'Grandad isn't very well,' Anna said, just for something to say. 'Grandma and him were coming to stay with us, but now they can't.'
'So I believe.' Rebecca wasn't satisfied. 'Have you heard when your daddy's coming home?'
Anna had to look away. She didn't know if mummy had even spoken to him since he went away. Except to ask her about that night on the beach, mummy hadn't mentioned him at all, didn't want to talk about him. That showed how much was going wrong, and it frightened her. She was afraid to ask when he was coming home, in case mummy said 'never'.
Rebecca took her hand. 'If you ever need a friend to talk to, remember I'm here.'
Anna knew Rebecca wished she was her little girl, and for a moment she wanted to tell her some of what she felt – tell her how afraid she was of the claw, and how she didn't think that anyone had sneaked into the house to steal it. Rebecca had been there; perhaps she might have noticed something Anna had missed. Before Anna could think what to say, Rebecca looked back toward the shop. 'Here's your mummy now,' she said.
Anna felt a surge of relief. She didn't need to speak after all. Mummy was here, mummy would protect her. But protect her from what? All at once she felt uneasy. She couldn't think why, but she didn't want to go home.
Twenty-four
Halfway through the village, Liz began to hurry. Beneath the cloudless August sky the houses shone like chalk. Parents were urging children back to hotels for lunch and trying to persuade them to part with bucketfuls of crabs and pebbles, souvenirs of the beach. Fishermen bristling with rods tramped through the crowds, lunchtime coachloads of tourists piled into the pubs. The sun stood over all of them, baking Liz's bare arms, but she felt cut off from everything, trapped in her own world, surrounded by strangers. In the whole street there wasn't a face that she knew, and Anna had been out of her sight for too long.
Eventually she struggled as far as the post office, through the crowd that halted bodily to watch a hang-glider every time he sailed by above the village. Sunlight was peeling the 'Local Author' sign away from the window above Alan's books. The sight of his name, repeated again and again like an admonition, made her feel depressed and helpless, and as she noticed how the sunlight was fading his name, she wanted to weep. She had never been able to reach the part of him that created his stories: she hadn't wanted to, she'd known that he must keep it secret and untouched. Now it was as if she'd never known him at all. She made to hurry past, and collided with Jane's husband Derek.
'Just the person I wanted to see,' he said.
'I'm rather in a hurry, Derek.'
'I'll be quick.' Momentarily, hysterically, she wondered if he said that to his women in bed. She could imagine him as being slightly apologetic as a lover. Was it his politeness, or his faint air of needing to be mothered, that appealed to his female conquests? He looked and carried himself rather like Leslie Howard: at nine years old, when she'd seen Gone with the Wind, she'd preferred Ashley Wilkes to Rhett Butler. Now she found it difficult to understand what she'd seen in either of them.
'I was wondering if it would be convenient for us to take up your dinner invitation soon,' Derek was saying, as if he were in his office in Norwich, dictating a solicitor's letter. Some of his obsessive correctness was at Jane's insistence. At least he was in his shirt-sleeves today, though he still wore a tie with a gold pin and carried his jacket folded neatly over his arm. 'Or would you rather wait until Alan comes home?' he said.
'I don't know when that'll be.'
She could feel him recoiling from the hint of wrongness, much like Jane. You bloody hypocrite, she thought, and almost said it out loud. 'I think it would do Jane good-to get out of the house more than she does,' he said. 'I really don't know what's wrong with her just now.'
The only reason he was taking Jane out was that Alex was away filming. Perhaps Liz's thoughts showed on her face, for he said, 'You don't care for me very much, Liz, do you?'
'I don't care for what you're doing to Jane.'
'Perhaps if you could see the situation from my side…'
'Yes, well, this is hardly the place to discuss that. Look, I've invited you both to dinner, and that invitation still stands. This week's no good, but how about Monday?'
'Monday will be fine. I'm very grateful to you, Liz.'
He made it sound as if she was undertaking a duty. Of course she was, but all the same, just now she'd be glad of company at home. She hurried away, shaking her head, to The Stone Shop.
Rebecca came out of the room behind the counter. 'Anna just made her first sale. I'll have to take her on as an apprentice. How was your morning?'
'Oh, you know,' Liz said, hoping that Rebecca didn't.
'Like that, eh? Well, never mind.' She looked sympathetic. 'Any news of your father?'
'No change. I suppose he's as well as can be expected.' He'd had a coronary. Last time she'd seen her parents her mother had been vainly trying to cut down his intake of food and drink and cigarettes; Liz ought to have seen what was going on, but she must have felt that her father would never change, would always be this stout jolly untroubled figure – Father Christmas all the year round. No doubt his air of seeming to have no troubles had made their effect on him worse. Her mother refused to let Liz go to help; the doctor said he'd be all right if he took things easy… She could cope… Liz must have problems of her own… If only she knew! Liz mustn't worry, her mother had said -an impossible piece of advice.
She beckoned Anna out of the room fuil of shells. 'I think we'd better leave Rebecca to it now.'
'Oh, do I have to go home, mummy?'
'You certainly do if you want any lunch. Come on,' she said more gently, 'we'll have rolimops with salad. You like those. Rebecca doesn't want to put up with you all day.'
'Not a bit of it, Liz. I'd happily keep her until closing time.'
'Well, it's very nice of you to say so, Rebecca, but we really must be going.' Rebecca's motives were kind, but she was rapidly undermining her authority. 'I've things to do at home.'
Rebecca must think she could see through that – perhaps she could – for she said, 'Have you heard from Alan?'
'Yes, he's been keeping in touch.'
'How is he?'
'Very well.' Liz wasn't sure if she sounded bitter or ironic. How much did Rebecca suspect? All she should know was that Alan had gone away again – Liz couldn't bring herself to talk about the situation, even to her. As Liz hurried Anna out of the shop, Rebecca watched them dubiously.
The sunlight outside made them blink like moles. At first Liz could see nothing at all. Strangers closed around them, and she kept hold of Anna's arm until they reached the village green, where the crowd was less dense. Anna didn't run ahead as she usually did when Liz let go of her. Instead she gazed up at Liz, looking heartbreakingly old. 'When will daddy come home?' she said.
Liz hurried her toward the coast road to avoid being overheard. 'Do you want him to?' she said, and suddenly felt tactless. 'Yes, I think I do.' 'You aren't sure.'
'Yes, I am.' Anna sounded defiant. 'He just frightened me before he went away, that's all. I thought he wanted to hurt me. He didn't seem like daddy at all. But I do want him to come back, I do.' Suddenly she was near to weeping. 'He hasn't gone away because of me, has he?'
'Of course not, darling. You mustn't think that. You know it's always his work that takes him away.' 'But what made him like that? He did frighten me.' 'Perhaps problems with his work. You know how he can be sometimes.' She hoped that convinced Anna – because it didn't convince her. If anything, Anna had been closer to the truth: Alan no longer seemed like anyone she knew or wanted to know. When he'd called her from Lagos a few days ago she'd felt that she was talking to a stranger -except that no stranger could have made her feel such a mixture of emotions: anger, grief, nervousness, defensive-ness… It had been a bad line, hardly the best medium for confession or explanations, but all the same, she'd been appalled by the way he chatted on to her as if nothing had happened. She could tell that he knew how
false he sounded, but what comfort was that? She'd wondered if he'd called for reassurance. If he'd only admitted that, or asked for her help, she would have told him to come back, that together they would deal with whatever was affecting him – but he wouldn't even give her a hint, nothing to hold onto at all. She'd known her father was ill by then, but she hadn't told Alan. He was no longer someone she wanted to tell.
Now that they were in sight of home, Anna was running on ahead. Goats were cropping the grass near the hedge. At least they were safe now that Joseph had been put away. Outside the garden, the parched grass was turning the colour of straw. Above the sea, on which glinting ripples swarmed to the horizon, a few gulls circled, repeating elaborate patterns of grey and white. The white house looked starkly isolated in the flat landscape, the windows blank with sunlight, preventing her from seeing inside. As she drew near she heard that the phone was ringing.
Her mouth tasted sour, her stomach tightened. Was it Alan or her mother? She fumbled in her handbag for her key as she ran toward the house. No time for distractions: nobody was watching her from the field across the road -nobody could be as red as that. The crimson glimpse at the edge of her vision must have been sunlight through her eyelids.
She ran through the hot stuffy house, trying to blink away the dimness, and grabbed the downstairs phone. 'Hello?' she gabbled, afraid that whoever it was might have given up.
'May I speak to Mr Knight?' The voice was sharp, asexual.
'I'm afraid he isn't here.' She was rather annoyed to have been made nervous for no reason – just another business call. 'Can I help?'
'Are you his secretary?'
'If I am, someone owes me a lot of wages. I'm his wife.'
'Oh, I beg your pardon.' The joke had gone down like a lead balloon. 'I take it he's keeping in touch with you?'
'To some extent. Why?'
'I'm sorry, you must wonder who I am. My name is Hetherington, of the Foundation for African Studies. Presumably you know that your husband returned to Nigeria to find out more about the artefact he brought home – the artefact that was stolen from your house. He was supposed to convey it to us. I wonder if you have any news of it?'
Now she knew who he was. Alan had mentioned him.
But she was still bewildered: was that why Alan had gone back to Nigeria? 'No, the police are still looking,' she said.
'If you'd like to take my number, you can keep me informed, if you will. I'm sure you understand that the artefact is the property of the Foundation. If it is retrieved, it should be delivered to us at once.'
She scribbled his number on the pad beside the phone, then replaced the receiver and stood there, pencil in one hand, receiver in the other. So Alan had been so worried about the loss of the African claw that it had taken him back to Nigeria? He'd already had problems with his work, and then she'd allowed the claw to be stolen.".'. She couldn't condone the way he'd behaved toward Anna, but it seemed that she had to take some of the blame herself. Perhaps she needn't feel so helpless any longer. At least now she could see how she might help.
Anna was in the long room, playing with the remote control, making television channels interrupt one another, giggling. As she remembered how nervous Anna had been of that room while the claw was there, Liz felt a momentary qualm. But there was more at stake than the child's moods. Liz had no idea how she would do it, but if it was within her power, she was going to find the claw – and if Anna didn't like it, that was just too bad.
Twenty-five
In a couple of days both Liz and her ideas were exhausted. Haw did people in novels always know where to search? Because the author always left them a clue – there was always something the police had overlooked. But if the police hadn't searched where Liz was searching, she suspected that it was simply because it was useless.
She drove along the coast, stopping at every antique shop to poke through the musty clutter: books with rickety faded covers, chipped furniture, dusty glass and copper and porcelain – until Anna grew bored and wandered out into the sunlight, and Liz had to keep running to the door like a nervous shoplifter to make sure she was still there. She krlew Anna was basically sensible and wouldn't just wander off, so why was Liz so nervous? She didn't want Anna out of her sight, that was all.
The whole thing seemed hopeless. Why would even a teenage thief sell stolen property in shops like these? Liz drove inland to Norwich and bought all the collectors' journals she could find, then felt compelled to search the shops there too. The streets were full of cars, coasting by or waiting at the kerb, and she refused to let Anna stay outside. When the child said, 'What are you looking for, mummy?' she had to mutter vaguely about a present. She wasn't sure if Anna believed her.
Back home she pored over the journals. Anna offered to help, and so Liz had to watch television with her instead. When the child had gone to bed, Liz searched the columns of items for sale until the tiny print began to writhe before her eyes like dancing snakes and ceased to look like words. Why should thieves advertise? Why should they be less intelligent than she was? In a world that contained so many unsolved crimes, it was ridiculous to look for clues. At last she stumbled upstairs to bed and dreamed she was searching for goats.
Sunlight woke her. Anna had drawn the curtains and was sitting next to her, waiting patiently for her to wake. 'Shall we go on the beach today, mummy?' she said.
The day was too bright to waste. 'Yes, let's have a picnic – just the two of us.'
She hadn't been awake enough to choose her words. On the beach she found they'd lodged in her mind like the memory of a disturbing dream. Anna seemed happy to search for stones for Rebecca, but Liz was unable to relax, even when she started on a half-bottle of Chianti. The sky was cloudless, the sand sparkled minutely, the sea was calm except for an enormous impersonal whispering. Everything felt as flat as it looked, and accentuated how far she was from anyone else on the beach. She used to like the feeling of not being crowded, but just now she would have welcomed company. She wondered if Barbara Mason still wanted to stay. Probably Barbara had made other plans by now.
Liz was glad when a family set up camp nearby, windbreak and folding chairs and a hamper. Their two children were throwing a striped ball that kept peppering her wine with sand, but she was pleased when Anna progressed from returning the ball to playing with the other children. Really, she ought to have the chance to play with children of her own age more often; no wonder she was frustrated sometimes. Of course there was always the hotel nursery, but it wasn't the same. If only her school and her friends weren't miles away along the coast! Liz could have driven her there to visit, except that the drive would take her away from the phone, and she wanted to be near it – even though she had no idea what she was waiting for.
When the children came hungrily back to their parents, bare feet glittering with sand, the family invited Liz and Anna to share their picnic. Liz had brought plenty, but accepted a token hard-boiled egg and chatted to them as she surreptitiously picked fragments of eggshell out of the soft white flesh. Yes, she lived here. Yes, her husband worked here. He was a writer, a writer of crime fiction. Yes, it did get lonely round here in the winter sometimes. She offered them some wine, but the woman's long face stiffened beneath the dyed hair, and the bull-necked man's lips pursed. Before long they were packing their hamper and shifting camp along the beach. As they left, the woman opened her handbag. 'I think you should have this,' she told Liz.
It was a pamphlet from the Evangelical Tract Society of Hinckley: a testimony of religious conversion written by a schoolboy shordy before he was knocked down and killed by a car. It didn't seem much of an argument for getting religion. Had the woman given her the pamphlet because she was drinking or because her husband wrote crime stories? No doubt both activities were frowned upon.
Anna went back to searching for the best stones. A water-skier raced by on his leash, feathering the water; otherwise there was nobody for half a mile. Liz wished she could close her eyes for a little – she f
elt as though the beach and the sea were pressing against them, burning them – but she kept nodding and waking, thinking she could hear a phone, or that someone was spying on her from the cliff, or that Anna had run away. She mustn't doze in case Anna wandered too far. Joseph was locked up, yet the day of the pillbox was still fresh in her memory, and with it the figure she'd seen in the dark. She narrowed her eyes to keep out some of the light, and watched Anna search.
Then her eyes widened. Suppose Alan had been right to search down here? Suppose he hadn't looked far enough? All at once, to Anna's surprise, Liz was searching too. Anna looked pleased that her mother was helping her.
It didn't seem a good idea for very long. There were grey gleams everywhere, and it was impossible to tell whether or not they were stones until she went to look.
Suppose the claw was under the stones? Then a hundred people might never find it, let alone one woman and a child.
'You haven't seen anything of your father's down here, have you?' Liz said, suddenly wondering if Anna could have seen the claw down here, and, if she already had, whether she would say so.
Eventually Liz gave up. She kept thinking she could hear a phone. Besides, she couldn't shake off the notion that someone was pacing her along the top of the cliff, peering down at her. Every reddish glimpse up there looked like a figure, though whenever she glanced upward there was no sign of anyone, nor of anything red. Why did she feel as if it were Anna's fault? She must have had too much to drink. 'I think I need to get out of the sun for a while,' she said. 'Come home while I have a lie-down.'
She knew nobody would be waiting at the top of the path. The snuffling sound was only the wind. Or perhaps it had been a goat. When she reached the top, the goats were quite near, until they fled to another patch of relatively green grass. They were all that she could see; the sun was in her eyes, eating away the oudine of her house. She must be drunk, for in some way the goats seemed an answer. But what on earth was the question? Head down, she hurried blindly toward the house.
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