with an eye to impress. It wasn’t even very tidy. There was a scattering of crumbs under a tea-table and an ivory teething ring lay on a blanket in the middle of the carpet.
‘What will you drink?’
Wexford was getting tired of drawing attention to his illness and his diet. ‘Have you any beer?’ he asked.
‘Sure we have. I couldn’t get through the weekend without it after all those shorts I have to consume the rest of the time. I drink it from the can, as a matter of fact.’ Dearborn gave a sudden boyish smile. ‘We’d better have glasses or my wife will kill me after you’ve gone.’
The beer was kept in a refrigerator with a wood veneered door which Wexford had at first glance taken for a glass cabinet. ‘My favourite toy,’ said Dearborn. ‘When Alexandra gets a bit older I shall always keep it full of ice cream and cans of coke.’ Still smiling, he filled their glasses. ‘I’ve come to fatherhood rather late in life, Mr Wexford – I was forty-three last Tuesday – and my wife says it’s made me soppy. I’d like to get the moon and stars for my daughter, but, as this is impossible, she shall have all the good things of this world instead.’
‘You’re not afraid of spoiling her?’
‘I’m afraid of many things, Mr Wexford.’ The smile died away and he became intensely serious. ‘Of being too indulgent and too possessive among other things, I tell myself that she’s not mine, that she belongs to herself. It’s not easy being a parent.’
‘No, it’s not easy. And it’s as well people don’t know it, for if they did, maybe they wouldn’t dare have children.’
Dearborn shook his head. ‘I could never feel like that. I’m a fortunate man. I’ve been lucky in marriage. And you know what they say, happy is the man who can make a living from his hobby. But, for all that, I didn’t know what real happiness was till I got Alexandra. If I lost her I’d – I’d kill myself.’
‘Oh, come, you mustn’t say that.’
‘It’s true. I mean it. You don’t believe me?’
But Wexford, who had many times heard men make similar threats without taking them very seriously, did believe him. There was a kind of earnest desperation in the man’s whole manner, and he was relieved when the tension was slackened by the entry of Mrs Dearborn.
She told him she was glad to see him. ‘As long as you don’t encourage Stephen to cart us all off to some slum,’ she said. ‘He gets tired of places he can’t improve.’
‘It would be hard to improve on Laysbrook House,’ said Wexford politely.
She was not at all beautiful and she had made no attempt to look younger than her forty years. Her walnut-brown hair was threaded with grey, her neck ringed with lines. He wondered what constituted her appeal. Was it the willowy ease with which she moved – for she was very slim – or the play of her long fine hands or her extreme femininity? The last, he thought. Her nails were varnished, her skirt short, she was even now taking a cigarette from a cedarwood box, but for all that she had all the old-fashioned womanly grace of a lady out of one of Trollope’s novels, a squire’s lady, a chatelaine.
That Dearborn was in love with her was immediately apparent from the way his eyes followed her to her chair and lingered on her, watching her settle herself and smooth her skirt over her crossed legs. It was almost as if those briefly caressing hands had for a moment become his own and, vicariously, he felt under them the smoothness of silk and flesh.
Wexford was wondering how to broach the subject of Kenbourne cemetery when Dearborn announced that it was time to get the maps out.
‘Dull for you, darling,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard it all so many times before.’
‘I can bear it. I shall knit.’
‘Yes, do. I like to see you knitting. It’s a funny thing, Mr Wexford, the qualities women think will attract us and the qualities which really do. I could watch Miss World doing a striptease and it
‘What will you drink?’
Wexford was getting tired of drawing attention to his illness and his diet. ‘Have you any beer?’ he asked.
‘Sure we have. I couldn’t get through the weekend without it after all those shorts I have to consume the rest of the time. I drink it from the can, as a matter of fact.’ Dearborn gave a sudden boyish smile. ‘We’d better have glasses or my wife will kill me after you’ve gone.’
The beer was kept in a refrigerator with a wood veneered door which Wexford had at first glance taken for a glass cabinet. ‘My favourite toy,’ said Dearborn. ‘When Alexandra gets a bit older I shall always keep it full of ice cream and cans of coke.’ Still smiling, he filled their glasses. ‘I’ve come to fatherhood rather late in life, Mr Wexford – I was forty-three last Tuesday – and my wife says it’s made me soppy. I’d like to get the moon and stars for my daughter, but, as this is impossible, she shall have all the good things of this world instead.’
‘You’re not afraid of spoiling her?’
‘I’m afraid of many things, Mr Wexford.’ The smile died away and he became intensely serious. ‘Of being too indulgent and too possessive among other things, I tell myself that she’s not mine, that she belongs to herself. It’s not easy being a parent.’
‘No, it’s not easy. And it’s as well people don’t know it, for if they did, maybe they wouldn’t dare have children.’
Dearborn shook his head. ‘I could never feel like that. I’m a fortunate man. I’ve been lucky in marriage. And you know what they say, happy is the man who can make a living from his hobby. But, for all that, I didn’t know what real happiness was till I got Alexandra. If I lost her I’d – I’d kill myself.’
‘Oh, come, you mustn’t say that.’
‘It’s true. I mean it. You don’t believe me?’
But Wexford, who had many times heard men make similar threats without taking them very seriously, did believe him. There was a kind of earnest desperation in the man’s whole manner, and he was relieved when the tension was slackened by the entry of Mrs Dearborn.
She told him she was glad to see him. ‘As long as you don’t encourage Stephen to cart us all off to some slum,’ she said. ‘He gets tired of places he can’t improve.’
‘It would be hard to improve on Laysbrook House,’ said Wexford politely.
She was not at all beautiful and she had made no attempt to look younger than her forty years. Her walnut-brown hair was threaded with grey, her neck ringed with lines. He wondered what constituted her appeal. Was it the willowy ease with which she moved – for she was very slim – or the play of her long fine hands or her extreme femininity? The last, he thought. Her nails were varnished, her skirt short, she was even now taking a cigarette from a cedarwood box, but for all that she had all the old-fashioned womanly grace of a lady out of one of Trollope’s novels, a squire’s lady, a chatelaine.
That Dearborn was in love with her was immediately apparent from the way his eyes followed her to her chair and lingered on her, watching her settle herself and smooth her skirt over her crossed legs. It was almost as if those briefly caressing hands had for a moment become his own and, vicariously, he felt under them the smoothness of silk and flesh.
Wexford was wondering how to broach the subject of Kenbourne cemetery when Dearborn announced that it was time to get the maps out.
‘Dull for you, darling,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard it all so many times before.’
‘I can bear it. I shall knit.’
‘Yes, do. I like to see you knitting. It’s a funny thing, Mr Wexford, the qualities women think will attract us and the qualities which really do. I could watch Miss World doing a striptease and it
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