A Risk Worth Taking

by Robin Pilcher

  “Bugger it!” he said quietly to himself, and turned and walked back into the kitchen.

  The fumes had now risen to the ceiling and hung above his head like a swirling sea mist, and for the first time he became aware that he had not been alone in the kitchen when he had attempted his rescue. Millie sat with her chin resting on her hands at one end of the long pine table, her homework spread out in front of her. There was not much indication, however, of any great learning taking place, unless she had found a way of indoctrinating her brain with an enormous pair of Sony earphones clamped about her head, whilst her eyes feasted on a video recording of that day’s episode of Eastenders.

  Dan kicked the oven door closed and lobbed the oven glove onto the work surface. “Millie, you twit, you might have called me. The whole house could have caught on fire.”

  Millie made no move, except to pull a long string of chewing gum from her mouth and then reel it back in again with her tongue. Dan moved up behind her and lifted the earphones off her head. “Millie!”

  His daughter jumped round in her chair. “What?”

  “Your dinner is cremated. It is burnt to a frazzle.”

  “So? You can’t blame me for that.”

  “I’m not blaming you for anything, but didn’t you happen to notice that it was nigh on impossible to see the television for smoke?”

  Millie once again resumed her chin-in-hands position and fixed her eyes on the television. “How was I to know that it wasn’t meant to be like that?”

  “Well, I would have thought that the smell might have given you just the smallest indication that something was burning.”

  “I didn’t notice the smell.”

  “Millie! Come on, pull the other one!”

  She twisted round again, her hands outstretched to accentuate her blamelessness. “I didn’t! How could I? I was listening to music.”

  Dan was left speechless by the reply. He shifted his baffled gaze from the earphones in his hand, which were still linked to the portable CD on the table and still blaring out music, to Millie’s ears, wondering if there was some appalling defect in his daughter’s sensory organs about which he had not previously known. He eventually accepted it for what it was, a complete non sequitur to stop him from pestering her during her nightly vigil with Eastenders.

  Dan let out a sigh. “Right then, where’s Nina?”

  “Upstairs, practicing her flute,” Millie replied, without dragging her eyes away from the sight of pint-sized Barbara Windsor pulling yet another man-sized pint in the Queen Vic.

  “For heaven’s sakes, she’s just had a concert! Hasn’t she played enough for one day?”

  “She thinks she played rubbish.”

  “Oh? I thought it all sounded pretty good. Who put that idea into her head?”

  Millie looked at Dan out of the side of her eyes. “Probably everybody in the orchestra, if not the school.”

  Dan shook his head. “Come on, Millie, surely things aren’t that bad, are they?”

  “Don’t you believe it!” she mumbled in reply.

  Dan put down the earphones on the table. “Right, well, let’s cheer everybody up. Seeing that the dinner’s burnt, I’ll have to get a takeaway. What do you want? Indian or Chinese?”

  Millie’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Can we have sushi?”

  “No, Millie, we can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Dan leaned one hand on the worktop, the other on his hip, as he gave overplayed thought to Millie’s question. “Two reasons, mainly. One, because the nearest sushi bar is in Victoria, and two, because the car is being extremely fickle and has decided not to start. Therefore, we have no way of getting sushi.”

  Millie despondently slumped her face back into her hands. “Couldn’t you get Mum to pick some up on the way home?”

  “Indian or Chinese, Millie?”

  Millie fixed her eyes on the television once more. “Don’t mind. Whatever.”

  Dan flipped open the rubbish bin and dropped in the three cardboard lids. “Right, on the menu this evening we have chicken rogan mush, chicken pathia, and pilau rice.” He took a serving spoon from the drawer and stood with it hovering above the tinfoil containers. “What’s it going to be? Ni, you can have first choice.”

  Both Millie and Nina remained transfixed in front of the television, as they had done since he had walked back into the kitchen bearing the two anaemically blue plastic bags.

  “Listen, can we have the television off for a bit?”

  It was like talking to a brick wall. Dan walked over to the table and stretched across Millie’s shoulder and took the remote from her grasp. The television clicked and died. To his surprise, there were no vociferous complaints, both girls seeming to accept it with bland indifference.

  “I’ve got to go to the loo,” Millie said, sliding off her chair.

  “Come on! You could have done that while I was out.”

  “Didn’t need to go then,” Millie retorted as she left the room.

  Dan let out a resigned sigh. “Right then, Ni, what do you want?”

  Nina walked over to the sideboard and eyed the contents of the containers with an expression that registered supreme distaste. “What is that?”

  “Well, for the second time, it’s chicken rogan josh, chicken pathia, and pilau rice.”

  “Haven’t you got any poppadoms?”

  “Yes, I have. They’re in the oven keeping warm.”

  “Which is the mildest?”

  “I think the rogan josh.”

  “Could I just have rice and poppadoms?”

  Dan stood with the spoon still poised. “No, you have to have a bit of one or the other.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . I bought it for you, that’s why.”

  “You could always put my share in the fridge for Josh. He doesn’t mind what he eats.”

  Dan decided that he had reasoned enough. He spooned out some rice and a small amount of rogan josh onto a plate and handed it to Nina. “If you get the poppadoms out of the oven, you can have mine if you like.”

  As Nina carried her plate over to the table, Millie came back into the kitchen. Dan gave her a plate already filled with food. He wasn’t going to go through the same rigmarole with her.

  “Can we put the television back on?” Millie asked.

  “No, we can’t,” Dan replied, putting the containers into the oven before taking his own plate over to the table.

  Millie groaned at the same time that Nina asked, “Why not?”

  Dan handed a fork to each of his daughters. “Because I thought that we might talk instead.”

  “What about?” Nina asked halfheartedly, sticking the fork into her rice and letting it dribble back onto her plate.

  “I don’t know. What would you like to talk about?”

  His question was met by silence. Dan took a mouthful of food, hoping that one of the girls might have said something by the time he had finished it. It didn’t work. “All right, then. Ni, I thought your concert went very well tonight.”

  “Dad, you fool!” Millie hissed through clenched teeth. “I told you about that.”

  Dan ignored his elder daughter. “I thought you played really well.”

  “I did not,” Nina mumbled.

  “Well, I disagree with you and I know for a fact that Mrs. Partridge does as well.”

  Millie and Nina turned to look at Dan simultaneously, both with questioning frowns creasing their foreheads. “Who is Mrs. Partridge?” Millie asked.

  “Come on, Millie,” Dan exclaimed. “You know as well as I do who Mrs. Partridge is. Nina’s music teacher.”

  For a moment, both girls stared open-mouthed at him before bursting out laughing, Nina managing to spray her mouthful of food across the table in the process.

  “Nina!” Dan exclaimed, reaching over to wipe the splattering of pilau rice off the television screen. “Okay then, what have I said that’s so funny?”

  Millie swung around in her chair
to face Dan, her eyes sparkling with intrigue—or maybe it was humour—Dan couldn’t work out which, but it was certainly the most animated that he had seen his elder daughter all evening.

  “So what did you say to Mrs. Partridge, then, Dad?” she asked. “Was it something like ‘My word, Mrs. Partridge, didn’t the orchestra play well tonight? Do you think Nina has any chance of getting an A in her GSCE’s, Mrs. Partridge?”

  Dan was bemused by all the hilarity, but nevertheless pleased that he had at least succeeded in making his daughters laugh. It didn’t happen very often. “Maybe not those exact words, but something like that, yes.”

  Nina was laughing so much now that she fell forward and thumped her forehead on the table. The blow obviously caused her pain because she immediately straightened up, her only reaction to the blow being a silent, round-mouthed “Ow.”

  Millie took in a deep breath to control herself. “Her name, Dad, is Miss Peacock, not Mrs. Partridge.”

  Dan smacked his hand against his mouth. “It’s not.”

  Millie nodded, then burst out laughing again.

  “Oh, hell,” Dan said quietly.

  “Have you always called her Mrs. Partridge, Dad?” Nina eventually managed to ask.

  “Yes, I’m pretty sure I have,” Dan replied, looking as if he had just sucked on a sour lemon.

  As the kitchen filled with laughter once more, the door opened and Jackie walked in. She surveyed the scene of conviviality as she shrugged off her raincoat. “My word,” she said flatly. “You all seem very happy this evening.”

  “You’ll never guess what, Mum,” Nina said, using her mother’s entrance as a diversionary tactic to jettison the remainder of her rogan mush into the rubbish bin.

  “No, I probably won’t,” Jackie replied distractedly as she walked across to the telephone to check the notepad for messages.

  “Dad has been calling Miss Peacock, my music teacher, Mrs. Partridge.”

  Jackie gave Nina a half-smile and ran a hand over her daughter’s long dark hair. “Sorry I didn’t make the concert, darling. I just couldn’t get away from work.”

  The humorous twinkle vanished from Nina’s eyes. “That’s all right,” she replied quietly.

  Millie pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “Can we go upstairs to watch television, Mum?”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Thanks. Come on, Ni.”

  As the two girls left the kitchen, Jackie slumped down onto the chair that Millie had just vacated. Dan cleared the dirty plates off the table and carried them across to the sink.

  “How’s your day been?” he asked, rinsing them off under the tap.

  “Exhausting,” Jackie replied.

  Dan took the containers from the oven and put them on the worktop. “I’m afraid we’re on takeaway tonight. I had a bit of a disaster with the loin of pork.”

  Jackie held up a hand. “Thanks, but I really couldn’t eat a thing. I had a huge lunch.”

  “Right.” He scrutinized the contents of the three containers. “Well, I don’t think I’ll risk giving it to the dogs,” he said, mainly for the benefit of himself. “That might just be tempting providence.” He discarded everything into the rubbish bin and rubbed his hands clean on a dishtowel. “Can I get you a glass of wine, then?”

  Jackie shook her head. “No, don’t bother. I thought that I might just have a bath and go straight to bed.”

  Dan sat down on the chair next to her. “So, how did you get on with the set designer?”

  “Oh,” Jackie replied. “So you remembered.”

  “Of course I remembered. What makes you think I wouldn’t remember?”

  “Well, I just thought . . . Look, don’t let’s get started into another argument. I’m too tired.”

  “We’re not having an argument! I was just asking!”

  “All right! I’m sorry.” Jackie leaned her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. “I really do feel exhausted.”

  Dan reached across and gave her arm a gentle pat. “It’s not surprising. You’re working bloody hard.” He got to his feet and walked over to the fridge. “Are you sure you don’t want to have a glass of wine? I’m going to have one.”

  “All right then, but just half a glass.”

  Dan poured out the wine and handed her the glass. He sat down again. “Listen, when is Prêt á Porter?”

  “In three weeks’ time.”

  “Do you have to go over beforehand?”

  Jackie turned to look at him. She paused before replying. “Yes, actually. I do.”

  “Good. In that case, I thought that I’d come with you.”

  Jackie’s eyes opened wide. “What?”

  “Well, I just thought that we needed a bit of time together. It would be the perfect opportunity.”

  Jackie bit at her lip. “Dan, I’ve got to go over this weekend. I was going to tell you tonight.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I could try to get Battersea Gran to come over, but it’s a bit short notice.”

  “Dan, I’m going with Stephen.”

  Dan’s eyes shifted around the room as he tried to work out who the hell Stephen was. “Stephen?”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Our financial director.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s business, Dan. I’ve got some serious negotiations to do with the organizers. Stephen said that he would come over and give me a hand.”

  Dan pulled a long face. “Well, I hope you’re only speaking metaphorically.”

  “Don’t be so bloody stupid. You know as well as I do what I mean.”

  “Right. So when will you be back?”

  “Probably Monday or Tuesday. Stephen thought it better to spill the visit over into a weekday, just in case we hit problems at the weekend.”

  Dan scratched a finger across his forehead. “Why is it that I haven’t heard of this Stephen before?”

  Jackie let out a long sigh. “Maybe because you’ve never been interested in what I do before.”

  “Jackie, that’s nonsense and you know it.”

  “Well, if you were so well up to speed, you would know that it was Stephen who is wholly responsible for setting up Rebecca Talworth Design Limited, and I think probably wholly responsible for getting me the job as managing director.”

  Dan cocked his head to the side and winked. “Sounds like some guy, this Stephen.”

  Jackie drained her wine glass in one gulp. “Right, I’m going upstairs.” She pushed back her chair and stood up.

  “I was only joking, you know.”

  “That’s your problem, Dan. You’re always joking. Maybe you should think about trying to take life a little more seriously and get yourself a bloody job!”

  She grabbed her raincoat from the back of the chair and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. In the silence that ensued, Biggles crept out of hiding from his basket in the conservatory and came over and laid his head on Dan’s knee.

  Dan gave the dog a solid pat on his large black-and-white head. “Biggles, my boy, your timing seems to be a hell of a lot better than mine.”

  9

  Dan sat in the ageing Saab outside St. Bartholomew’s Church in Battersea, killing time until his mother appeared by attempting to fit the convertible hood flush with the top of the windscreen so that they wouldn’t have to make the journey back to Clapham with frozen scalps. He had never really been aware of the draught himself until the day before when he had whisked Jackie up to Waterloo Station and had dropped her outside the Eurostar terminal with her woollen scarf tied Russian-peasant-style around her head. He had secretly hoped that wonderboy Stephen could have seen her like that, but as he watched her walk into the building, she had pulled off the scarf, given her head a quick shake, and once more looked immaculate. Well, from the rear view at any rate. She hadn’t actually bothered to turn round, not even for a final goodbye.

  Two young children, clutching crayoned drawings in their hands, came running out t
hrough the doors of the church, heralding the end of the service. Dan watched as they hid behind one of the stone pillars, whispering excitedly to one another, and then jumped out when their parents appeared. Neither mother nor father showed any reaction to their children’s sudden appearance. Go on, Dan thought, do something! At least clutch a hand to the heart or stagger back in feigned shock. But no, they just pushed their children on in front of them and headed up the street in animated and godly conversation with each other.

  Dan watched the procession of worshippers stream out of the church and shake hands with the storklike vicar at the door; there were a couple of ex-military types who stood ramrod straight and threw back their heads in laughter at the punchline of the story their wives simpered out to the vicar; there was a bevy of Born Agains, with their nonexistent dress code and their smiles of sheer goodness and radiant sincerity; there was an old woman with a woolly hat pulled down over her tangle of matted hair who shuffled past the vicar without a word and went off down the street, muttering to herself as she carried her worldly belongings in several plastic bags, their handles entwined in her grubby, mitted fingers; and then there were the stalwarts—the ladies who cleaned the floors, polished the brasses, arranged the flowers, and organized midweek fund-raising coffee mornings to which only they turned up. They were dressed in drab Sunday best coats done up to the neck, carrying handbags on their forearms and gloves in hand, and they wore hats that appeared to have been beaten into submission with cudgels before adorning their tightly permed white hair.

  Dan could never quite fathom why it was that, as long as he could remember, old ladies always seemed to have dressed in exactly the same way. Was there never a time in their lives when they favoured bright figure-hugging clothes and glossed their mouths with devil-red lipstick? Had those pink-spectacled eyes never flashed a “Come on, try your luck with me” to some cool young dude on the other side of the dance floor? It was hard to imagine. Maybe they all went through some bizarre metamorphic process as they approached their golden years, entering into some weird extrusion plant dressed as butterflies and coming out the other end as mothy pensioners.

  Thank God for Mum, Dan thought to himself. There she was, rounded and wholesome, dressed in a fuschia pink raincoat, her grey, loose-curled hair blowing free in the breeze, standing amongst them like a rose in a cabbage patch. It didn’t take much to imagine her still as that young, vibrant teenage girl, dressed in flared skirt and bobby socks, who had walked away with every jive competition held at the Metropole Dance Hall in Tottenham Hale.