Free The Northern Clemency by Philip Hensher Page A

really done it since the party the night before.
    “Has your father not called?” she said.
    “No,” Jane said. “Where is he?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “He didn’t come to pick me up. I tried to call the office but they’d all gone home. I came home on the bus.”
    “These two’ve been in all day,” Daniel said. “He didn’t call, did he?”
    “No,” Tim said. “No one’s called.”
    “I don’t understand it,” Katherine said.
    For some reason, Jane felt she couldn’t say she’d seen him at lunchtime. He hadn’t wanted to be seen; she didn’t feel she should let on.
    But Daniel said, “He came home at lunchtime. And then he went out again.”
    Katherine looked at him. “What did he do that for?”
    “How should I know? I didn’t see him. I was at the pool all day. Jane saw him.”
    “Jane,” Katherine said, “did he say anything? I don’t know where he’s got to. If he’d gone to the pub he’d have phoned, surely.”
    “He never goes to the pub,” Daniel said, “except on Fridays.”
    “But did he say anything about being late?”
    “I only saw him,” Jane said. “I didn’t speak to him. I was in the garden. He didn’t see me, I don’t think.”
    Katherine looked at her. It sounded strange, your family avoiding each other, hiding and not speaking. But it made sense to all of them. “I expect he’s been held up,” she said. “Let’s not worry just yet.”
    “He’s never held up,” Tim said, his voice emphatic. “He’s always home by now.”
    “He’s got a good reason, I’m sure,” Katherine said. “Let’s not worry. Have you had your dinner?”
    The children looked at each other, surprised. The idea of making their own dinner was a new one. No one had ever suggested it.
    “All right,” Katherine said. “Just let me get changed. There’s the food from last night to finish up. That OK?”
    “Aren’t we going to wait for Dad?” Daniel said.
    “He’ll be home soon,” Katherine said.
    They’d forgotten about the party food, which was sitting in the fridge on two big plates under foil, not separated out now, but the remains of half a dozen dishes jammed together. The vol-au-vents were flaking, soft and clothy, the Coronation Chicken a little brown and crusty round the edges; the rice salad, flecked with red peppers, hadn’t really been touched the night before, and it didn’t look nicer now. Everything seemed sad and unfestive, like tinsel in the full light of day. Jane and Daniel took it out, and she set the table with five places. There was some lettuce and tomatoes too; she made a salad, put out the salad cream.
    “I don’t like rice,” Tim said, following her from the kitchen to the dining room. “I don’t like that yellow stuff either. I want beans on toast.”
    “You be quiet,” Jane said. “You’re too fussy about your food.”
    “I can’t help it.”
    Katherine came down, her face washed and recomposed. “Good girl!” she said brightly, when she saw Jane had set the dinner out. They ate; there was nothing to wait for with the food. Daniel ate quickly; hewas always hungry, and nothing got in the way of that. Katherine filled a plate for Tim, ignoring his protests; he poked at it, eating a little here and there. Neither he nor Daniel was thinking about their father. Jane put food on her plate—a strange assortment, like the hopeful random selection you make at a party, not necessarily meaning to eat everything but taking a bit of each. She watched her mother nervously; she was looking around her, on edge, not eating. After a few minutes, Tim said, “I don’t like rice,” again. “I don’t like those red things, those peppers, in it.”
    “Then don’t eat it,” Katherine said abruptly. “Go hungry.” She got up sharply—almost as if she were going to strike him—and went into the hall. They could hear her rifling through the address book by the telephone. Jane and Daniel exchanged a short, scared look. Their parents