Seven Days of Us(23)



Andrew strode along the road to the beach. He had always found the Norfolk landscape oppressive. The unbroken horizon and dome of sky imprisoned one in a bell jar of rural stillness—bar the occasional “Coo-coo-coo, coo-coooo” from a wood pigeon. Christ, even the pigeons sounded depressed here. Andrew had never been, would never be, a country person. But Emma was still in thrall of Norfolk. She wanted the girls to experience the same childhood summers and Christmases she had. For a while, Andrew had campaigned for their daughters to see more of the world. Emma had interpreted this, not inaccurately, as Andrew’s own yearning for travel on leaving The Times. When her father died, leaving her an orphaned only child, Emma had only grown more attached to Weyfield. There was no question of selling. As the years passed, the place had become ever more shrine-like. There was now a spooky sense of time warp in the frozen carriage clocks and taxidermy birds. Even the air tasted decades old. Andrew had stopped suggesting improvements long ago—it was easier to hibernate in the smoking room. Emma probably imagined he was still intimidated by the house, as he had been at first. He wasn’t anymore. If anything, the place was rather embarrassingly dilapidated—not that they could have afforded to restore it. A rust-colored bull in the field to his right threw him a bulgy-eyed stare, then let forth an accusing moo. Damn you, thought Andrew, noting the animal’s penis. I’m sure your calves don’t e-mail you out of the blue. You’re free to sow your studly oats with impunity. He took out his phone to note down this phrasing and, when he looked up, wished he hadn’t. George was jogging along the raised dyke that ran parallel to the road and had recognized him, despite his headgear. Bugger being six foot four. The boy was bound to tell Phoebe that he’d seen Andrew out walking, leading to all kinds of awkwardness. George leaped down from the dyke to the road and came to a stop, hands on his powerful thighs, panting and squinting up at Andrew. He was wearing a Lycra getup that left nothing to the imagination. “George!” said Andrew, yanking off the sweaty balaclava. “Keep your distance!” he added, with a crossed-fingers plague gesture. Too bad he couldn’t do so every time George offered his aggressively macho handshake.

“You well?” said Andrew, after a pause, since George was still panting in his odd squat.

“Yah, good, thanks,” said George, eventually. “Nice disguise! You AWOL? I thought Phoebs said you guys couldn’t leave the house?”

Andrew hated modern youth’s substitution for “very well” with “good.”

“Technically,” he said. “But, uh, a man needs to escape all that estrogen now and then. I’d appreciate it if you kept this between the two of us, old boy.” What was this man-to-man tone he had adopted?

“Got it. Hard work, then, quarantine?” said George, straightening up. It gratified Andrew that he still towered over George, even if he couldn’t compete with his rugger-player’s physique.

“Well, not unlike every other Christmas here,” he replied. “And you? Preparing for the coming excesses?” He indicated George’s trainers, wondering how long they were expected to make chitchat.

“Huur, yah, no, training for Paris. The marathon.” Andrew had forgotten George’s tedious marathons. He made a point of ignoring the boy’s money-grabbing e-mails, detailing the latest “challenge” he was attempting—though he knew Emma donated fulsomely. The thought crossed Andrew’s mind, as so often since Phoebe’s engagement, that his grandchildren would be part Marsham-Smith. It wasn’t a comfortable idea. For a moment, they both stood looking out to sea. A cascade of church bells rang into the silence. Bloody churches on every corner in this county.

“Well, better make a move—Mum’s doing a roast,” said George, jigging up and down, like a boxer preparing to punch.

“Send my regards to the Marsham-Smiths,” said Andrew, stepping back to let him pass. Couldn’t you say “my mother,” not “Mum”? he thought.

“Will do, cheers,” said George, thudding off.

Andrew stood, pretending to admire the landscape, until George was a safe distance away. The air here, near the beach, was tangy—the way fish should taste, commented the part of his brain that was always writing his column. He knew George never read his reviews, and that this—rightly—annoyed Phoebe. Jesse probably read them religiously, Andrew thought. What if, in deleting those e-mails, he was throwing away his one chance of a father-son relationship—the kind he hadn’t had with his own father or Emma’s, and never would with George? He remembered his secret disappointment at Olivia’s birth, on hearing the baby was a girl. Andrew had wanted a boy. A son, he believed, might smooth the scar left by his own absent father. But Olivia was not a boy, and nor was Phoebe—although it hadn’t mattered with her. Thinking of Phoebe, of that Father’s Day card in the attic, his thoughts swung full circle. Deleting those e-mails was the right decision. To imagine that he and Jesse might strike up a paternal bond now was pure fantasy. And if Andrew said nothing, did nothing, Jesse would have to go back to the States, and that would be an end to it. The alternative was too messy.

? ? ?

Approaching the gateposts, Andrew caught Emma’s voice. She sounded slightly hysterical. Stopping, he heard her say, “But it would ruin Christmas,” and then, “I don’t owe it to them. Anyway, I will, soon.” He realized with surprise she must be talking on her mobile—he’d thought she only used it in crises. What would ruin Christmas? Probably some undelivered present she’d got her knickers in a twist about. He hid behind the gatepost, wondering what to do, as a DHL lorry stopped at the bottom of the drive. The noise startled Emma. She rushed toward the driver making wild “no” gestures and pointing to the note she had put up, which read: “Please leave all deliveries here, as we are unable to sign. Thank you.” Andrew watched the driver stare at her in confusion. “We can’t sign, we might have Haag!” shouted Emma. The man looked horrified, dropped a parcel on the drive, and jumped back into his lorry.

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