Horrabridge, Monica had already driven away to Cornwall to see Roly. Nat was working in his big lean-to garage: cleaning tools, oiling equipment. She came quietly, slipping down the narrow lane in the shadow of the high wall, her quick glance checking out the scene: no cars, no voices. The garage door was propped open, a strimmer leaning against it, which meant that Nat was almost certainly alone.

‘Hi, there.' She stood framed in the doorway, smiling.

Nat looked up, frowning against the sunset light that dazzled his eyes after the gloom of the garage.

‘Janna.' He felt the familiar affection at the sight of her; thin cotton dress fluttering round her slight frame, marmalade hair curling halo-like against the orange streaky sky. ‘Great to see you.'

He came out into the light, wiping his hands on some cotton waste, noting the old canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder.

‘Is it?' She grinned at him. ‘That's a relief, then. I heard yer mum had been around so I didn't like to leave a message on the answerphone.'

‘She still is. She's down in Cornwall today with Roly. I think she's planning to stay the night but, anyway, she won't be back just yet. I suspect she's hoping to wrong-foot him so he has to ask her to stay over.'

Janna made a little sound of amusement. ‘Always seems funny, that. Calling yer dad by his name. Why is it?'

‘Bloody-mindedness,' answered Nat, after a moment. ‘When my mother left him she used to refer to him as “your father”, keeping him at arm's length as if he were a criminal or something despicable. I grew to hate the word, so I called him Roly.'

‘He didn't mind? Didn't think you were cheeky?'

Nat shook his head. ‘I think he knew why. So how are you?

Hungry? Cup of tea? I haven't got the stuff you like, of course. You took it all with you.'

‘I know.' She made a little face: repentant, wheedling. ‘I could do with something, Nat. Nothing fancy. Cheese and some bread, if you've got it.'

He flung away the cotton waste and walked with her to the cottage door.

‘Sit in the sun,' he said. ‘It'll be gone soon. I'll get you something.' He passed two cushions out to her. ‘Relax.'

She arranged the cushions on the step and sat down, curled gratefully, face turned to the sinking sun. When he came out, carrying a tray, he saw that she was asleep with her head drooping sideways against the doorjamb. There were bruise-coloured patches under her eyes, the planes of her face were sharply drawn and her skin was lightly filmed with perspiration. That strong, healthy, sinuous lion-look she'd had all through last summer had gone. Now she looked like an alley cat: thin, bedraggled, poor.

He set the tray on a little stool and pushed her gently with his foot. She came awake with a shock and he passed her a mug of soup.

‘You are such a twit, Janna,' he said, not looking at her. ‘Where have you been?'

‘Around.' She hunched herself defensively. ‘You know. Did a few markets, met up with some old mates. Nothing bad, Nat. I promised you, didn't I? We ran out of money, me and Treesa, and then 'twas a bit hand to mouth, that's all. I thought I might stay a night or two. I saw Dave in the village. He thought yer mum had gone.' She glanced sharply at him, hands round the mug, drinking the hot soup as quick as she could. ‘Did you tell her?'

‘No.' His face was shuttered, bleak. ‘No, I didn't.'

‘So I could be here, couldn't I? Just for a day or two. Might even be helpful?'

She looked so hopeful that he couldn't help but smile. ‘I suppose so.'

She grinned at him. ‘Thanks, Nat. You're such a mate.'

‘I'm a sucker.' Nat cut a piece of cheese, sawed off a slice of bread and pushed it towards her. ‘You look terrible.'

‘I know.' She was unresentful, swallowing down the last of the soup, head tilted back to get the last drop. ‘What did you tell Moniker?'

‘That you'd gone off for a bit. She has no idea for how long but I think she noticed that a few of your bits were missing and jumped to the obvious conclusion. I said you were with Teresa.'

‘Well, 'twas true.' She fiddled with the piece of bread, sticking cheese crumbs on it. ‘She's got a new bloke.'