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  She stopped and Childes finished for her. ‘Not like before.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I know circumstances had become intolerable.’ Amy sighed miserably. ‘Oh, Jon, why has this conversation turned out like this? I was so happy, I needed to talk to you. I missed you.’

  His tenseness loosened. Yet a gnawing, subconscious disquiet remained. How could he explain his own almost subliminal unrest? ‘Amy, I’m sorry too. I’m being stupid. I suppose I’m still masochistically licking ancient wounds.’

  ‘Bad past experiences can sometimes distort the new.’

  ‘Very profound.’

  She was relieved the humour was back in his voice, yet could not help but feel a little deflated. ‘I’ll try to keep a tighter grip on myself,’ she said.

  ‘Hey, c’mon. Don’t mind an old man’s self-pity. So you missed me? I only left you ten minutes ago.’

  ‘I got home from school and felt so . . . so, I don’t know – flushed. Happy. Mixed-up. Sick. I wanted you here.’

  ‘Sounds like a bad case.’

  ‘It is, God help me.’

  ‘I’ve got it too.’

  ‘But you—’

  ‘I told you: pay no attention. I get moody sometimes.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. Can I buy you lunch tomorrow?’

  ‘Creep.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ The warmth was quickly returning.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘If you can stand it, I’ll cook you lunch here.’

  ‘We’ll only have an hour.’

  ‘I’ll prepare it tonight. Nothing fancy; freezer stuff.’

  ‘I love freezer stuff.’

  ‘I love you.’ He’d finally said the words.

  ‘Jon . . .’

  ‘I’ll see you in school, Amy.’

  Her voice was hushed. ‘Yes.’

  He said goodbye and barely heard her response. The line clicked dead. Cradling the receiver, his hand still resting on the smooth plastic, Childes stared thoughtfully at the wall. He hadn’t meant to let the words slip out, hadn’t wanted to breach the final barrier with an admission he knew they both felt. Why did it matter when it was the truth? Just what was he afraid of? It wasn’t hard to reason.

  The bizarre vision followed by the nightmare a fortnight before had left him with a dispiriting and familiar apprehension, a rekindling of the dread that had once nearly broken him. It had ruined his life with Fran and Gabby; he didn’t want it to hurt Amy. He prayed that he was wrong, that it wasn’t happening all over again, that his imagination was running loose.

  Childes rubbed a hand over his eyes, aware of how sore they had become. Drawing in a deep breath, then releasing the air as if ridding himself of festering notions, he went into the tiny, ground-floor bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. After taking out a small plastic bottle and his lens case, he closed the cabinet door to be confronted by his own image, reflected in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and he thought there was an unnatural pallor to his skin. Imagination again, he told himself. He was foolishly allowing the morbid introspection to build, to become something other than it was. Which was a throwback, a long-delayed reaction to something past, and that was all. When he had nearly drowned it was probably because he had stayed too long beneath the water, not noticing his lungs had used up precious air, lack of oxygen bringing on the confused images. The nightmare later was . . . was just a nightmare, with no particular significance. He was attributing too much to an unpleasant but unimportant experience, and perhaps it was understandable with past memories to goad his thoughts. Forget it. Things had changed, his life was different.

  Peering close to the mirror, Childes gently squeezed the soft lens from his right eye, cleansed it in the palm of his hand with the fluid, and dropped it into its liquid-filled container. He repeated the procedure with the left lens.

  Outside in the hallway, he dipped into his briefcase and withdrew his spectacles, his eyes already feeling relief from the irritation. He was about to go through into the kitchen to discover what he could come up with for lunch the following day when a soft thud from upstairs stopped him. He held his breath and gazed up the narrow stairway, seeing only as far as the bend. He waited, going through that peculiar middle-of-the-night sensation of not wanting to hear again a mysterious, intrusive noise, yet seeking confirmation that one had been heard. There was no further sound.

  Childes mounted the creaky, wooden stairs, unreasonably nervous. He rounded the bend and saw that his bedroom door was open. Nothing wrong in that: he had left it open that morning – he always did. Climbing the rest of the stairway, he walked the few feet along the landing and pushed the bedroom door open wider.

  The room was empty and he admonished himself for behaving like a timorous maiden-aunt. Two windows faced each other across the room and something small and delicate was clinging to the outside of one. He went over, feeling the bare, wooden floorboards giving slightly beneath his weight, and clucked his tongue when he saw the shivering flotsam was no more than a feather stuck to the glass, either a gull’s or a pigeon’s, he couldn’t be sure which. It had happened before: the birds saw sky in the window on the other side of the room and tried to fly through, striking the window-pane on that side but rarely doing more damage than giving themselves a shock and probably a severe headache, leaving a plume or two on the glass. Even as he watched, the breeze caught the feather and whisked it away.

  Childes was about to turn around when he caught sight of the distant school. His heart stopped momentarily and his hands gripped the sill when he saw the fiery glow. His relief was instant when he quickly realized the white building was merely reflecting the setting sun’s rubescent rays.

  But the image remained in his mind, and when he sat down on the bed his hands were trembling.

  It watched from beneath a tree, the cheerfully sunny day giving the lie to the misery witnessed in the cemetery.

  The mourners were grouped around the open grave, dark clothes struck grey by the sunlight. Stained white crosses, slabs, and smiling cracked angels were dispassionate observers in the field of sunken bones. The mushy cadence of traffic could be heard in the distance; somewhere a radio was snapped off, the graveyard worker realizing a ceremony was in progress. The priest’s voice carried as a muffled intonation to the low knoll where the figure waited in the yew’s shadow.

  When the tiny coffin was lowered, a woman staggered forward as if to forbid the final violation of her dead child. A man at her side held the woman firm, supporting her weight as she sagged. Others in the group bowed their heads or looked away, the mother’s agony as unbearable as the untimely death itself. Hands were raised to faces, tissues dampened against cheeks. The features of the men were frozen, pale plastic moulds.

  It watched from the hiding place and smiled secretly.

  The little casket disappeared from view, swallowed by the dank soil, green-edged lips eagerly wide. The father threw something in after the coffin, a bright-coloured object – a toy, a doll, something that had once been precious to the child – before earth was scattered into the grave.

  Reluctantly, yet with private relief, the bereaved group began to drift away. The mother had to be gently led, supported between two others, her head constantly turning as if the dead infant were calling her back, pleading with her not to leave it there, lonely and cold and corrupting. The grief overwhelmed and the mother had to be half-carried to the waiting funeral cars.

  The figure beneath the tree stayed while the grave was filled.

  To return again later that night.

  ‘Thank you, Helen, I think you can clear away now.’ Vivienne Sebire noted with manifest satisfaction that the meal she had so carefully and lovingly prepared earlier that afternoon, salmon mousse followed by apple and cherry duckling, served with mange-touts and broccoli, had been devoured with relish and much voiced praise. She observed, however, that Jonathan Childes had not eaten as heartily as the rest of their guests.

  Grace Duxbury,
sitting close to the host, Paul Sebire, who was at the head of the table, trilled, ‘Marvellous, Vivienne. Now I want to know the secret of that mousse before I leave this house tonight.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed her husband. ‘Excellent first course. Why is it, Grace, that yours rarely venture beyond avocado with prawns unless we’ve got the caterers in?’

  A remark that would be paid for later if she knew Grace, thought Vivienne, smiling at them both. ‘Ah, the secret’s in just how much anchovy essence you add. A little more than is recommended, but not too much.’

  ‘Delicious,’ reaffirmed George Duxbury.

  Helen, a short, stoutish woman with a cheerful smile and eyebrows that tended to converge to a point above her nose, and who was the Sebires’ housekeeper-cum-maid, began collecting dishes while her mistress preened herself on more praise. Amy, sitting opposite and slightly to the right of Childes, rose from her seat. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ she said to Helen, making eye-contact with Childes, a covert smile passing between them.

  ‘What I’d like to know, Paul, is how a reprobate like you manages to have a beautiful and brilliant cook for a wife, and an absolute charmer for a daughter?’ The good-humoured jibe was delivered by Victor Platnauer, a conseiller of the island and a member of La Roche Ladies College’s governing board. His wife, Tilly, seated next to Childes, tutted reproachfully, although allowing herself to join in the chuckles of her fellow-guests.

  ‘Quite simple, Victor,’ Sebire riposted in his usual crisp manner. ‘It was my darling wife’s culinary expertise that coaxed me to marry her and my genes that produced our beautiful Aime´e.’ He always insisted on calling his daughter by her correct name.

  ‘No, no,’ Platnauer insisted. ‘Amy inherits her looks from her mother, not her father. Isn’t that correct, Mr Childes – er, Jonathan?’

  ‘She has both her parents’ finer points,’ Childes managed to say diplomatically, dabbing his lips with a napkin.

  Score one, thought Amy, halfway through the door to the kitchen, as someone clapped and proclaimed, ‘Bravo!’ So far, so good. She had observed her father discreetly studying Jon throughout the evening, knowing so well that calculating appraisal usually reserved for prospective clients, colleagues or rivals. Nevertheless, he had played the perfect host, courteous and suitably inquisitive of his guest, allowing Jon as much attention as any of the others, including a business associate from Marseilles. Amy suspected that Edouard Vigiers had been invited not just because he happened to be on the island that week to discuss certain financial arrangements, but because he was young, successful, yet still thrusting, and very eligible. An ideal son-in-law in Paul Sebire’s eyes. She was beginning to wonder if her father’s sole motive in inviting Jon was so that she, Amy, would be presented with a direct comparison between the two, Edouard and Jon, the contrast undeniable.

  She had to admit that the Frenchman was attractive as well as bright and amusing, but her father was wrong, as usual, in judging by such obvious and superficial standards. She knew Paul Sebire to be a kind man with a generous heart, despite his cutting ruthlessness in business affairs and thorniness over certain matters, and she loved him as much as any daughter could love a father; unfortunately, his self-concealed possessiveness dictated that if he were to surrender his daughter to another, then it would be someone in his own image, of his own kind, if not a younger version of himself. It was a transparently clumsy ploy, although her father probably deemed it subtle, as usual underestimating others, particularly his only child.

  Amy thought dreamily of her lunch with Jon earlier that week, their first confrontation alone in his cottage after having realized just how far their relationship had journeyed, how much more deeply they cared for each other than either had understood before. There had been little time for intimacies that day, but touching, holding, caressing had been filled with a new potency, a new tenderness.

  ‘I’d like those plates, Miss Amy, when you’ve finished listening at the door.’ Helen’s amused voice had broken into the reverie. She stood, one hand on the sink, the other clenched on her hip.

  ‘Oh.’ Amy smiled sheepishly. She carried the dishes over to the draining board. ‘I wasn’t eavesdropping, Helen, only day-dreaming. Just lost somewhere.’

  Victor Platnauer was leaning forward over the table, looking directly at Childes. In his early sixties, Platnauer was still a well-proportioned man, with a hard ruddiness to his features and large hands that was common to many of the native islanders; there was a gravelly tone to his voice, a bluffness in his manner. By contrast, his wife Tilly was soft-spoken, almost demure, similar in appearance and demeanour to Vivienne Sebire.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear you’re to give La Roche a little more of your time,’ Platnauer said.

  ‘Only an extra afternoon,’ Childes replied. ‘I agreed earlier this week.’

  ‘Yes, so Miss Piprelly informed me. Well, that’s good news, but perhaps we can persuade you to spend even more time at the college. I’m aware that you also teach at Kingsley and de Montfort, but it’s important to us that we extend this particular area of our curriculum. It isn’t only a parental demand – I’m told the pupils have shown great keenness for computer sciences.’

  ‘That’s not true of all of them, unfortunately,’ said Childes. ‘The children, I mean. I think we’re fooling ourselves if we imagine every kid has a natural aptitude for electronic calculation and compilation.’

  Tilly Platnauer looked surprised. ‘I thought we were well into the Star Wars era, with every boy and girl a microchip genius compared to their elders.’

  Childes smiled. ‘We’re just at the beginning. And electronic games are not quite the same as the practical application of computers, although I’ll admit they’re a start. You see, the computer process is totally logical, but not every child has total logic.’

  ‘Neither do many of us grown-ups,’ Victor Platnauer commented drily.

  ‘It’s a double-edged sword, in a way,’ Childes went on. ‘The leisure industry has encouraged the consumer to think that computers are fun, and that’s okay, it creates interest; it’s when the public, or the kids in our case, discover hard work is involved before enjoyment through understanding begins, that the big turn-off comes.’

  ‘Surely then, the answer is to begin the teaching at the earliest age, so it will become an everyday part of the child’s life.’ It was Edouard Vigiers who had spoken, his accent softening rather than distorting his words.

  ‘Yep, you’re right. But you’re talking of an ideal situation where the computer is a normal household item, a regular piece of furniture like the TV or stereo unit. We’re a long way off from that situation.’

  ‘All the more reason for schools to introduce our children to the technology while their minds are still young and pliable, wouldn’t you say?’ asked Platnauer.

  ‘Ideally, yes,’ agreed Childes. ‘But you have to understand it isn’t a science that’s within everybody’s grasp. The unfortunate side is that microtechnology will become a way of life within the next couple of decades and a hell of a lot of companies and individuals are going to feel left behind.’

  ‘Then we must ensure that the children of this island don’t fall by the wayside,’ stated Paul Sebire to Platnauer’s nodded approval.

  Childes hid his exasperation that his point had been missed, or at least gone unheeded: technical knowledge could be spoon- or force-fed, but it was not so easily digested if the inclination was not there.

  Vigiers changed the conversation’s direction. ‘Do you also teach science at La Roche and these other schools, Jon?’

  Sebire unexpectedly answered for him. ‘Not at all. Mr Childes is a computer specialist, Edouard, something of a technical wizard, I gather.’

  Childes looked sharply at Sebire and wondered how he had ‘gathered’. Amy?

  ‘Ah,’ said Vigiers. ‘Then I am curious to know what made you turn to the teaching of children. Isn’t this a, let me see, er . . . a slow-down? Is that correct? I am sorry
if my question appears impertinent, but an abrupt change of lifestyle – un brusque changement de vie we would say – is always interesting, do you not agree?’ He smiled charmingly and Childes was suddenly wary.

  ‘Sometimes you discover running on a constant treadmill isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,’ he replied.

  Vivienne Sebire enjoyed the response and added, ‘Well, who could resist the peacefulness of the island, despite how much you money-men try to disrupt it?’ She looked meaningfully at her husband.

  The door leading to the kitchen opened and Amy and Helen came through carrying the dessert on silver trays.

  ‘More delights!’ enthused George Duxbury. ‘What are you tempting us with now, Vivienne?’

  ‘There’s a choice,’ she told them as the sweets were placed in the centre of the table. ‘The apricot and chocolate dessert is mine and the raspberry souffle´ omelet is a speciality of Amy’s. You can, of course, have both if you’ve room.’

  ‘I’ll make room,’ Duxbury assured her.

  ‘My nutritionist would throw a fit if she could see me now.’ His wife was already offering up her plate to the amusement of all. ‘Apricots and chocolate, please, but don’t ask me if I want cream.’

  Amy sat while Helen served. Vigiers, seated next to her, leaned close and spoke confidentially. ‘I shall most certainly try the souffle´; it looks delicious.’

  She smiled to herself. Edouard had the kind of low voice that could sell liqueurs on television. ‘Oh, Mother is a far superior chef. I only dabble, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I am sure that whatever you do, it is well. Your father tells me you also teach at La Roche.’

  ‘Yes, French and English. I also help out with Speech and Drama.’

  ‘So you are fluent in my language? Your name implies that you are of French descent, yes? And if I may be permitted to say, you have a certain ambience that has an affinity with the women of my country.’

  ‘Your own Victor Hugo once wrote that these islands were fragments of France picked up by England. And as we were once part of the Duchy of Normandy, many of us have French forebears. The patois is still spoken by a few of our older residents here, and I’m sure you’ve noticed we retain many of the ancient placenames.’