“I don’t think he’d say anything about Dad.”
“You are more naïve than I thought.”
“Don’t call me naïve, Seb.”
“And you stop calling me Seb!”
“You were apologising a second ago.”
“Now I’m calling you naïve.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“No, why don’t you. Go find Pinocchio.” Duncan pointed. “I think I can see his nose poking out of the bushes back there.”
Fine. Evie headed in that direction. It wasn’t so long ago that her brother had cried so much after his first day at school that their mother had the maid lubricate the histrionics with TCP. Duncan’s whole bedroom had stunk of the stuff. Evie had to hold her nose when she went to ask him what the matter had been. He’d just flung his arms around her, sniffed about people reading his thoughts, being alone. When had that tender boy been replaced by this brass tack?
The grass was matted here, deep green but trodden to tracks. Sure, it was pleasant enough at these heights but it was still just glorified scrubland. The Swarsbys were in exile, Clive removed from protean London: sent away to fight a dead seat. He’d confessed as much while they were in France, Chamonix white outside and a burgundy on the table between them. Slurring his words through the cigar smoke, pistachio shells scattered across the tablecloth.
“Naturally they’ve pushed the writ through. The bastards couldn’t have me lurking around.”
“I thought you had their ear. And I know you’re not elected but you still have friends, no?”
“Allies disperse, darling.”
“I’m not a child.”
“I still don’t expect you to understand everything, Evie.”
His greasy fingers in the olive dish. All her life, Evie’s father had thought little of her. “Try me,” she said. “You could even trust me.”
Clive licked his fingers and poured more wine into his mug. He’d smashed all the glasses that week. “The easiest way of putting it would be to say I made a call that cost,” he said at last.
“Personally? Financially?”
“The latter. Although one could make a case for the former.”
“So, you’re guilty of… ?”
Clive raised his hands. “A man should never have to admit a thing like this to his little girl…”
“What?”
“Culpability.”
“I’m no girl.”
As if in agreement, Evie’s father presented her with his smouldering cigar. His hair was bushy, mane-like round the edges, balding centrally as he clung to what was left in that pathetic way some men have. Evie’s mouth filled with smoke.
Clive said, “Best you think of this as a chance to regroup.”
But she wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. “It’s been worrying Duncan,” she said gently. “He’s been moved away from all his friends. He keeps talking about being held back at school. I don’t know what to say to him.”
Clive shuffled to the settee. “My boy,” he said, touching the sleeping Duncan’s toe. “Do you know, Evelyn, you started calling me by my first name when you were eight years old. You said it suited me better.”
“You never corrected me.”
“It’s important for women to be allowed to stick to their guns.”
She could have struck him.
“You’d wriggle out of my arms every time I tried to hug you. I thought there was something seriously wrong.”
And maybe there was. Evie remembered hating to be touched, and now that she was older she hated people thinking they understood her. She was the spawn of such a regrettable soul, a corpulent liar with a coloboma of the left iris. Her father’s shirt buttons looked ready to burst as he sat back down and reclined in his wooden chair.
“But you will have it your way,” he said, smiling at her, then adding abruptly: “I was approached.”
“How do you mean?”
Clive’s laugh was sodden and asthmatic. Evie poured the remains of her mug into his.
“An opportunity. Blasted friend of Bram’s. Irishman.” Her father belched.
“You’re excused.”
He didn’t thank her.
“Sheehan. Point man for a consortium named Atlantia. They’ve bought land in and around High Wycombe. A regeneration project.”
“What, for housing?”
“Yes, good.” Clive nodded at Evie’s perception. “Low cost abodes, very profitable. But they’ve longer-term margins in mind. Ever hear of Chandigarh?”
Evie shook her head.
“North of India. Designed by Corbusier, laid out in sectors. Skelmersdale, Milton Keynes?”
“Do I look stupid?”
“No comment.” Clive flashed his top teeth. “Point is, they’re all new towns, planned cities. Atlantia are trying to develop something similar. Sheehan laid it all out: they want to build a mega-complex for the nineties, a new conurbation but done right this time. Wycombe’s close to London, it’s voted blue since the fifties. Prime candidate, really, reward its loyalty. First they plan the housing, generate the capital, then the contracts will be up for tender. Good news for the shareholders…” Clive rubbed his index fingers and thumbs. “As long as they invest the right way.”
He winked at her.
“And Sheehan came to you?”
“Bram pointed him my way. We scratch each’s others backs, as you know.”
Not the only thing Bram scratched.
“Still, it’s not just out of loyalty. I do have some uses, despite what the women in my life might think.” Clive licked the corners of his chapped mouth. “I know the relevant councillors,” he said. “Nigel Burt’s the chair of the committee. He’s the green light man for the county and I know him from Brasenose.” Clive pursed his lips. “A boat club man.”
“Another club?”
“Piers Gaveston isn’t for everyone, dearest.”
The two of them shared an amused raising of eyebrows, then Clive said, “But before you start complaining, it’s always been like this in Britain. Things only happen when somebody who knows somebody makes a call.”
“I suppose clubs are only a bad thing if you’re not a member.”
Clive nodded. “For those that belong come the spoils, and those that don’t…”
He didn’t need to finish his sentence.
“You might also consider the possibility that I believed in the project. Believe, I should say. I think it’ll be good for the economy.”
“You mean your cut was good enough to convince you as to the merits of the cause.”
Clive’s face was impassive.
“Yet here we are in France,” said Evie.
Her father made a butterfly out of his hands and flapped its wings. “The planning committee refused the Atlantia bid. Opportunistic and aggressive, they said.”
“So much for Brasenose Burt.”
“The man’s a shit.”
“Couldn’t Bram have a word?”
Clive went into the kitchen, where Evie heard him selecting another bottle of wine from the cupboard. When he returned she went herself, sloshed some wine into her mug then hid the bottle. She ran a glass of water and placed it on the table in front of her father.
“It wouldn’t do to have a visible link,” Clive said. “Silent investors in projects like this can’t have ties to cabinet. You should have heard the committee’s response. The proposed Atlantia Project will impact on flooding and spoil the view in an area of outstanding natural beauty.”
“Is that not the case?”
“Who gives a fuck when there’s that much money at stake?”