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 took things easy… She could cope… Liz must have problems of her own… If only she knew! Liz mustn't worry, her mother had said -an impossible piece of advice.
She beckoned Anna out of the room fuil of shells. 'I think we'd better leave Rebecca to it now.'
'Oh, do I have to go home, mummy?'
'You certainly do if you want any lunch. Come on,' she said more gently, 'we'll have rolimops with salad. You like those. Rebecca doesn't want to put up with you all day.'
'Not a bit of it, Liz. I'd happily keep her until closing time.'
'Well, it's very nice of you to say so, Rebecca, but we really must be going.' Rebecca's motives were kind, but she was rapidly undermining her authority. 'I've things to do at home.'
Rebecca must think she could see through that – perhaps she could – for she said, 'Have you heard from Alan?'
'Yes, he's been keeping in touch.'
'How is he?'
'Very well.' Liz wasn't sure if she sounded bitter or ironic. How much did Rebecca suspect? All she should know was that Alan had gone away again – Liz couldn't bring herself to talk about the situation, even to her. As Liz hurried Anna out of the shop, Rebecca watched them dubiously.
The sunlight outside made them blink like moles. At first Liz could see nothing at all. Strangers closed around them, and she kept hold of Anna's arm until they reached the village green, where the crowd was less dense. Anna didn't run ahead as she usually did when Liz let go of her. Instead she gazed up at Liz, looking heartbreakingly old. 'When will daddy come home?' she said.