The Savage Garden

    'You look at things differently, you see things differently.'

    'Then how come I looked at Flora and I didn't see her? Not really. I saw books.'

    'So you learned something. You'll be better next time.'

    'There isn't going to be a next time, Harry.'

    Harry grew serious, almost aggressive. 'Listen to me. It's not like the other night. I'm not talking about your friends, I'm not talking about the last two years of your life—I'm talking about the rest of it.'

    'I know you are.'

    'You can't become an insurance man.'

    'I don't have a choice! Someone's got to, and you're not going to!'

    The vehemence of his reply was almost as shocking to him as it was to Harry.

    'Jesus, Paddler—'

    'It's true. The moment you said no to Dad, it was always going to be me.'

    Harry placed his palms together. 'Listen to me. It's your life, not his. Do you want his life? Well, do you? Living in a place like Purley with a couple of kids? Is that what you want, catching the same bloody train every morning, moaning about rationing, worrying about your pension . . . screwing your secretary because you don't love your wife anymore?'

    'Don't be ridiculous.'

    'Screwing ... your . . . secretary,' said Harry with slow deliberation.

    'Dad's not screwing his secretary.' 'Isn't he?'

    'You're drunk.'

    'I wouldn't be telling you if I wasn't.'

    Adam eyed his brother for a moment, then laughed. 'That's good, Harry. You're still good, I'll give you that.' He'd fallen for enough of these in the past to know what was coming next.

    'On Mum's life,' said Harry solemnly.

    Adam sobered up fast.

    'His secretary ...?'

    'Vanessaaaaa.'

    Vanessa was very smart, very well spoken. Her father was a high-ranking civil servant, and she knew all the dates in the social calendar by heart.

    'The one who likes operaaaaa. You can just see it, can't you? Dad snoring his way through Wagner, then running for the last train home.'

    'How do you know?'

    'Mum.'

    'She told you?'

    'I asked her. You must have noticed something—the house . . . her hair . . . shoes . . . she's let things go.'

    Had he really been that blind?

    'She was asking to be asked.'

    Adam dumped himself dejectedly on the bench beside his brother.

    'They've talked about it,' said Harry. 'He doesn't know what he wants to do.'

    'Did he tell her, or did she find out?'

    Somehow it seemed important to know.

    'What do you think?'

    'Bastard.' 'You in thirty years if you're not careful. He made the wrong choice too. Remember how he used to make us laugh? He was a funny man once. How long since he was funny? How long since Mum drew a happy breath?'

    Adam lit a cigarette, then turned to Harry. 'The Giant Rat of Sumatra?'

    'Like I said, you're a bright young boy.'

    IT WASN'T SURPRISING THAT HE AWOKE SNARLED IN THE sheet. What surprised him was the fact that he'd managed to sleep at all. At some ungodly hour of the night he'd given up even trying to, surrendering to the turmoil in his head.

    He had never glorified his parents' relationship, never held it up to others or himself as a model marriage. But he had always expected it to be there, them to be there, together. It was one of those things you took for granted, like the passing of the seasons. Harry was of the opinion that it was something they had to work out for themselves. Adam's instinct was to head straight home and help in whatever way he could.

    A few hours of welcome oblivion had taken the edge off his panic. It also helped that he had something else to think about from the moment he swung his legs off the bed.

    He was the last to appear at breakfast. Even Antonella was already there. She was as eager as Signora