Breaking and Entering (15 page)

He knelt on the wet turf, lowered the bag deep into the hole, then rearranged the flowers on top. He remained on his knees, unhappy at the thought that he had somehow short-changed his mother in failing to provide the proper ritual. If this were an African funeral, he could wail and shriek and tear his clothes, even throw himself on the coffin, beating on it with his hands to wake her from sleep, as mourners did in Zambia. But in undemonstrative England you contained your grief in one flimsy cotton handkerchief.

He yanked out a clump of dandelions which had sprouted on the path, removed a trampled paper bag. He wished he had a remit to clear every speck of litter from this place; to landscape the whole cemetery – replant it with majestic trees, add statues, bronzes, shaded walks. As it was, the plot looked raw and crude, bereft even of its headstone. The polished slab of granite would not be replaced for another six months, to allow time for the ground to settle. Would
he
have ‘settled' by then, he wondered, or still be prey to this despair? What upset him most was that once again his parents were together, while he himself was left out in the cold. There was no room for a third coffin, nor even for another grave – the cemetery was full. In another forty years or so, where would he land up? Miles from them, as usual, he supposed.

He got up from his knees, glanced along the rows of tombs, his mother's silent neighbours. Only the dead in sight now – no one living left; even the birds flying home to roost. The mist was getting thicker, obscuring all the landmarks, blanking out the graves. Yet still he hung on, reluctant to leave his parents, unsure when he'd return. With nobody to tend it, weeds would choke the grave; stray dogs even shit on it. When they'd been processing from the chapel, he had noticed a scruffy mongrel squatting near a tombstone, its body trembling with the strain, its entire attention focused on its bowels. ‘Get
out
!' he'd shouted wordlessly as he followed the four pall-bearers, resenting them as well. He would have preferred to carry his mother on his own.

He stretched out his hands, as if to push away the darkness. The trees were semi-bare, the year dying into winter. It was almost November, the furthest point from spring. He paced up and down, up and down, remembering last spring. He'd been in Paris with his mother, yet had hardly managed to see her – so absorbed in his incessant work he'd allowed it to encroach even on his evenings and weekends.

A firework suddenly exploded through the silence: someone celebrating Guy Fawkes in advance. A few more bangs reverberated, like warning shots driving him away. It was time he left, in any case – the grave-diggers must be waiting for him to go. They still had work to do: filling in that hole, tucking up his mother for the night. He had a sudden choking vision of wet and heavy earth falling on her open eyes, damming up her mouth.

He broke into a run towards his car, wrenched it into gear and drove too fast out of the cemetery gates and along the road that led back to his hotel. He approached the crossroads, juddered to a stop. The signpost pointing to the right said ‘Dover, 13 miles'. He was barely any distance from the Channel ferries; could be back in his own flat tonight if he went by boat instead of air. He'd been dreading the thought of the plane journey; the prospect of another night in that anonymous hotel. Yesterday had been bad enough – killing time in the deserted bar, ordering drinks he didn't want; then driving aimlessly round the side-streets to escape his gloomy thoughts. If he left this evening, he could be back at work tomorrow, sitting in the refuge of his office, catching up on everything he'd missed. And his mother would most certainly approve. He'd spent far too long wallowing in self-pity, fixating almost morbidly on his loss.

He lit a cigarette – the first since lunchtime – inhaled luxuriously, gulping down a lungful of relief. His ordeal was almost over: a brief trip to the hotel to pack his things and pay the bill, a short drive to the coast, and then a strong restorative sea-wind to blast away his grief.

He stood on the top deck, leaning on the rail, waiting for the ferry to pull out. The fog had changed to rain: a cleansing, healing rain which spattered against his face, relieved his deep fatigue. Everything had gone without a hitch: the hotel had waived all charges for tonight; Hertz had agreed to collect the car from Dover, and he'd arrived to find a ferry due to leave in half an hour. An express from Calais would whisk him into the Gare du Nord just before eleven. A taxi to his flat, a nightcap to relax him, and with any luck he'd be in bed by midnight.

A hooter sounded through the darkness, signalling the boat's departure. Most of the passengers were sheltering from the rain, relaxing in the restaurant or the bars. But he was quite content to commune with the night sky; the brooding clouds above more in keeping with his mood than the noise and glare below. He picked up his case and moved towards the prow of the boat, dodging the large puddles on the deck. He could suddenly see Pippa squatting on that deck – carrot hair and fuchsia-pink shorts – as Penny's voice came back to him. ‘That's how she got cystitis. The ferry was delayed, you see, and all the seats were taken, so she spent half the night sitting on the wet wood.'

He stood stock-still a moment, then wheeled abruptly round and dashed back the way he'd come, searching for an exit sign. He had to say goodbye, couldn't leave for France without knowing how she was. He'd phone her from the terminal, tell her that he'd tried before, hadn't simply forgotten her existence. He could always catch the next boat – they went every couple of hours.

He dived towards a flight of steps, half-ran, half-stumbled down them, clunking his case awkwardly behind him. He strode on along the deck and through the door into the lounge, taken aback by the noisy scrum of drinkers jostling round the bar. He tried to squeeze between them, zigzagging his way through the obstacle course of baggage; his own bulky case banging at his side.

‘Watch it, mate!' snapped a student with a rucksack, trying to protect his overflowing beer-glass.

Daniel cursed him under his breath, shaking lager off his sleeve as he blundered on past another group of students clustered round their camping gear: bedrolls, backpacks, sleeping bags, piled up on the floor. He reached the other side at last, and emerged into a corridor. He sprinted down it, but came to a dead end – a locked door marked ‘NO ENTRY'. He swung back the other way and out on to the deck again, flinching at the shock of cold after the stifling heat inside. How the hell did he get off this boat? It was departing any moment and he'd completely lost his bearings. He peered over the rail to orientate himself – saw the gangplank just below, but already roped off and about to be winched up.

‘Wait!' he shouted desperately. ‘I've changed my mind – I'm not sailing after all. Hold it just one second –
please
!'

A score of startled heads looked up – crewmen, other passengers – some relishing the prospect of a drama. He hadn't time to be embarrassed, but hurtled down the stairs and along the final stretch of deck. The gangplank was still in place, thank God, though a burly man in uniform was trying to bar his way, barking some reproof He ducked under the rope, shouting an apology, then clattered down the gangplank and on across the quay, almost tripping on the wet and slippery surface.

He arrived breathless in the waiting-room and made straight for the nearest phone booth. He dialled the Streatham number, praying Penny was alone. He was longing to tell her how he'd missed her; how even during the funeral service he'd been thinking of her body, remembering how they'd …

‘Shit!' he muttered furiously, raging not at Penny but at her bloody stupid phone. Why did no one answer it? He slammed down the receiver, slumped against the wall. He must be out of his mind: he'd missed his crossing and she wasn't even there. She was obviously away from home – and probably with Phil. He had tried a dozen times already in the last four frustrating days, and never once got a reply. In the end he'd given up; telling himself it wasn't fair to contact her again. If she and Phil were back together, any overture from him would only be impolitic. So why in God's name had he changed his mind, or assumed so glibly that
this
time he'd get through? All he'd done was waste two hours, when the whole point of going by boat had been to avoid these futile stretches of dead time.

He found an empty seat, rammed a cigarette in his mouth, and sat there snapping matches in half, their broken bodies falling on his lap. Two hours was an eternity in this hell-hole. There wasn't even a drinks machine, let alone a proper bar. He glanced irritably at the people sitting round him– an old gaffer with a cold, constantly honking into his handkerchief, and three frumpy-looking matrons talking with their mouths full as they shared gossip and cheese rolls.

Snatches of their conversation drifted past his ears, continually revolving round the subject of their husbands, children, grandchildren. It must be daunting to be part of such a tribe, bonded so inviolably by ties of blood, of steel. And yet how much worse to be alone, to have spent four days in England and not spoken to a single friend. But that was his own fault. He could have rung a dozen friends if he hadn't been so apathetic, moping around each evening feeling sorry for himself.

He got up from his seat, too restless to sit still. He could always ring them now. It would be a relief to talk to someone he knew, and would help to pass the time. He stubbed out his cigarette, mooched back to the phone. He'd try Anthony in Cambridge first, catch up with his news. He dialled the number, thinking back to the years they'd spent together: drinking, smoking, discussing books and politics. He'd been out of touch too long; had neglected all his English friends once he'd moved to Paris.

He jumped. An unknown female had answered, breaking into his thoughts; informed him in her drawly voice that Anthony was out.

‘D'you know when he'll be back?'

‘Sorry – no idea.'

The sense of unreality he'd felt in the hotel began to take a grip again. Was he really standing in this claustrophobic phone-box with a receiver in his hand, or dreaming the whole thing? Perhaps he'd never actually left Paris, and his mother was alive still, waiting for his rat-tat on the door.

He snatched up his address book, began flicking through the pages to find Roberto's number. His Italian friend was a natural clown, someone who might make him laugh, banter him back to normality.

He inserted another coin and dialled 01 for London, but instead of Roberto's Kensington exchange, he found he was dialling Streatham – hardly surprising when he'd been programmed in the last four days to follow up 01 with Penny's number. It was a total waste of time. Why should she answer now, when she'd been out ten minutes ago? He might as well sit down again, do the crossword, read a book. Knowing his luck, Roberto would be out as well – all his friends busy with their lives.

‘Yes, hello?'

He all but dropped the phone. It wasn't Penny, but another girl who sounded very like her. ‘Er … is … is Penny there?' he asked.

‘I'm not too sure. Hang on – I'll go and see.'

He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, cold beads of sweat snailing down his back. Had that been Penny's sister, or a relative of Phil's? Even if Penny
was
in, there was nothing he could say. He rehearsed his lines while waiting in a fever of impatience: he was catching the next ferry and was just ringing to say goodbye; he'd been hoping they could meet, but it wasn't really possible; he was due back in the office and …

‘Hello?'

Her voice was an electric shock jolting his whole body. How could two brief syllables affect him so profoundly?

‘Hello?' she said again. The tone was flat, expressionless, with none of her usual verve. ‘Who is it?' she asked tersely, after a third and increasingly irritable ‘Hello'.

He tried to answer. Failed. She could slay him with one word. If he told her who was speaking, she might say a curt goodbye and slam the phone down. He must get in first, make her understand that he wasn't being cruel, but they had no choice but to go their separate ways.

Seconds passed as he tried to find his voice. If he didn't take this chance, he would never dare to ring again. She was beginning to sound quite hostile, threatening to hang up.

‘It's … Daniel!' he blurted out, noticing with horror that he was running short of coins. He raked frantically through his pockets for more change. ‘For Christ's sake don't ring off, Penny. I've got to talk to you.' He slammed in several tens, drumming his fingers impatiently on the cold impassive metal as he waited for each one to rattle down.

‘Are you there?
Penny
!' His voice rose in a howl. She had cut him off, vanished, refused to say so much as …

‘Yes, Daniel, I'm here.'

He struggled to control his voice. It was essential that he sounded calm – not overwrought, hysterical. ‘Penny,' he said, closing his eyes, to focus his entire attention on the most important question of his life.

‘Penny, will you marry me?'

‘Happy anniversary!' said Daniel, clinking his brandy glass to Penny's.

‘Happy anniversary – six times!'

‘No, five.'

‘Six,' insisted Penny. ‘We drank a toast with the sherry, two each with the Perrier and the wine, and now this one with the brandy.'

‘Okay, happy anniversary to my darling gorgeous wife.'

‘That's seven times – perfect! One for each year.'

He leaned forward, took her hand. ‘You don't regret them, do you?'

‘Regret what? All the drinks?'

‘No, all the years.'

She smiled and sipped her brandy, her pale cheeks unnaturally flushed from the sultry heat, the wine.

‘Shall we go for a walk?' he suggested, slightly disconcerted that she hadn't answered his question. ‘Cool down by the river?'