Breaking the Chain by Maggie Makepeace Read Free Book Online

conversation.
    Clutching a glass of white wine, Phoebe wandered shyly amongst the throng of guests, marvelling that any couple could know so many people. She passed Peter holding court to a group of women, and hung about for a while on the edge, hoping to become included, but eventually gave up and moved on. She looked for Duncan and found him in earnest conversation with a purple hat, under which stood a sweet elderly woman half his height. He was bending low over it to catch what she was saying, and looked rather pleased with himself. Phoebe joined them and the old woman began the conversation all over again, to include her.
    ‘Last time I saw Duncan, he was so high,’ she said, putting out a veiny hand which quivered when horizontal. ‘He must then have been about seven, but I knew him at once today. He was always such a sensitive boy and so clever at making things.’
    ‘He still is,’ Phoebe said proudly. ‘He’s just built a lovely pond for Hope and Peter, in their garden in Somerset. It’s a really interesting shape!’
    Duncan smiled and, excusing himself, moved on to talk to someone else. Phoebe started after him, but Purple Hat hadn’t finished, and clutched Phoebe’s arm confidentially.
    ‘I see he still stammers badly,’ she said. ‘Such a pity. I blame his father, you know. Whatever poor Duncan tried to do, Peter would always top it; always had to have the last word; completely undermined the poor child’s confidence. But stammering isquite unnecessary these days you know. Duncan could be cured if he wanted to be. I know a wonderful man …’ She fumbled in a large bucket of a handbag. ‘I’ll give you his name …’
    He could be cured if he wanted to be,
Phoebe thought. Perhaps he doesn’t want to be. Perhaps it’s deliberate; a useful barrier to hide behind and a good excuse not to have to communicate.
    All the brothers except Brendan were there, and all the next generation, from Fay’s 3-year-old son up to her daughters of 21 and 22. When Phoebe left the woman in the purple hat, she came upon the intermediate group of teenage cousins lounging in a corner and tried to identify them. Only one was a girl. She must be Hereward and Becky’s. One of the boys would be her brother – the one with the long hair? – and the dark one her half-brother. The other two lads were probably Rick’s; they had immaculate haircuts and the public schoolboy’s air of effortless superiority. Phoebe knew that they were called Roderick and Peter after their father and grandfather, but she didn’t know which was which. She tried to engage them all in conversation but they shrugged their shoulders and answered only in monosyllables looking embarrassed, which made Phoebe in turn feel awkward, as though she were speaking the wrong language. Perhaps, she thought, if I had children of my own, I’d learn how to talk to them. I’m thirty-five. There’s still time. If only Duncan wasn’t so against the idea …
    ‘You’re looking very solemn, Phoebe,’ Becky said, appearing beside her through the crowd. She was dressed in her usual style which, to Phoebe, looked both eccentric and daring, with colours which were not supposed to go together but on her sister-in-law looked striking and unusual. She was said to buy all her clothes from jumble sales or Oxfam. She and Herry were not married, and one of her sons was the result of an on-and-off affair with an unpublished African poet. She was brash and confident and lived dangerously. She had long hair, down to her shoulders, which was already grey. She was forty and should have looked like mutton dressed as lamb, but she didn’t. Phoebe felt a reluctant admiration for someone who apparently effortlessly flouted the rules of accepted behaviour and got away with it.
    ‘So why the long face?’ Becky asked.
    ‘I was thinking about children,’ Phoebe said.
    ‘We’d always assumed that you didn’t want any,’ Becky said, without dissembling.
    Phoebe found herself