The Anatomy of Death by Felicity Young

Author:Felicity Young
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Group, Inc.
Published: 2012-04-30T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

The pier pointed into the churning sea like a dead finger. Bad weather meant the gates were locked, the slot machines silent, and the bandstand empty. Pike took his daughter’s hand and they dashed from the pier gates, down the deserted promenade to a tram shelter. He sat down immediately on the hard bench. Violet remained standing and gazed through the glass at the angry grey sea.

The cold air stung at their cheeks. Pike undid his scarf and tied it around his bowler.

She giggled. “Daddy, you look like you have toothache.” She had given up trying to keep her own hat on her head and stuffed it under the straps of her school cape.

They watched the curling waves crash against the sea wall. The pebble beach was deserted; further down, fishing boats waited patiently on the beach for the storm to pass and ragged seagulls clung to their naked masts. Pike had still not broached the subject of the photograph, and Violet’s boarding school’s visiting afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close.

“Tea?” he shouted.

They held hands as they splashed around the traffic and headed to the tearooms on the other side of the road.

At a sweets stall next to the tearoom he bought two sticks of rock candy with HASTINGS written all the way through them.

“One for Marjorie,” he said as he handed them to her.

At the mention of her friend’s name, Violet’s mouth turned down.

“What’s the matter?” Pike asked.

“Marjorie’s no longer at my school. Her mother has sent her to Switzerland to improve her French and German,” she said.

Pike waited, sensing there was more to come. When Violet failed to elaborate, all he could think to say was, “Oh,” missing his chance to probe. The two girls were inseparable. Whatever Violet had been involved in, Marjorie would have been, too.

In the crowded tearoom they took off their outer garments, draped them over the backs of their chairs, and ordered tea for two and knickerbocker glories.

Violet lifted her cup in a toast. “To Mummy,” she said.

Pike guessed she was hoping he might say something nice about her mother. She did not remember her mother at all, and loved to hear stories about her. He clicked his cup against hers, remained silent, and cursed his own inadequacy at conversing with females.

Violet took it upon herself to fill the vacuum. Barely pausing to draw breath, she launched into an account of how Gloria Bradshaw had got stuck in a tree and been rescued by a teacher with a ladder; how much better this jelly was compared to what they got at school, which in summer was riddled with tiny red spiders; how she was dreading next term when swimming started again—didn’t he think it cruel that they were forced to bathe in the sea when there was still frost upon the playing fields?

He responded with the occasional nod and a wan smile. He was running out of time, damn it. Eventually she gave up and concentrated on the concoction of fruit, jelly, cream, and ice cream.

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