She went to the shelves for brushes and pots, to give herself something to do: yellow for the bird's body, blue for the wings. She carried them back to the table and sat there, trying to want to paint. But all she could think of was daddy. She was nearly sure that he'd gone away because of her. She had stopped him writing, whatever mummy said. There was only one other thing she could think of that he could blame her for, that would have worried him so much: she'd let the metal claw be stolen, the claw he'd brought home from Africa.
She ought to have seen who'd taken it. She would have done if she'd been in her playroom opposite the long room when the claw had been stolen – only she'd left her playroom because the man had been looking in the window. She was sure the man had been there – baby Georgie had seen him and started crying. She had almost seen him dodging out of sight, even if mummy didn't believe in him. But at the same time, she knew he was no excuse. If she hadn't left her playroom she would have seen who had come into the house.
She tried to remember hearing someone sneak in – she had been trying ever since that afternoon – but try as she might, she couldn't remember anything of the kind. She'd been sitting near the kitchen door. She was almost certain that no stranger had come into the house, but what would that mean? She felt she was trying to excuse herself. She'd let the claw be stolen, daddy had been looking after it for someone, it was far worse if you lost something that belonged to someone else. It was nearly enough of a reason for daddy to hate her, but knowing that still didn't help. Even supposing the claw could be found, she couldn't bear the idea that it might come back.
She didn't know why, she didn't want to think. She was glad it had been stolen; that was why she felt so guilty. She opened the yellow paint and dipped in a brush, to stop herself thinking. The glue should be dry by now. The claw mustn't come back, the idea terrified her, made her feel as if the stuffy room that smelled of glue and paints had turned into a freezer. It was worth being hated by daddy if it meant the claw had gone for good. The bargain shocked and dismayed her. She pulled the bird of shells toward her, and the wings came off again.
She was sitting miserably, feeling as if she'd pulled the wings off a butterfly by mistake, when Rebecca came in. 'That's a nice surprise, isn't it?' she said, which seemed a cruel joke, until Anna realized that she was talking about selling the caterpillar to the old lady. 'Since it's your first sale, I won't take a percentage.'
When Anna didn't smile, Rebecca came to see what was wrong. 'Never mind,' she said, spotting the broken bird. 'Shall I mend it for you? It won't take a minute.'
Anna nodded, but she didn't care, and that must have shown in her face. Rebecca sat down by her. 'What's the matter, love?'
Anna couldn't tell her. There seemed to be so many things she couldn't talk about now. She hadn't been able to tell mummy what had happened that night on the beach – even thinking about it made her feel somehow ashamed. But mummy had asked her only once, she seemed not to want to know. 'Is everything all right at home?' Rebecca said.
'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
