‘Like changing water into wine, I suppose? Or feeding the five thousand with two fishes and five loaves.’
‘No, like curing a girl with anorexia who’d more or less been given up for dead.’
‘So why haven’t we all heard about him? Shouldn’t he be on Wogan, or have a flourishing practice in Harley Street?’
‘Don’t be such a smart-arse, Daniel! The fellow doesn’t operate like that. Besides, he’s only been there a few months, and these things take time to filter back.’ She paused to drain her coffee, then wiped her lips delicately on her paper serviette. ‘Though it sounds as if the news is getting round. According to what I heard, people are already trickling in to see him – more than trickling sometimes. Apparently there was quite a little crowd there over Easter.’
‘But you just said the place was deserted. You can’t have it both ways.’
‘It is deserted – practically a wilderness. But they camp out in the ruined buildings, or bring tents and sleeping-bags, or even build rough shacks. And anyway, no one stays that long.’
‘Oh, I suppose the cures are so instantaneous that the halt and the lame stagger in on Monday and bound home again on Tuesday, leaving their discarded crutches and stretchers behind?’
‘I’m sorry, Daniel, but if you’re going to take that tone, there’s no point in my carrying on. Let’s change the subject, shall we, and talk about the weather. The rain appears to have stopped.’
‘No, wait a minute,’ Fergus interjected, gesturing with his teaspoon. ‘Have you actually thought of camping, Daniel? It might well be the answer. I don’t mean in Wales necessarily, but just as a relaxing sort of holiday – not to mention dirt cheap! We went camping in the Lake District the summer before last, and after ten days communing with nature we came back feeling totally restored.’
You would, thought Daniel sourly. Fergus would probably return restored after ten days in Alcatraz. ‘It’s not exactly my idea of fun,’ was all he said aloud.
‘But we’ve never tried it,’ Penny pointed out.
‘I’ve camped in the bush, frequently.’
‘Wales is not the bush, though.’
‘No, you’re right. It’s wetter, colder, and more unpleasant altogether.’
‘Okay, point taken. My husband doesn’t want to camp.’
‘I’d say your husband doesn’t want a holiday at all.’ Alison pushed her mug away, as if she’d like to do the same with Daniel.
‘Look,’ he said, with an attempt at weary patience. ‘Most of the people I know – normal, reasonable people – would draw the line at visiting some witch-doctor in the back of beyond and living in a ruined shack, and even if they were forced at gunpoint, I hardly think they’d describe it as a rest cure.’
‘I have to say,’ Kay murmured, ‘I’m not too keen myself on the idea of Pippa getting mixed up with a faith-healer or hypnotist, or whatever he’s supposed to be. It sounds a bit dodgy to me, and could be downright dangerous.’
‘But what about that girl with anorexia – didn’t you say she was genuinely cured?’
‘Who can possibly tell, Penny? Anorexia’s a long-term thing, and for all I know she may have had a relapse. I’m not vouching for any miracles myself, simply reporting what I heard. But I’ll tell you something you can’t deny – lots of things which are initially laughed to scorn often turn out to be true in the end. And look at how many folk remedies or so-called old wives’ tales are now being proved effective in scientific tests.’
‘Well, it’s a pity your healer chap can’t be subjected to a scientific test.’
‘He’s not “mine”, for heaven’s sake! And I wish to God I’d never mentioned him in the first place. I just thought it might be helpful, considering the fact that we’ve all been at a party where the birthday-girl wouldn’t even show her face. If you don’t think she needs help, Daniel, then all I can say is you’re a pretty crummy parent.’
Daniel jerked up to his feet, mumbled something about needing a pee, and shut himself in the cloakroom, banging the door behind him. He stood with his back to the cistern, staring bleakly at the walls. There was no avoiding Pippa. One of her primary-school drawings was tacked up even here: a sketch of two sad zebras, which Penny had judged promising. He ran his finger along one drooping stripy neck. Alison might rouse him to a fury, but he had to admit her accusations contained a hint of truth. He was thinking of himself rather than his daughter; allowing a whole flood of fears arising from his boyhood (which any halfway sensible man would have long ago forgotten) to blind him to her welfare. Since no one knew about the horror of his schooldays, they wouldn’t understand his extreme reaction, let alone extend him any sympathy. He hadn’t even told Penny more than the barest details of his ‘prison years’, and as they had never considered a holiday in Wales before, there’d been no reason to explain his abhorrence for the place. And if he did explain, wouldn’t it sound utterly pathetic – a man of forty condemning an entire country because he had wept into his pillow there as a sissy of a kid? If only he had voiced his objections in a more gracious or conciliatory way, instead of snapping everyone’s head off.
He was too ashamed now to rejoin them in the kitchen, so he slunk back to his study and began pacing up and down, watched by the wooden faces of his grinning African masks. He did miss his trips to Kenya; missed his former job, when he hadn’t been so desk-bound, and had enjoyed much greater freedom and a constant sense of challenge. And, however paradoxical it sounded, it was actually less of a burden to worry about several million illiterates than about one disturbed and moody daughter.
‘Daniel?’ Penny was calling. He heard her stop outside the door, as if she feared he’d round on her again if she ventured any further.
Grudgingly, he opened the door. ‘Yes, what?’
‘Mum’s just leaving. You’d better come and say goodbye.’
He motioned her inside, then put his arms around her. ‘Look, I’m sorry darling, honestly. I know I’ve been a pain. It’s just that I’d more or less decided we’d go to Rome after all, and it upsets me when your family start trying to live our lives for us.’
She pulled away, clearly resenting his embrace. ‘Alison’s not my family. And anyway, what d’you mean you’d more or less decided? How about consulting me? Or Pippa?’
There was a peevish summons from the hall. ‘Penny! Wherever have you got to now? I’ve never known a house like this for people disappearing.’
‘Coming, Mum!’
Penny ran to the front door, squeezed Fergus and her mother in a bear-hug, then stood back to let Daniel say his more restrained goodbyes. He closed the door behind them with an audible sigh of relief.
‘Well, can we go to bed now?’
‘As soon as Alison’s finished her drink.’
‘Another drink? Surely you haven’t started on the booze again?’
‘No. It’s only hot milk and honey. Do you fancy some yourself? It might help you sleep. I heard you prowling around last night at some ungodly hour.’
‘I wish I shared your touching faith in hot milk.’
‘The trouble with you, my darling, is that you have no touching faith in anything. You’re always so suspicious.’
‘If we’re back to discussing that quack again …’
‘We’re not. You’ve made it perfectly clear that “discuss” is not a word you’re very fond of at the moment.’ She kissed his cheek, to anaesthetize the barb. ‘Look, you go on to bed and I’ll join you in a moment.’
Darnel took himself upstairs. Despite the kiss, his wife’s sharp tone had wounded him; forced him to face the truth. He had been autocratic in the way he made the decisions on their holidays, fostering the myth that he was making up for Penny’s past privations, but always choosing places which he was keen to see himself, and certainly not allowing her much say. Perhaps both she and Pippa did need a different type of holiday this year – a quiet break in the country, instead of their usual strenuous sightseeing. But supposing Pippa still refuse
d to speak? It would be much harder to ignore the problem in the silence of the countryside than amidst all the welcome distractions of a busy foreign town.
He undressed and put his clothes away, picked up Penny’s things from the floor, then went to the bathroom to wash and clean his teeth. He hoped the mint-flavoured toothpaste might quell his desperate craving for a smoke, but it had no effect at all. Sticking to one’s resolutions always seemed more difficult at night, especially this particular night, when he was not only worn out, but guilty and dispirited as well. He grabbed his dressing-gown, extracted a small envelope from its hiding-place in the wardrobe, and crept down to the study. He had locked his last remaining packets of cigarettes in the bottom drawer of his desk, feeling they’d be safer under lock and key than on the high shelf in the kitchen, especially if he kept the key in a sealed envelope upstairs. Penny had urged him to stop messing about with such nonsensical precautions, and eliminate temptation altogether by dumping them straight in the bin. But that would be throwing money away, so he’d told her he was saving them for some inveterate smoker who didn’t have his willpower. Willpower! He’d lasted three pathetic days.
Feeling like a criminal, he opened the window to dispel the smell of smoke, then took his first luxurious puff, savouring the familiar sensation of being calmed and comforted, plugged in to a lifeline. He inhaled so deeply it made him cough; instantly clamped his hand over his mouth, to stifle any noise. The last thing he wanted was Penny coming in, with a contemptuous Alison in tow, sneering at his lack of self-control. Though he was probably fairly safe. Once those two got talking, they soon became oblivious to trivial things like time or sleep. He remembered one famous occasion when Alison had ‘popped in for a quick coffee’ halfway through the evening, and still been there at dawn.
Well, tonight he wouldn’t stand for it. As soon as he had finished his furtive cigarette, he would slip into the kitchen and claim Penny for himself. He was feeling unexpectedly randy. He hadn’t dared approach her again since the débâcle on their anniversary, but he might just take a chance tonight. If things didn’t quite work out, he could always blame the lateness of the hour or the stresses of the day, then turn over and feign sleep.
He used his last Polo to disguise his smoky breath, sucking on it vigorously to extract all the flavour possible. Then he locked the drawer again and padded along the passage to the kitchen; stopping dead in his tracks as Alison’s bossy voice echoed from the half-open door.
‘You know, the more I think about it, the more I feel you ought to give that healer chap a try. I mean, I’d no idea Pippa was so bad. When you said “not speaking”, I assumed you meant just sulking – being bolshie – but this sounds more like some full-blown neurosis, and as you say, who else is going to …?’
Daniel sidestepped into the sitting-room and stood fuming at the window. God Almighty! Couldn’t they leave the subject alone? It was all he could do not to burst into the kitchen and eject Alison from the house, hurl her child and suitcase after her, and forbid her to return. Instead, he wrenched open the french windows and emerged into the garden, gulping down huge lungfuls of night air. He must try to get a grip on himself, stop behaving like a savage. At least the garden was peaceful – no sound except the occasional drop of rain plopping on to the path from an overhanging branch. The light from the kitchen was shining on the flower-bed, showing up his storm-wrecked plants, but the lawn was dark and shadowy, the beech hedge just a blur. No stars were visible at all, and last night’s moon was engulfed in heavy clouds. The air smelt damp and faintly perfumed – a combination of wet grass and scented stocks.
He leaned against the plum tree, already feeling calmer. The immensity of the sky helped to put things into proportion; reminding him he was nothing more than a pinprick in the universe. How absurd that pinpricks should take themselves so seriously, indulge in childish outbursts. He walked slowly down the path, resolving yet again to be a loving, faithful husband, finish with all anger and deceit.
He looked over his shoulder, haunted by a sudden sense of someone being there with him, an unseen presence infiltrating his mind. It was as if he’d received a flash of insight, been shown a strangely fitting means of making reparation – the most painful means imaginable. He had set his face against going to Wales because it was the place he dreaded most, and because the suggestion had originated from a girl he’d always loathed. But maybe those were precisely the reasons why he should agree to go, in fact. There was a kind of poetic justice in it; what he might call nemesis. He had hoped he could cheat fate, get away with the puniest of sacrifices, but all this time he had been avoiding the bleak truth: until he himself was willing to suffer, his daughter’s suffering would never be alleviated.
He strode back to the tree, slammed his hand against the trunk. What arrant superstition! No one was speaking to him, except the voice of guilt, delusion. He was overtired, overstressed, and suffering from nothing more momentous than nicotine withdrawal. All he needed was a good night’s sleep, then, in the morning, he could sit down with Penny and discuss (yes, discuss) the whole business of the holiday; reach a reasonable compromise – one which didn’t involve some crackpot of a miracle man.
‘But wait a moment,’ the patient voice persisted. ‘If there’s the remotest chance of someone helping Pippa, isn’t it irresponsible to dismiss it out of hand?’
Yes, he thought despairingly. How could he deny that, when he’d criticized Penny for not taking Pippa’s symptoms seriously enough? Now he was being equally offhand, deluding himself that the child would be better in a matter of six weeks or less, so he wouldn’t have to miss his precious holiday abroad. If she actually got worse, instead of better, Penny might well blame him for turning down their one hope of a cure, and he’d certainly never forgive himself.
A few drops of rain spattered on his forehead. He glanced up at the threatening clouds now choking the dark sky. If there was going to be another downpour, he’d better get back inside. Yet he was reluctant to return to an empty, silent bedroom. He could see Alison and Penny still chatting in the kitchen, all set for another marathon, by the looks of it. They had forgotten him entirely, or perhaps assumed he was asleep. He plucked a leaf from the tree, flicked it irritably against his face. Fat chance of ever sleeping, with rain drumming at the windows half the night. It was already getting stronger, and suddenly started pelting down full force. He made a frantic dash for the house, but slipped on the wet grass and crashed down on his knees, hands flung out in front of him to break the impact of his fall.
‘Shit!’ he muttered under his breath, struggling to sit up and wincing at the pain in his knees. He was worse than just a pinprick in the universe – he was a clumsy, bungling idiot. If Alison could see him with mud all over his dressing-gown and a rip in one pyjama-knee, she would laugh in sheer derision, and not without some cause. He deserved to be cut down to size: a pretentious ass who indulged in high-flown converse with Unseen Presences.
Yet the voices were still there, chivvying and hassling – not just one, but several; all offering him conflicting advice, and all inducing guilt. And while he struggled to make sense of them, the rain continued to hammer down, soaking him to the skin; his saturated pyjamas clinging to his body, his mind a quagmire like the lawn.
Look here! he shouted silently to Nemesis, or Fate, or whoever, as he limped towards the shelter of the house, I’ll really give up smoking this time, and I promise not to weaken over Juliet. I’ll abandon any hope of Rome – museums, churches, galleries – I’ll ditch the whole damned lot. I’ll go serenely to the seaside, or plod through rustic lanes in a horse-drawn caravan. I’ll even camp, or build a shack, but I will not, repeat not, ever set foot in Wales.
Chapter Twelve
‘Welcome to Wales!’
‘See the red dragon, Pippa?’ Penny said, pointing to the sign.
‘That’s the Welsh emblem.’
Pippa didn’t answer, but her face looked animated instead of listless and morose. She even ope
ned her window and peered up at the dragon as Daniel slowed the car.
‘Let’s get out,’ he said impulsively. ‘Stop for a drink, to celebrate the crossing of the border.’
‘Celebrate?’ Penny echoed. ‘I thought the whole of Wales was anathema for you.’
Daniel laughed. ‘Perhaps I’m ready for a truce, at last.’ He pulled off the road on to a narrow rutted cart-track which led into an open field. He got out and stretched his legs a moment, then rummaged in the picnic box for the fizzy lemonade; poured three toasts in plastic cups.
‘To the land of bards and dragons,’ he proclaimed, holding his cup aloft. ‘And a new start for us all.’
‘Wow!’ said Penny. ‘You do sound high-falutin’. I feel we should be standing to attention.’
Instead, she sprawled out on the ground, her crumpled sundress riding up her thighs; her face framed by feathery grasses. Daniel squatted beside her, gazing at the landscape, which stretched away, away, until it blurred into a heat haze on the shimmering horizon. It was a new beginning – he was confident of that. He had watched the change in Pippa as they left the fumes and grime behind, and clogged roads gave way to free untrammelled countryside. When they’d set out in the morning, she had been huddled in the corner with her arms clamped tight across her chest (as if to force her breasts back inside her body, or at least prevent them growing any further), but now she was relaxing on the grass: stretched right out, with both her arms flung wide. True, she had hardly spoken on the journey, but once they had left the motorway in favour of a more scenic route, she had begun to follow the map and take an interest in her surroundings. And he too had felt the tension ease with each mile out of London; responding to the larger sky, the sense of prodigality. Everything was lush: the unstinting sun pouring down its munificence on to rippled fields of wheat; tangled hedgerows bursting with green life, the hills curving like voluptuous breasts. In the adjoining field, greedy lambs were suckling still, although they were now sturdy adolescents, pushing at their mothers’ flanks with arrogant impatience. And beneath his feet was a luxuriance of tiny flowers: blue speedwell, yellow trefoil, fat pink honeyed clover. He picked a stem, sat chewing it reflectively. No one was about, no snorting tractors or sweaty farmhands labouring in the fields, just an air of peace and plenty, as if Nature’s bounty made all such toil superfluous. He lay back and closed his eyes; let himself become part of the profusion – a carefree loafer ripening in the sun.
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