The Chinese Egg by Catherine Storr Page A

happen.”
    â€œBut it could happen any minute now!”
    â€œWho d’you think we ought to go and see?” Vicky asked Stephen.
    â€œIf we went to the police they’d think we were crazy.”
    â€œWhat shall we do, then?”
    Stephen said, slowly, “I think we’d better go to see the parents. They might listen, I should think.”
    Chris said fervently, “I know I’d listen to anyone, if it was me.”
    â€œWhere do they live?”
    â€œIt said in the paper. Did you keep it, Vicky?”
    Vicky said, “It’s upstairs. I’ll fetch it,” and left the room.
    When she’d gone the hostility between Stephen and Chris was somehow more apparent. She said, “I just don’t see how you can be like that!”
    â€œIt’s not just finding it embarrassing. . . .”
    â€œ. . . as if it mattered whether you’re embarrassed. . .”
    â€œ. . . it’s knowing no one’s going to believe us.”
    â€œI do! Why shouldn’t other people?”
    â€œIt’s different for you. You know Vicky. . . . You know she isn’t the sort of person who’d make up a story like this. . . .”
    â€œ. . . so bloody careful! When it’s something like this. . . a baby. . . . If it was me I wouldn’t care what anyone thought, I’d go ahead and anyhow try to do something.”
    Chris roused was even prettier than Chris composed. Stephen, even at what was a very uncomfortable minute, saw this. He saw also the enormous gap that existed between people like Chris and her mother, and the sort of person he was, and he suspected Vicky was too. Chris, when she saw a wrong that should be righted, would weigh in and do her best to do something about it, without stopping to wonder whether she had the weapons or the right. She lived in direct contact with events. He, Stephen, would never be able to act straight off the cuff like that. For him there would always be other considerations holding him back, making any choice of action infinitely complicated. He admired Chris’s singleness of view and wished he had it; at the same time he found it irritating that she couldn’t understand his hesitations.
    He was grateful when Vicky returned.
    â€œIt’s twelve, Kensington Walk.”
    â€œWhere’s that?”
    â€œSomewhere in Kensington,” Stephen said stupidly.
    â€œGreat brain! How big is Kensington?”
    â€œDunno. We’ve got an A to Z at home—no. It’s in the car, and Dad’s out in it somewhere.”
    â€œHow shall we find it, then?”
    â€œWe could go to somewhere like the High Street station and ask. It’s on the Circle Line.”
    â€œMight be South Kensington, that’s on the Piccadilly.”
    â€œLook them up in the telephone book.”
    â€œWhile we’re at the Post Office we might as well ask where Kensington Walk is.”
    â€œHaven’t you got. . .?” Stephen asked without thinking, and then could have kicked himself.
    â€œYou’ve forgotten. People like us don’t have telephones,” Chris said.
    â€œPaul has,” Vicky said at once.
    â€œWell. That’s because his father runs his own business.”
    â€œAnyway, let’s go to the Post Office. It’s only just round the corner.”
    â€œWhat are we going to say when we get to the house?” Stephen asked.
    â€œFor goodness’ sake! Don’t start all that over again! Come on! We can think what to say while we’re getting there. It’ll take hours,” Chris said. She picked up her coat and marched out of the kitchen. Stephen and Vicky followed. They knew they had to do as she said.

Thirteen
    They arrived at number twelve Kensington Walk, after a certain amount of misdirection, at about three o’clock that Saturday afternoon.
    â€œGosh, it’s huge!” Chris exclaimed. It wasn’t a terrace house, it stood discreetly separated from its