Thomas stirred. "I made it, you know. The Mickey Mouse clock." It was the first time he'd spoken since we'd left his house.
Lucy looked as if she thought him delirious, then raised her eyebrows and started to concentrate. "Not that," she said, troubled.
"Do you remember those clocks?" I asked.
"Of course I do. We've got one upstairs, that Thomas made for our son."
"What sort of face has it got?"
"A sailing ship. Did the Mickey Mouse clock explode…"
"No," I said. "The one actually used had a grey plastic dial with white numbers. The Mickey Mouse clock was intact, in the playroom."
Thomas said dully, "I haven't made one for years."
"When did you make the Mickey Mouse for Robin and Peter?" I asked.
"I didn't make it for them. I made it a long time ago for Serena. She must have given it to them. It made her laugh, when I made it."
"You were a nice boy, Thomas," Lucy said. "Funny and kind."
Edwin said restlessly, "I would have -thought any timing device would have been blown to unrecognisable fragments by such a big bomb."
"it seems they often find pieces," I said.
"Do you mean," he demanded, "that they've actually sifted through all those tons of rubbish?"
"More or less. They know it was a battery clock. They found part of the motor."
"It serves Malcolm right the house was blown up," Edwin said with barely suppressed violence. "Flinging money about on ridiculous scholarships. Keeping us poor. I suppose you're all right, aren't you?" There was a sneer there for me, openly. "He's never been fair to Lucy. You've always been in the way, smarming him up, taking the lion's share. He gives you whatever you ask for while we have to struggle along on a pittance."
"Is that the authentic voice of Vivien?" I asked.
"It's the truth!" "No," I said. "It's what you have been told over and over again, but it's not the truth. Most people believe a lie if they're told it often enough. It's easy enough after all to believe a lie if you've heard it only once. Especially if you want to believe it."
Lucy looked at me intently. "You care about this, don't you?"
"About being cast perpetually as the family villain? Yes, I dare say I do. But I was thinking also of Thomas. He's been told ad infinitum that he's useless, and now he believes it. I'm going now, Lucy." I stood up without haste. "You tell Thomas over and over that he's a worthwhile person, and maybe he'll begin to believe that instead. You have to believe in yourself to get anywhere."
"Oh yes," she said quietly. "You do."
"What you've written," I said, "is for ever."
Her eyes widened. "How do you know… that I've lost…"
"I guessed." I bent and kissed her cheek, to her surprise. "Are you seriously in need?"
"Financially?" She was startled. "No worse than usual."
"Of course we are," Edwin said to her waspishly. "You're earning almost nothing now and you still spend a fortune on books."
Lucy looked only mildly embarrassed, as if she'd heard that often before.
"If I held the purse-strings," Edwin complained, "you'd use the public library, as I do."
"Why don't you work, Edwin?" I asked.
"Lucy doesn't like bustle." He seemed to think it explanation enough. "We'd be perfectly happy if Malcolm trebled Lucy's trust fund, as he ought to. He has millions, we live in a hovel. It's not fair."
"Doesn't Lucy despise money?" I asked. "And people who have it? Do you want her to become what she despises?"
Edwin glared.
Lucy looked at me blandly. "There's no such state as perfection," she said.
I drove back to Reading, to the hospital that had an emergency room open all evening, and there got my shoulder and upper arm cleaned and stitched. There were three cuts, it seemed, variously deep but nothing frightful, and they had long stopped bleeding: with the stitches, they would heal almost instantly. The staff advised pain- killers pro tem. I thanked them and eventually drove to Cookham feeling more than slightly tired but chiefly hungry, and having remedied both conditions satisfactorily, set off again next morning to ride. There was no problem there with the stitches: they were tender to the touch and stiff when I lifted my arm, but that was all. Restored yet again in spirit by the dose of fresh air, I took a lazy day off from the emotional battering of the family and went to London to get my American and Australian visas. It was only a week since I'd ridden Park Railings at Cheltenham and it felt like eternity. I bought a new sweater and had my hair cut and thought about Ursula "wandering about" through days of escape. One could wander for hours in London, thinking one's thoughts.
On an impulse, I telephoned Joyce, not expecting her to be in.
"Darling," she yelled. "I'm going out. Bridge. Where are you?"
"In a phone box."
"Where's your father?"
"I don't know."
"Darling, you're infuriating. What did you ring for?"
"I suppose… just to hear your voice."
It seemed to stump her entirely. "Are you out of your head? You tell that old bugger… tell him…" She choked on it.
"That you're glad he's alive?" I suggested.
"Don't let the old sod get blown up."
"No," I said.
"Must rush, darling. Don't break your neck. Bye…"
"Bye now," I said.
I wondered if she ever talked on the telephone except at the top of her voice. The decibels were comforting, somehow. At least she never sounded bored. I would rather infuriate her than bore her, I thought.
I went unhurriedly back to Cookham and in the evening bent again to Norman West's notes.
Of Edwin, he had said:
Mr Edwin Pembroke (53) ne Bugg, lives with his wife Lucy in No 3 Wrothsay Farm Cottages, near Marlow. One son (15), attends state school, bicycles to school, has latchkey, gets his own tea, goes upstairs, does homework, working for exams, conscientious, doesn't know if his parents were around on the Friday or Tuesday at specified hours, doesn't expect so. He comes downstairs about 8 or 9 pm, they all eat vegetarian meal then. (No TV!) Mrs L. cooks in a wok. Mr E. washes up.
Mr E. does the housework (not much) and shopping, mostly vegetables. He spends hours reading in public library (librarians agree). Goes to pub, spends more hours over one beer (barman indignant). Takes laundry to laundromat. Listens to radio. Spends hours doing crossword puzzles. (The garden's untidy. Mr E. doesn't like gardening. They grow only runner beans: they're easy.)
Mr E. and Mrs L. share an old Hillman, which Mr E. mostly drives. (Mrs L. has licence.) Car dusty and rusty, no dents. Mr E. good- looking man, complete drone (my opinion). Idle life suits him. Mr E.'s idle life seems to suit Mrs L. also – no accounting for people. She does less than he does, come to think. Mr E. has sharp sarcastic manner on occasions. Detests Mr Ian, curses Mr Pembroke but at same time wants money from him (!). Definitely thinks of Mr Pembroke's money too much, broods on it, talked about it all the time. End of enquiry.
Of Lucy, among other things, he had written:
Mrs L. spends large parts of the day unaware of what's going on around her (my opinion). I had to repeat several questions. It seemed she didn't hear me, but nothing wrong with her ears. She listens to things going on in her own head (can't put it very well). Has no alibis for Friday or Tuesday. Can't remember where she was (I believe it.) Goes for rambling walks. Mrs L. very troubled over something, but wouldn't say what. She ate a tinful of peanuts while I was there, looked surprised when they'd gone.
So much for Lucy and Edwin, I thought. What about Donald and Helen?
Donald Pembroke (44) eldest of Mr Pembroke's offspring, lives at Marblehill House, detached chalet-style house which goes with his job, Secretary, Marblehill Golf Club (rich club, high fees) near Henley-on-Thames. Long waiting list for membership, rich members.
Mr D. has staff (green keeper, club steward, etc). He himself oversees and runs the whole place, is said to be good at it, members like him, say he gets things done, runs tight ship, decent bar, club rooms, tournaments etc, always listens to and deals with complaints, seen as friend, authority figure, social equal. Mr D. likes his work. His social standing extremely important to him (my opinion). Keeps up high appearances.