Free Atonement by Ian McEwan Page B

was a
construction she must have once overheard, and she had uttered it in blind
faith, like an apprentice mouthing the incantation of a magus.
    It appeared
to work.
Marshall
winced in
acknowledgment of his error, and leaned toward the twins. “Now you two
listen carefully to me. It’s clear to everybody that your parents are
absolutely wonderful people who love you very much and think about you all the
time.”
    Jackson and
Pierrot nodded in solemn agreement. Job done,
Marshall
turned his attention
back to Lola. After two strong gin cocktails in the drawing room with Leon and
his sister,
Marshall
had come upstairs to
find his room, unpack and change for dinner. Without removing his shoes, he had
stretched out on the enormous four-poster and, soothed by the country silence,
the drinks and the early evening warmth, dropped away into a light sleep in
which his young sisters had appeared, all four of them, standing around his
bedside, prattling and touching and pulling at his clothes. He woke, hot across
his chest and throat, uncomfortably aroused, and briefly confused about his
surroundings. It was while he was sitting on the edge of his bed, drinking
water, that he heard the voices that must have prompted his dream. When he went
along the creaky corridor and entered the nursery, he had seen three children.
Now he saw that the girl was almost a young woman, poised and imperious, quite
the little Pre-Raphaelite princess with her bangles and tresses, her painted
nails and velvet choker.
    He said to
her, “You’ve jolly good taste in clothes. Those trousers suit you
especially well, I think.”
    She was
pleased rather than embarrassed and her fingers lightly brushed the fabric
where it ballooned out across her narrow hips. “We got them in
Liberty
’s when my
mother brought me to
London
to see a show.”
    “And
what did you see?”
    “
Hamlet
.”
They had in fact seen a matinee pantomime at the London Palladium during which
Lola had spilled a strawberry drink down her frock, and
Liberty
’s was right
across the street.
    “One of
my favorites,” Paul said. It was fortunate for her that he too had
neither read nor seen the play, having studied chemistry. But he was able to
say musingly, “To be or not to be.”
    “That
is the question,” she agreed. “And I like your shoes.”
    He tilted his
foot to examine the craftsmanship. “Yes. Ducker’s in The Turl. They
make a wooden thingy of your foot and keep it on a shelf forever. Thousands of
them down in a basement room, and most of the people are long dead.”
    “How
simply awful.”
    “I’m
hungry,” Pierrot said again.
    “Ah
well,” Paul Marshall said, patting his pocket. “I’ve got something
to show you if you can guess what I do for a living.”
    “You’re
a singer,” Lola said. “At least, you have a nice voice.”
    “Kind
but wrong. D’you know, you remind me of my favorite sister . . .”
    Jackson
interrupted.
“You make chocolates in a factory.”
    Before too
much glory could be heaped upon his brother, Pierrot added, “We heard you
talking at the pool.”
    “Not a
guess then.”
    He drew from
his pocket a rectangular bar wrapped in greaseproof paper and measuring about
four inches by one. He placed it on his lap and carefully unwrapped it and held
it up for their inspection. Politely, they moved nearer. It had a smooth shell
of drab green against which he clicked his fingernail.
    “Sugar
casing, see? Milk chocolate inside. Good for any conditions, even if it
melts.”
    He held his
hand higher and tightened his grip, and they could see the tremor in his
fingers exaggerated by the bar.
    “There’ll
be one of these inside the kit bag of every soldier in the land. Standard
issue.”
    The twins
looked at each other. They knew that an adult had no business with sweets.
Pierrot said, “Soldiers don’t eat chocolate.”
    His brother
added, “They like cigarettes.”
    “And
anyway, why should they all get free sweets and not the