Vaguely discomforted by being dismissed, as well as by being sent to patrol the toilets, Richard complied.
“Tell him we’ll see him downstairs,” Iris cried out, making all the business people look up from their working lunch. “We’ll be downstairs in the main gallery.”
THEY HAD SLOWED RIGHT DOWN. IT WAS HARD TO TELL WHETHER IT WAS light or dark outside. It was simply blue, a gloom like the bottom of the sea. Every time Bob seemed about to accelerate, when a relatively snow-free empty patch of road open up, Sam would seize his arm and get him to slow. She didn’t care if it took till tomorrow morning. She wanted them to get home in one piece.
Behind them, strapped tightly in place and clutching her new kangaroo, sat Sally. She was listening to the Top Forty from 1978 on the radio.
“We’ll pop in somewhere and fetch fish and chips for tea,” Sam promised.
Bob wondered bitterly how they would do that. He could see hardly anything either side of them. The day was narrowing down to the span of his twin headlights. He was starving and worn out by now. They had the kid and the day’s work was done. Strange that he didn’t feel pleased or proud, or anything. His triumph had been subordinated to Sam’s mood, which was still one of grim resolution. Since setting out from Headingley she had not mentioned Mark, Iris or Peggy once.
“Tomorrow we’re going shopping,” she was saying now over her shoulder to the kid, who listened attentively. “We’ve got to buy things for your new room, until we get sorted out with our old stuff. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sally? All new things? We’ll make it all posh. You never got your Christmas presents properly, either—so we’ll make it special again and buy lots of new stuff. You could have a cassette deck in your room and play it as loud as you like. That’s important. And toys. We’ll get lots of everything. The sales will be on by now, so it’s better, really, to buy stuff now.”
“But I’ve got everything I need,” Sally pointed out.
“You can never have enough,” Sam corrected, and turned to smile at her, caught in a sudden bar of turquoise light. “And a girl can never have enough clothes. We’ll take you buying clothes. You’ll be a trendsetter when school starts again.”
“But we wear school uniform.”
Briefly Bob reflected—and then stopped the thought quickly, guiltily—that this would all come out of his pocket. Only a few weeks ago Sam had been moaning about not being able to afford the Christmas presents she had already bought. Now, suddenly, life had changed, and shopping was high on her agenda. He couldn’t help feeling vaguely disturbed that these changes were to come at his expense.
“You’ll like Bob’s house, Sal. It’s bigger than that poky old flat. With a little garden for you to play in.”
Sally leaned forward slowly. Sam could see the tiredness round her eyes, her mouth pulled down in drowsy irritability. She looked as if she wanted to get something off her chest before she fell asleep.
Sam asked, “You’re not going to throw up, are you?”
Bob froze.
Sally shook her head. She asked, “Is that what you want me to call him, then?” She blinked slowly. “Bob.”
Sam smiled and looked at Bob. He took his eyes off the road for a second and all three felt the car slide, with terrible slowness, a few inches, then right itself.
“Watch what you’re doing,” she hissed at him. “Well? What do you want to be called? Uncle Bob?”
Sally was sinking back into the upholstery. “I’m not calling him Dad,” she said, her voice slipping further and further away.
“You won’t have to,” Sam murmured. “Call him Bob. He’s Bob. He’s not your dad, for better or worse.”
AT TIMES, ALTHOUGH MUCH OF THE TIME PEGGY COULD FORGET THIS, Iris embarrassed her. It was a class thing, she thought dully. Iris wasn’t constrained by the same behavioural doctrines. She never tailored herself down to fit into new surroundings. If anything, she turned the volume up. Often Peggy was exhilarated by this. It opened up new worlds and made the old ones less intimidating. It worked wonders in the bank, at the Social Security. There was a brash confidence and assurance that came with anyone who wasn’t working class. There was never a temptation to tug the non-existent forelock and take what was offered.
But then again, that assurance could also be embarrassing. When they walked into the gallery, Wagner was playing and, almost immediately, Iris was whooping along with it and shrieking about Valkyries. Heads bobbed up from the pictures, from behind vases, around the bookcases. Iris was quite oblivious. She explained in a voice twice as loud as it need be that she and Peggy were postmodern Valkyries.
“They’re playing our song!” she cackled, and Peggy gave her a sickly smile.
They were inside what felt like an old warehouse, which vibrated along with the Wagner. Paintings and drawings hung everywhere on wires, over the wide windows, were propped nonchalantly on antiques. The tender yellow and purple necks of lilies thrust everywhere. When Peggy allowed herself to stop being irritated, and made herself feel pleased that her lover was back to normal, she found that she thought the place was breathtaking. The air was thick and sweet with pollen. The paintings were familiar. Peggy clutched her bag to her chest and stood before a huge panelled picture, resonant with deep, clouded blues. Beneath the spread petals of a large white splash, a boy’s pink body wavered, stretching deep across the canvas.
Iris came to stand with her. “The Valkyries were seer women who judged the fate of warriors,” she said.
Peggy tutted. “Don’t say you were around in those days as well.”
“No, but Valkyries stick around in history.”
“I thought you wanted to look at these pictures.”
“The other thing is that Valkyries had the power to turn themselves into swan maidens.
