its clutch of three alabaster eggs recently divided into two whole eggs and two halves.
There were also plastic rubbish sacks and Grace could see the bunny ears of the largest one which was balanced at the top of the stairs leading to her front door. It was a friend of the three in the kitchen which, judging by the shapes Grace could make out pressed up against the plastic, contained clothes and shoes. On the table between Grace and her father were two other items: a toilet bag, slightlyfrayed and with a zip that would not meet over the things inside it, and a West Ham United mug which up until tonight had lived in a house in Newham, and which now lived, for a time unspecified, in a flat in Putney.
Grace wondered what the collective noun was for what she had littering her flat. A mess of boxes? A storm of sacks? A muddle of toiletries? One thing she did know: that mug was singularly horrible.
The expression on her father’s face was not easy to read. It could have indicated that the bluster which had sent him storming out of his own house with boxes, sacks, bags and mug had shifted into a sickly realisation of what he’d done. Or perhaps it was simply another strain of the almost deferential nervousness he tended to display around her. She knew she was something of a mystery to him these days: his only conventional, wage-earning, property-owning daughter.
He glanced at her and away. Quick and alert were good descriptions of her father. Compact was another, and sometimes with his small stature and those deft movements he looked like some kind of busy bird. His dark eyes and sharp features only added to that impression, as did his fine plumage because, come marital calm or storm, he was dapper. It was what attracted her mother in the first place. ‘Knew how to wear a suit, did your dad.’
Even though he was a bit creased and crushed at the moment, it was one of his good suits that he was wearing, accompanied by a shirt and tie. He had always worn a tie, even when she was a child and he was just taking her to the park or the cinema. His one nod to casual dressing would be letting go of his jacket and putting on a jumper.
He did a jerky movement of his head in the direction of the hallway.
‘Let me pay for it, that egg.’
She again assured him that it didn’t matter, it wasn’t important; what was important was telling her the reason for the major spat with her mother. As opposed to all the previous minor ones.
‘Only I know you like the place just so,’ he went on, staring doggedly at his toilet bag.
‘Dad—’
‘I mean, I wouldn’t have bothered you, but with your sisters away …’
He ground to a halt, no doubt realising that pointing out Grace wasn’t top of his list of sanctuary providers could be seen as tactless, especially when she was all that lay between him and sleeping in Nadim’s van.
‘It’s not a problem, Dad, even …’ she checked the clock, ‘at 3.45 in the morning. But come on, what’s wrong? What’s so bad that can’t be solved by the usual shouting fromyou, flouncing and sulking from Mum and then some kissing and making up?’
Her father was still looking at his toilet bag, but she saw a softening of his mouth at the mention of kissing her mother. Perhaps it was the precursor to confessing all.
‘Those dentists downstairs, the married ones,’ he said eventually, ‘how are they getting along?’
Grace slowly leaned forward, picked up the teapot and gave it a shake, as much in frustration as to see if there was any tea left. The pot was dry and cold.
‘They’re away at the minute. Holiday to see his mother in Copenhagen.’
‘Money in teeth,’ he said, as if it were a universal truth, and then he was getting up. ‘Tell you what, as they’re not here at the minute, the dentists, I could touch up that bit of paint I knocked off just by their door. You got any paint?’
Even for her father this was a major avoidance technique. She formed the words, ‘Sit down,
There were also plastic rubbish sacks and Grace could see the bunny ears of the largest one which was balanced at the top of the stairs leading to her front door. It was a friend of the three in the kitchen which, judging by the shapes Grace could make out pressed up against the plastic, contained clothes and shoes. On the table between Grace and her father were two other items: a toilet bag, slightlyfrayed and with a zip that would not meet over the things inside it, and a West Ham United mug which up until tonight had lived in a house in Newham, and which now lived, for a time unspecified, in a flat in Putney.
Grace wondered what the collective noun was for what she had littering her flat. A mess of boxes? A storm of sacks? A muddle of toiletries? One thing she did know: that mug was singularly horrible.
The expression on her father’s face was not easy to read. It could have indicated that the bluster which had sent him storming out of his own house with boxes, sacks, bags and mug had shifted into a sickly realisation of what he’d done. Or perhaps it was simply another strain of the almost deferential nervousness he tended to display around her. She knew she was something of a mystery to him these days: his only conventional, wage-earning, property-owning daughter.
He glanced at her and away. Quick and alert were good descriptions of her father. Compact was another, and sometimes with his small stature and those deft movements he looked like some kind of busy bird. His dark eyes and sharp features only added to that impression, as did his fine plumage because, come marital calm or storm, he was dapper. It was what attracted her mother in the first place. ‘Knew how to wear a suit, did your dad.’
Even though he was a bit creased and crushed at the moment, it was one of his good suits that he was wearing, accompanied by a shirt and tie. He had always worn a tie, even when she was a child and he was just taking her to the park or the cinema. His one nod to casual dressing would be letting go of his jacket and putting on a jumper.
He did a jerky movement of his head in the direction of the hallway.
‘Let me pay for it, that egg.’
She again assured him that it didn’t matter, it wasn’t important; what was important was telling her the reason for the major spat with her mother. As opposed to all the previous minor ones.
‘Only I know you like the place just so,’ he went on, staring doggedly at his toilet bag.
‘Dad—’
‘I mean, I wouldn’t have bothered you, but with your sisters away …’
He ground to a halt, no doubt realising that pointing out Grace wasn’t top of his list of sanctuary providers could be seen as tactless, especially when she was all that lay between him and sleeping in Nadim’s van.
‘It’s not a problem, Dad, even …’ she checked the clock, ‘at 3.45 in the morning. But come on, what’s wrong? What’s so bad that can’t be solved by the usual shouting fromyou, flouncing and sulking from Mum and then some kissing and making up?’
Her father was still looking at his toilet bag, but she saw a softening of his mouth at the mention of kissing her mother. Perhaps it was the precursor to confessing all.
‘Those dentists downstairs, the married ones,’ he said eventually, ‘how are they getting along?’
Grace slowly leaned forward, picked up the teapot and gave it a shake, as much in frustration as to see if there was any tea left. The pot was dry and cold.
‘They’re away at the minute. Holiday to see his mother in Copenhagen.’
‘Money in teeth,’ he said, as if it were a universal truth, and then he was getting up. ‘Tell you what, as they’re not here at the minute, the dentists, I could touch up that bit of paint I knocked off just by their door. You got any paint?’
Even for her father this was a major avoidance technique. She formed the words, ‘Sit down,
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