A Desirable Residence Part 16

'Try number six,' said Jonathan. Daniel's eyes ran down the list of questions, and stopped. Swiss cheese has holes in it, Swiss cheese has holes in it, he read. he read. The more cheese you eat, the more holes you eat. The more holes you eat, the less cheese you eat. So the more cheese you eat, the less cheese you eat. Is this true? The more cheese you eat, the more holes you eat. The more holes you eat, the less cheese you eat. So the more cheese you eat, the less cheese you eat. Is this true? Daniel's brow creased, and he wriggled around on his chair. Daniel's brow creased, and he wriggled around on his chair.

'No!' he said eventually. 'It's not true!' He gave a questioning grin to Jonathan.

'Good,' said Jonathan. 'I'm glad you said that.' He grinned back at Daniel. 'I would have been worried if you'd said "Yes".' Daniel giggled. 'But you can't just write "No" on a scholarship paper, can you? You have to present your argument.' Daniel stared at Jonathan, wide-eyed.

'I haven't got an argument,' he said.

'Yes you have,' said Jonathan. 'It's in your head. You just don't quite know how it goes yet. But you will.' He paused. 'Do you have lessons on the General Paper at school?'

'Not really,' said Daniel. 'Mr Williams just says, "Use your brains and you'll be all right." '

'Hmm,' said Jonathan. 'Well, I think we can improve on that. There's an art to these things, you know. And when you're in an exam, you need all the help you can get.' He held out a pencil to Daniel, 'The first thing you do,' he said to Daniel, 'is make an essay plan.' Daniel pulled a face.

'Essay plans!' he said. 'I hate them!'

'By the end of today,' retorted Jonathan, who was busily drawing a row of boxes on the sheet of paper in front of him, 'you're going to love them.'

Marcus arrived at six o'clock to find Daniel and Jonathan surrounded by sheets of paper, each covered with boxes filled with writing. As he entered the room, he looked curiously at Jonathan, at his narrow shoulders and his threadbare shirt, and his kindly face. So this was Liz's husband, he thought, working so cosily with his son. He looked at the two of them, and felt uncomfortable. The situation seemed wrong, somehow, even though both Jonathan and Daniel were patently innocent.

'Look at these, Daddy!' said Daniel, picking up a sheaf of papers. His cheeks were glowing and there was a huge grin on his face. 'They're all my essay plans. You know, you can make an essay plan for any question under the sun. Ask me a question. Go on, ask me.' Marcus glanced at Jonathan, who nodded.

'OK then,' said Marcus. 'Why do you always look such a mess?'

'Easy!' trumpeted Daniel, and began writing the question out at the top of the page in front of him. Marcus smiled at Jonathan.

'I've no idea what all of this is,' he said quietly. 'But it's obviously doing the trick.'

'We got a bit side-tracked today,' said Jonathan apologetically. 'But I think it's been a very useful session. Knowing how to do a good essay plan is invaluable in exams. He'll get marks for a good plan even if he doesn't have time to write the essay.' Marcus looked at Jonathan blankly for a second, then nodded in what he hoped was an intelligent manner. He gazed around the room. 'I used to come here,' he said reminiscently. 'For O level cramming.'

'Yes, well, we still offer that,' said Jonathan. 'Although it's GCSEs now.' His voice was a bit strained, and Marcus abruptly remembered Liz's phone call. Of course. Today they'd had the meeting with the bank. Suddenly he very much wanted to know how it had gone. He took in the shadows under Jonathan's eyes, and the banked-up coffee cups on the shelf behind him. 'Business going all right?' he risked, and then wondered whether Jonathan would think him impertinent. But Jonathan smiled at him-a charming, lopsided smile that took Marcus by surprise-and shrugged slightly, and said, 'Everyone's having it a bit tough at the moment. You know how it is.' His attention shifted to Daniel. 'Come on, young man,' he said. 'Your father wants to be off.'

'Nearly finished,' said Daniel, who was writing furiously. He scribbled in the last box, then leaned back in his chair and dramatically wiped imaginary sweat off his brow. 'Phewee!' he said.

'Take that one home with you,' said Jonathan, 'and pin it on your wall, and look at it whenever you want to remember how to do an essay plan.'

'I'm taking them all home,' retorted Daniel, gathering up the sheets of paper. 'I want to keep them all.'

Jonathan showed Marcus and Daniel to the door, and gave a wave as they got into the car.

'Poor sod,' muttered Marcus, as they drove off.

'Why poor?' said Daniel at once. 'I really like Mr Chambers,' he added.

'So do I,' said Marcus, to his surprise.

'Why is he poor?' persisted Daniel. Marcus indicated and smoothly turned left.

'Nothing,' he said.

'What?' said Daniel. 'Is it a secret? Tell me.' Marcus sighed.

'There's nothing to tell,' he said. 'I suspect there isn't a lot of business around for them, that's all. But that's just my thoughts,' he added firmly. 'I'm probably all wrong. They're probably doing splendidly.'

Daniel looked at his father. He looked down at the pile of essay plans on his lap. Then he looked out of the window and began to think hard.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Two days later, Daniel hurried out of school to see his mother waiting in the forecourt, surrounded by a gaggle of mothers. He paused briefly, to decide exactly what he would say. Then he frowned, nodded, and marched over to the bunch of women. His mother was, as usual, holding court.

'Of course,' she was saying, 'we wouldn't want to put Daniel under any pressure. After all,' she gave a little laugh, 'a scholarship isn't everything.'

The other mothers nodded earnestly.

'That's absolutely right,' said Mrs Lawton.

'I quite agree,' said Mrs Eadie.

'It's not worth taking these things too seriously,' volunteered Mrs Robertson, beaming around the group. Daniel looked at her in amazement. Adam Robertson was in his cla.s.s, and he'd told them all that his mother made him get up early and read the paper from the front to the back before before he did his cello practice, just so that he would know about politics and stuff for the interview. Mrs Robertson's gaze fell on Daniel. he did his cello practice, just so that he would know about politics and stuff for the interview. Mrs Robertson's gaze fell on Daniel.

'I suppose your scholarship must be quite soon,' she said. 'I don't know why Bourne has to have all its exams so long before the others. That was one reason why we decided not to sit Adam for the Bourne scholarship,' she informed the a.s.sembled company. Daniel looked at her sternly. He knew it was because Mr Williams had told Adam the compet.i.tion was too stiff and he'd do better to try for smaller schools. But there was no point saying things like that to mothers. They just got angry.

'My scholarship's in a couple of weeks,' he agreed. He stopped, and looked cautiously at his mother. He had thought it absolutely amazing at first when she'd told him to keep his coaching a secret from the others at school. Then he'd realized it was just because she didn't want everyone else having the same idea. But she was just going to have to put up with it. 'My scholarship's in a couple of weeks,' he repeated. He looked around the faces impressively. 'But I've been really well prepared for it.'

'By Mr Williams,' put in his mother quickly. 'He's so thorough-' Daniel interrupted her.

'With all my special coaching,' he said in clear tones. 'Special scholarship coaching.'

'Special coaching?' The mothers' voices rose as one, in an outraged screech that carried right across the forecourt. Daniel looked over to the door of the school and winced. Some of the others from his form were coming out, and they'd absolutely kill him if they knew what he was doing.

'Where?'

'Who?'

'What do you mean?'

'I go,' said Daniel deliberately, 'to the Silchester Tutorial College. I have Mr Chambers. He's brilliant. I go every day,' he added. 'I'm going there now, aren't I, Mummy?'

'It's not really coaching as such, is it, darling?' said his mother in brittle tones. She looked at him furiously, then flashed a bright smile around the group. 'More like supervised homework.' Daniel thought for a moment.

'We go through loads of exam papers,' he said, smiling at Mrs Robertson, 'and sometimes we do things that Mr Williams never told us about.' He felt a fleeting pang of guilt towards Mr Williams as he said this. Mr Williams was definitely a brilliant teacher; Mr Chambers said he couldn't be in better hands. But he had to say something like that to impress the mothers. 'It's the Silchester Tutorial College,' he said again, just to make sure.

As his mother dragged him off to the car, he could hear a babble of talking break out behind him. Andrew was leaning against the pa.s.senger door, waiting for them, and he looked interestedly over at the gaggle of mothers.

'What did she say?' he mouthed at Daniel, jerking a thumb towards their mother.

'Nothing,' mouthed Daniel back. He hoped his mother wouldn't mention it when they were in the car. But as soon as the doors were safely closed behind them, she turned round in her seat, a spot of colour on each cheek.

'I told you, Daniel,' she said, 'not to tell everyone about your coaching.'

'I didn't tell everyone,' said Daniel mildly. 'I just told a few people.' Anthea gave him an angry look, then turned round again and began to manoeuvre the car out of its parking s.p.a.ce.

'There are times,' she said jerkily, 'when it is better to be discreet. Do you know what that means?' Andrew gave him an astounded look.

'Did you tell the mothers about your coaching?'

'Yes,' said Daniel. 'I'll tell you why later,' he whispered.

'What are you whispering?' called Anthea sharply.

'Nothing,' called back Daniel cheerfully. He felt buoyed up and, for the first time in his life, impervious to Anthea's anger. Somehow he just knew that he'd done a good thing. Whatever his mother thought.

Alice had not looked Jonathan properly in the eye since the ECO parade. Her initial shuffling guilt and embarra.s.sment had gradually hardened into a sh.e.l.l around her, until she couldn't see or think of her father without inwardly turning away. And usually outwardly, too.

It had been the worst Christmas Day she could remember. She'd left buying Christmas presents for her parents until far too late, and then she'd panicked and bought her father a huge book on birds that she couldn't really afford. It was only when she saw it actually in his hands, half out of the wrapping-paper, that she realized why it looked familiar.

'I'll get you something else!' she exclaimed, cutting across his thanks. 'I forgot you had it already.'

'Don't be silly!' her father retorted, opening the book and running his finger across the glossy pages. 'This is a new edition. What a super present!'

But what good was a book that you'd already got? He was just being polite. And, obscurely, Alice resented it. She would almost rather he'd shouted at her. At least she could have shouted back. But her father never shouted. It was her mother who usually shouted. Except that this Christmas her mother had been on another planet. She'd forgotten to buy the crackers, so they had to do without, and she hadn't joined in decorating the tree, and she'd hardly taken any notice of her presents.

Altogether, thought Alice, as she made her way that evening to Russell Street, Christmas had been a disaster. Not like b.l.o.o.d.y lucky Genevieve, who had just written her a letter, telling Alice all about their Christmas in the sunshine, by the swimming pool. It wasn't fair. Their life out in Saudi sounded like one long holiday. Genevieve had sent Alice a photo of herself on Christmas Day, wearing a tiny white bikini, and looking really brown, with hair even blonder than before, and a huge smile. She suddenly looked all grown-up and glamorous, and when she'd first seen it, Alice had felt an extraordinary pang of envy.

But she had things to be envious of, too, she'd told herself. She'd already started her own letter back to Genevieve, starting, 'Do you remember I told you about Piers? Well, guess what! He's going to be in Summer Street Summer Street.' That would impress Genevieve, who was always going on in her letters about how c.r.a.p the telly was in Saudi. To know someone who was actually in a soap opera was really cool.

But after she'd written that first bit, she stopped. Because it still wasn't actually quite true. Ginny had told her that the first audition had gone brilliantly, and they'd loved Piers, but they had to see him again with the chief producer there, or something. That was in three weeks' time. There wasn't any doubt, really, that he was going to get it, Ginny had a.s.sured Alice. But these big television companies were always the same, she said. It took forever for them to make things official.

Until then, Alice supposed, it wouldn't really be strictly right to say that Piers was definitely going to be in Summer Street Summer Street. But she didn't want to write anything less in her letter to Genevieve. So it lay, abandoned, on top of a pile of magazines in her bedroom, with a pale brown ring at the bottom where she'd put a cup of coffee down on it.

When she got to twelve Russell Street, she found Ginny in sparkling mood. She and Duncan were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking something that looked like mulled wine, and Ginny was writing out names and addresses on envelopes.

'Have some!' she said, gesturing to a saucepan gently steaming on the stove. 'It's Norfolk punch! Completely non-alcoholic!'

'Oh, right,' said Alice. 'Thanks.' She ladled some into a gla.s.s, and gingerly tasted it. 'It's nice!' she said, in surprise.

'Isn't it?' Ginny beamed at her. 'I'm cutting back on alcohol completely. We drink far too much,' she added, a slight flush coming to her cheeks. 'It isn't healthy.'

Duncan winked at Alice, who wondered what the joke was.

'So, Alice,' he said, 'did you have a merry Christmas?'

'Brilliant, thanks,' said Alice automatically. 'And you?'

'Comatose, thanks.' Alice giggled.

'Isn't it great about Summer Street Summer Street?' she said.

'Don't!' commanded Ginny firmly. 'We're not not going to talk about going to talk about Summer Street Summer Street! We're going to talk about our party.'

'Party?' said Alice. Duncan slumped theatrically in his chair.

'I come back here for some clean, quiet, country living,' he complained. 'And what do I find, but manic celebrations-'

'It's not a celebration,' said Ginny sharply. 'It's just a party. To get to know some people in Silchester.'

'What for?'

'Duncan!'

'We already know Alice. And the rest speak for themselves.'

'The rest,' said Ginny reprovingly, 'are very nice people like Alice's parents. Whose invitation is here.' She searched through the pile, then looked up at Alice with a smile, and handed her two white envelopes. One was addressed to Miss Alice Chambers and the other to Mr and Mrs Jonathan Chambers. 'D'you think your parents will come?' she said. Alice shrugged.

'Dunno.' Not if I can help it, she thought.

Ginny looked around the kitchen, pen in hand.

'This house'll be great for a party,' she said idly. 'It's got such a nice feel to it-' She broke off, and suddenly turned to Alice.

'Do you find it strange? Spending all this time in your old house?' Alice stared back, confused.

'I ... I don't know.' She thought for a while. 'It's like it's a different place. It's like ...' She paused. 'You know like when you go to a friend's house, and it's the same sort of house as yours, and you already know where the kitchen is, and where the loo is? You just kind of know it, even though you've never been there before? Well, it's a bit like that.' She gestured around. 'I mean, your stuff 's so different ...'

'Yes, but a lot of this furniture was yours,' persisted Ginny. 'Is yours, I should say. Doesn't it make you feel a bit strange?' Alice looked at the pine table, and, with a pang, suddenly remembered it at breakfast-time in the winter, covered with bowls and plates and boxes of cereal, and Ready Brek, and the toast rack, which always had one cooling piece of toast left in it that everyone ignored. And outside it was usually still dark, but the kitchen was always warm and light, and filled with the sound of the radio and her mother answering the presenters back. And there was always Oscar, mewing for attention and jumping up onto the table and being patiently scooped up and put back onto the floor before he got to any unguarded bowls of cereal.

She could feel a sudden stinging at the back of her eyes, and looked hastily out of the window. But there was the garden. Where they'd had birthday parties every summer until she was twelve and started taking friends to the cinema instead. Where they'd had a paddling-pool one year, and a tent another year, and, for a while, a dreadful second-hand swing that they'd bought from another family and that kept coming out of the ground when she swung too high.

For an awful moment, she thought she really was going to cry. But somehow, by staring straight up at the sky, and holding her breath, and digging her nails into the palm of her hand, she managed to get over the moment. When she was sure she was OK; when her eyes were nearly back to normal and she was breathing properly again, she turned back to Ginny, allowing herself to see only the lovely things of Ginny's that she admired: the pottery jugs, the cast-iron recipe book stand, the weird chrome kettle; blocking out from her vision the old, familiar, memory-ridden bits of the kitchen. Let alone the rest of the house. Eventually she met Ginny's eyes, and shrugged. 'I don't really ever think about it,' she said casually, and took a sip of punch.

Ginny looked at Alice and felt a small rush of sympathy for her. How awful, to have to move out of the house where you'd grown up. When she and Piers had children, she found herself thinking, she would make sure they had a stable, happy family home, all their lives. A farm house, perhaps. Or a converted rectory. Or even a house in London like Clarissa's new place ...

Ginny had phoned Clarissa that morning to invite her to the party.

'Ooh, yes, how lovely!' Clarissa had gushed. 'But I ... I won't be drinking! Guess what?'