affair pinned to the kitchen corkboard. Whoever does the shopping takes the list with him. Or her.”
Perkin, slouching in an armchair, said I might as well get used to the idea of doing the shopping myself, particularly if I like eating.
“Tremayne takes Gareth to the supermarket sometimes,” he said, “and that’s about it. Or Dee-Dee goes, if there’s no milk for the coffee three days running.” He looked from me to Mackie. “I used to think it quite normal until I married a sensible housekeeper.”
Perkin, I thought, as he reaped a smile from his wife, was a great deal more relaxed than on the evening before, though the faint hostility he’d shown towards me was still there. Tremayne asked him his opinion of the verdict on Nolan, and Perkin consulted his glass lengthily as if seeking illumination.
“I suppose,” he said finally, “that I’m glad he isn’t in jail.”
It was a pretty ambiguous statement after so much thought, but Mackie looked pleasantly relieved. Only she of the three, it was clear, cared much for Nolan the man. To father and son, having Nolan in jail would have been an inconvenience and an embarrassment which they were happy to avoid.
Looking at the two of them, the differences were as powerful as the likenesses. If one discounted Tremayne’s hair, which was gray where Perkin’s was brown, and the thickness in Tremayne’s neck and body that had come with age, then physically they were of one cloth; but where Tremayne radiated strength, Perkin was soggy, where Tremayne was a leader, Perkin retreated. Tremayne’s love was for living horses, Perkin’s was for passive wood.
It came as a shock to me to wonder if Tremayne wanted his own achievements written in an inheritable book because Perkin’s work would be valuable in two hundred years. Wondered if the strong father felt he had to equal his weaker son. I dismissed the idea as altogether too subtle and as anyway tactless in an employed biographer.
Gareth came home with his usual air of a life lived on the run and eyed me with disapproval as I sat in an armchair drinking wine.
“I thought you said—” he began, and stopped, shrugging, an onset of good manners vying with disappointment.
“I will,” I said.
“Oh, really? Now?”
I nodded.
“Good. Come on, then, I’ll show you the freezers.”
“Let him alone,” Mackie said mildly. “Let him finish his drink.”
Perkin reacted to this harmless remark with irritation. “As he said he’d cook, let him do it.”
“Of course,” I said cheerfully, getting up. I glanced at Tremayne. “All right with you?”
“You’re all right with me until further notice,” he said, and Perkin didn’t like that testimony of approval either, but Gareth did.
“You’re home and dried with Dad,” he told me happily, steering me through the kitchen. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you do to me?” he asked himself comically, and answered himself. “Nothing. I guess that’s it. You don’t have to do anything, it’s just the way you are. The freezers are through here, in the utility room. If you go straight on through the utility room you get to the garage. Through that door there.” He pointed ahead to a heavy-looking door furnished with businesslike bolts. “I keep my bike through there.”
There were two freezers, both upright, both with incredible contents.
“This one,” Gareth said, opening the door, “is what Dad calls the peezer freezer.”
“Or the pizza frizza?” I suggested.
“Yes, that too.”
It was stacked with pizzas and nothing else, though only half full.
“We eat our way down to the bottom,” Gareth said reasonably, “then fill up again every two or three months.”
“Sensible,” I commented.
“Most people think we’re mad.”
He shut that freezer and opened the other, which proved to contain four packs of beef sandwiches, fifty to a pack. There were also about ten sliced loaves (for toast, Gareth explained),
Perkin, slouching in an armchair, said I might as well get used to the idea of doing the shopping myself, particularly if I like eating.
“Tremayne takes Gareth to the supermarket sometimes,” he said, “and that’s about it. Or Dee-Dee goes, if there’s no milk for the coffee three days running.” He looked from me to Mackie. “I used to think it quite normal until I married a sensible housekeeper.”
Perkin, I thought, as he reaped a smile from his wife, was a great deal more relaxed than on the evening before, though the faint hostility he’d shown towards me was still there. Tremayne asked him his opinion of the verdict on Nolan, and Perkin consulted his glass lengthily as if seeking illumination.
“I suppose,” he said finally, “that I’m glad he isn’t in jail.”
It was a pretty ambiguous statement after so much thought, but Mackie looked pleasantly relieved. Only she of the three, it was clear, cared much for Nolan the man. To father and son, having Nolan in jail would have been an inconvenience and an embarrassment which they were happy to avoid.
Looking at the two of them, the differences were as powerful as the likenesses. If one discounted Tremayne’s hair, which was gray where Perkin’s was brown, and the thickness in Tremayne’s neck and body that had come with age, then physically they were of one cloth; but where Tremayne radiated strength, Perkin was soggy, where Tremayne was a leader, Perkin retreated. Tremayne’s love was for living horses, Perkin’s was for passive wood.
It came as a shock to me to wonder if Tremayne wanted his own achievements written in an inheritable book because Perkin’s work would be valuable in two hundred years. Wondered if the strong father felt he had to equal his weaker son. I dismissed the idea as altogether too subtle and as anyway tactless in an employed biographer.
Gareth came home with his usual air of a life lived on the run and eyed me with disapproval as I sat in an armchair drinking wine.
“I thought you said—” he began, and stopped, shrugging, an onset of good manners vying with disappointment.
“I will,” I said.
“Oh, really? Now?”
I nodded.
“Good. Come on, then, I’ll show you the freezers.”
“Let him alone,” Mackie said mildly. “Let him finish his drink.”
Perkin reacted to this harmless remark with irritation. “As he said he’d cook, let him do it.”
“Of course,” I said cheerfully, getting up. I glanced at Tremayne. “All right with you?”
“You’re all right with me until further notice,” he said, and Perkin didn’t like that testimony of approval either, but Gareth did.
“You’re home and dried with Dad,” he told me happily, steering me through the kitchen. “What did you do to him?”
“Nothing.”
“What did you do to me?” he asked himself comically, and answered himself. “Nothing. I guess that’s it. You don’t have to do anything, it’s just the way you are. The freezers are through here, in the utility room. If you go straight on through the utility room you get to the garage. Through that door there.” He pointed ahead to a heavy-looking door furnished with businesslike bolts. “I keep my bike through there.”
There were two freezers, both upright, both with incredible contents.
“This one,” Gareth said, opening the door, “is what Dad calls the peezer freezer.”
“Or the pizza frizza?” I suggested.
“Yes, that too.”
It was stacked with pizzas and nothing else, though only half full.
“We eat our way down to the bottom,” Gareth said reasonably, “then fill up again every two or three months.”
“Sensible,” I commented.
“Most people think we’re mad.”
He shut that freezer and opened the other, which proved to contain four packs of beef sandwiches, fifty to a pack. There were also about ten sliced loaves (for toast, Gareth explained),
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