Torn (29 page)

She sat heavily on the bottom stair and covered her face. The acute anxiety that had engulfed her drained away, leaving a vacuum which filled with questions.

‘Piers? Brother? Birthday?' He'd told her he was Pisces. If she'd thought twice about it, his birthday had to be around now sometime. Jessica looked up at James, who still stood above her, his hand on the newel post.

‘You didn't know Piers was his brother?' She shook her head, stunned. ‘I'm sorry. You've seemed quite thick with Dan. I assumed you knew his brother is Sasha's godfather.'

‘But his brother's called Pete?'

‘Look, you've not been living here long and may not be aware of it, but there's a bit of a stigma attached to anyone coming from the Forest of Dean. They're all reputedly stupid or inbred. So when Piers got to Oxford, in an attempt to distance himself from his roots, he awarded himself a fancy double-barrelled name. Adopting the accent was just a part of the rebranding. It's been so long it's hard for me to remember that he's not the Piers Ford Bowman I've always known since university, but plain Peter Bowman.'

‘I'm sorry. I must seem like a mad woman. But –'

‘And it was Piers who recommended Danny when I was looking around for a competent farm worker last year. He knew I was looking to run a tight, low-cost enterprise here, concentrating on the sheep. And he was worried about his brother's ability to find work and support himself. From the point of view of employment farming is a shrinking business.' He looked up and cleared his throat. ‘So … thanks a lot, Piers! Just what I needed! Saddled with a bloody counter-culture climate change protester!' This last was said at full volume as Piers Bowman wandered out into the hall to see what was going on.

‘Not grown out of that rubbish yet? No way I'm swapping tart-mobile for milk float, on say-so of scam-mongers at the University of East Anglia!'

‘Bit simplistic,' James demurred. ‘They just put a bit of a spin on some of the data.'

‘Can't convince me the globe's warming. Succession of arctic winters? Soggiest summers in living history?'

‘That's weather,' Jess said, automatically, still bemused by recent revelations. ‘Not climate.'

Piers spluttered and stared at her. ‘Sorry. More proof required before I adjust carbon content of footprint!'

‘Jess didn't realise you're Dan's brother,' James said, to divert the conversation.

‘Yes. For my sins. Poor little scrag end of humanity … on my mind past few years. Not that I've seen Planks for yonks, since started work for esteemed Mr Warwick.'

‘You'll notice a change in him,' James said.

‘Try to keep in touch. Christmas gift. Smartphone. Twerp's never got it switched on. Probably hasn't worked out how to use it yet!'

‘James, darling,' Gilda called from the kitchen. ‘Will you find out if the lad is coming down for dinner? Otherwise I'll take a place setting away.'

‘It's OK, Ma … I think he is,' James called back, as Danny appeared at the head of the stairs, dressed in the combats, baggy shirt, and his fancy waistcoat, which looked as if it had been cleaned since Jessica last saw it. He looked a little thinner, a little hollow around the eyes, a little paler, yet a slight flush of pink mounted to his clean-shaven cheeks as he found himself the centre of attention.

‘Christ!' Piers mouth fell open. ‘Unrecognisable! Where dreadlocks? Where beard? And … sod it! Taller than me! Now a mighty slab of man! Imogen! Here! To me! Now! Not spotty boy I described.'

As Danny reached ground level the two embraced. ‘Why don't you use your fucking mobile?' Piers said, momentarily sounding choked. ‘Imo? Imogen?' He turned, his arm around his brother's waist. The young woman entered the hall, still holding her long glass. ‘Imo, this … baby bro, Planks … um … Daniel.' Piers brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. Imogen's eyes widened.

‘Piers,' she said coolly, ‘You really have not done your brother justice. Hello, Daniel, I'm Imogen,' and she held out her hand. Danny smiled and shook it.

‘Not my fault! Last sighting, thin child, five foot nothing. Dreads and scraggily beard down to armpits!'

‘A slight exaggeration, Imogen, but he has sprung up over the last year,' James qualified. ‘And the beard comes and goes. Let's go and get another drink.' They moved back into the drawing room. Sasha had grabbed Danny's hand and was already trying to interest him in her new book.

Piers was still shaking his head, still overcome by the change in his brother.

‘You'll be telling me next you've lost virgy-queen status!'

‘Piers!' Imogen reproved. ‘Don't be so fucking rude!'

‘Sorry, mate. No business mine. Birthday gift … Here!'

So far Danny had said little but had seemed composed and smiled a lot. Now he sat down with Sasha and Rory either side of him, the book and the gold parcel in his lap. To Jess he looked suddenly tense.

‘Open it, then,' said Sasha and without waiting took it from his hand and began to help him.

Rory said, ‘Sasha is four. I'm three and three quarters. If it's your birthday too, how old are you?'

‘I'm twenty.'

‘Twenty! That's old! That's almost nearly as old as Tubs! Are you going to ride the horses again?'

‘Ride the horses?' He glanced towards Jessica for explanation.

‘You remember,' she said brightly, as much to explain to everyone else as to him. ‘You collected some horses from the field opposite our house. Rory and I watched you ride one of them and lead the other two down the lane.'

‘Yes,' Rory agreed, yawning widely. ‘And you came into our house for a cup of tea, but then you had to go because Tubs gave you asthma.' Before he could go on to say anything about Danny kissing and cuddling Mummy, Mummy interrupted.

‘I think it's about time you went off to bed. Don't you?'

By this time Sasha had stripped most of the gold foil from around the parcel but then thrust it back to Danny, her lower lip thrust out petulantly as if, despite it not being for her, she'd somehow expected a surprise toy. He stared transfixed at the box in his lap, sat in its tattered nest of gold paper and unravelling spirals of ribbon.

‘It's mint.'

‘What is it? Is it a mobire?' Rory asked, resurrecting his current obsession with owning his own mobile phone. The toy one she'd bought him had failed to deflect his fascination with hers. ‘I want a
real
mobire for my birfday.'

‘Hush, Rory. No one wants to hear what you want.'

Danny raised his eyes to Piers, and Piers answered for him. ‘An MP3 player. Not up on what you're into these days. I've downloaded some ambient Brian Eno and some hippy dippy stuff … whale song and the like.'

‘Cool. Thanks, Pete.' Danny turned the box over several times but didn't open it. Rory looked disappointed. Piers joined his brother on the sofa.

‘Here, let me show you.' He tipped it out and quickly went through the functions. Sasha watched intently as Piers explained. And when Danny questioned him she interrupted. ‘I know! I know! I've got one the same. I'll show you what to do!' Between them they got the thing working and Piers plugged it into Danny's ears. He sat rapt for several moments before pulling out the ear pieces.

‘That's really cool! I'm well pleased, Pete.'

‘Now get Sash to show you how to use the fucking phone!' Piers added.

‘I'll show you!' Rory offered. ‘I can use the –'

James interrupted. ‘I think Jessica is right about bedtime.' Perhaps there was a little too much swearing. Perhaps he'd just had enough of the children, and craved some unconstrained adult time with his friends. ‘It's time to say goodnight, sleep tight to you two little ones. The sleep-over … starts … 
now
!'

The children gazed at one another in delicious fright then ran squealing from the room with James after them. As quick as she'd gone Sasha returned, whisked the book from Danny's lap, and flew out with it, one hand clutched to her tiara.

‘Daddy's going to read it!' she shouted back from the door.

‘A fucking lucky escape!' Imogen said.

Chapter Eighteen

Fifteen minutes later, James was back. ‘They're a tad too hyper to concentrate. Great book though, Jessica. Like all the best stories it questions assumptions and stereotypes. Are ogres always all bad, for instance?'

‘As far as I recall there are no ogres in the story!' Jessica replied with a smile. ‘It's the illustrations I love.'

‘That dancing pig is especially memorable!'

Soon they were called in to eat. The dining room still looked festive with its pink and silver bunting. Ribbons spiralled down from the cloud-cover of balloons which swayed and bumped up at the ceiling. The place settings had been laid on opposite sides of the long refectory table; each had a name card inscribed in exquisite calligraphy. On one side, Imogen, Danny, and Gilda; on the other, James, Jessica, and Piers. Danny hung back until everyone else had claimed their place.

‘First a toast,' James said, pouring chilled champagne into flutes then passing them around. ‘To the birthday boy.'

Danny's smile was constrained as his glass was clinked. When Jessica leant across the table to join in, the smile faded altogether.

‘Hope you're not ‘specting me to make a speech?' he said.

The wine was excellent, the food equally so, and every course had a vegetarian alternative. Throughout the meal many more toasts were drunk. The first to Gilda for producing a scrumptious meal; she'd had Edie's help, she demurred. A toast was drunk to James for providing the excellent wine, to Jessica, for her sterling work as children's party organiser, to Imogen for being beautiful and making money, and to Piers for being a generous godfather.

‘What do you do, Jessica?' Various answers suggested themselves, as her glance shifted from Imogen, who had put the question, to Danny next to her.

‘What? Apart from mother, housewife, superstar you mean?'

‘Best place for whore-pussy-bitches,' Piers said. ‘Fucking kitchen sink! Keep ‘em in their place. Good enough for my mother –'

James interrupted. ‘Whoa! Careful, Piers. Feminist alert!'

‘And anyway, she was a teacher,' Danny qualified. ‘Our mother was a teacher.'

‘Was?' enquired Jessica, who suddenly wondered if the reason for Danny's habitual reticence was because their mother was dead.

‘Retired,' Piers said quickly. ‘And who's feminist round here? Not Gilda, provider of toothsome comestibles?'

‘Piers, my dear, I have known you far too long to be offended by anything you say. As for feminism … all that anger! It always seemed like far too much hard work. I've never had any trouble getting my own way. No need to fight for it.'

‘Not Imo? Light of life … provider of bedroom comforts? So it must be …? You Jessica! Jay, you'll have to mind Ps and Qs! Just thought. Ughh!' he added with a groan, halfway between orgasm and revulsion. ‘She hasn't any other piercings? Tattoos? To go with the –?' He clutched his nose in a histrionic gesture.

‘Why are you asking me?' James objected.

‘Strange! Nose but not ears. You have to wonder,' Piers continued to probe. Jessica obligingly stuck out her un-pierced tongue for all to see.

‘I was put off having my ears pierced by my mother. Her lobes are like lace doilies. As for anywhere else … you'll just have to wonder.' Piers could make no inroads under her skin. She was immune to his kind of baiting. All her working life she'd known men like him, men who liked to provoke and stir up dissent, but if you rose to their bait would say they were ‘only joking'.

He groaned again. ‘Imagination runs riot! Explain your feminism.'

‘I don't know why James has awarded me the label particularly, unless it's because I argue with him.'

‘I argue with everybody. Could be those suffragette colours you're wearing?'

‘Or is it because I'm a friend of Sheila Jordan, who's more fired up on the subject than I've ever been?'

‘Sheila Jordan?' Imogen interjected. ‘I know that name. Wasn't she a friend of Serena's, Jay?'

At the mention of his deceased wife, Jessica thought she saw a tightening in the skin around his eyes and mouth. He didn't answer. Jessica picked up the subject again.

‘I don't think it's possible to generalise about men or women. Gender isn't destiny. There are clever women, stupid men, and vice versa … women who are excellent car mechanics and men who are wonderful nurturers. All I ask is equality of respect … whatever I choose to do with my life … and equality of pay if I'm doing the same job as a bloke. Of course the principle had to be fought for and won, but some women have dug themselves into entrenched, permanently hostile positions … war or nothing. But I actually rather like men … some men.' Her eyes momentarily fell on Danny again. ‘I've never understood feminists like my mother, who insist a uniform goes with acceptance of the principle. If you care about your appearance, or even worse want to enhance it with makeup or stilt heels or whatever, you're somehow a traitor. I was thinking earlier how I'd have loved a pink party dress like Sasha's when I was her age. Not to mention the sequin tiara! Dressing up like a fairy princess wasn't allowed in our house.'

‘That's almost tantamount to fucking child abuse!' Imogen said. ‘But you don't care now?'

‘About?'

‘Fashion? Glamour?'

James seemed to feel the need to explain. ‘Imogen runs a modelling agency.'

Jess could have explained that there was a designer dress and shoes upstairs but that after her bath she'd felt chilled and tired and, with no particular expectation of the evening ahead, had opted for comfort rather than one-upmanship. To cross swords with Imogen would sound petty and defensive to the rest of the company, and she didn't care enough.