Free Play Dead by Peter Dickinson Page B

of pesto—was there still a tin of peaches? He expected her to do her share of the talking, keeping her up to the mark with his abrupt, almost ferocious questions and comments.
    â€˜What have you got against Tippett?’
    â€˜I didn’t mean that. I expect I’m not quite ready. Teaching myself, you see, starting with the easy people like, you know, Mozart …’
    â€˜Mozart is easy?’
    â€˜No, of course not. He just seems easy when you’re starting. He gives you enough to keep you happy, straight off, even if you know nothing about it. It’s like the sort of wine you like when you’re eighteen … If you want wine with your eggs we’ll have to stop and buy some.’
    â€˜Milk for me.’
    â€˜Oh, I’m almost out. Mr Jinja will be open. On the corner after the next lights.’
    â€˜So you’re not ready for Tippett …’
    The flat, normally so cloistral in its half-basement at the end of the cul-de-sac, seemed to vibrate with the energies of his presence. Poppy showed him into the living-room and lit the gas.
    â€˜My kitchen’s too small for two,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind waiting. I’ll be about ten minutes. The loo’s opposite. Tell me if you don’t like cats and I’ll shut Elias in the kitchen.’
    â€˜I like cats. May I have my milk at blood temperature, please?’
    Poppy heard him use the loo while she cooked. The sound reminded her of nights when Alex had come. No, this wasn’t going to be like that. He wanted to talk about music—it was clear Mrs Capstone was unable to satisfy that need, at least. Poppy liked to think of herself as an efficient user of her kitchen, and now made a point of putting the simple meal together with a speed that would impress him, the eggs on wholemeal toast, the bacon grilled crisp, the carrots sliced lengthwise to dip in the pesto. When she carried the tray through she found him sitting in her armchair with Elias purring on his lap. It is ridiculous the things about which one can feel a twitch of jealousy, but for size alone they made a fitting pair.
    â€˜You’re honoured,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t do that for everyone.’
    He allowed her to wait on him, then ate in silence. As with music, he seemed to concentrate all his attention on the matter in hand, so Poppy stayed silent too. He finished by drinking his milk.
    â€˜Thank you,’ he said, as he put his mug down. ‘Exactly right.’
    â€˜Coffee?’
    â€˜Not for me. What do you make of my daughter?’
    â€˜Oh, well …’
    â€˜The truth, please.’
    â€˜You’ve got to remember how much they can change. She’s obviously a difficult child now, but she may simply be getting through that phase of her life. I have a friend whose daughter lived a really vivid, weird, private imaginative life until she was about seven, and seems never to have had even a moment of mild fancy since. She’s thirty now. I’m biased about Deborah because she gets on so well with Toby. It’s as though there are two people in there, one being extremely self-willed and capricious, and the other standing back and rather coolly watching the effect she is having.’
    â€˜Her psychiatrist says she is fighting to make a space for herself. My wife and I are considered to have strong personalities.’
    â€˜I expect there’s something in that. I don’t know. I don’t get the impression she’s an unhappy child. Anyway I wouldn’t have thought there was a lot you or your wife or anyone else could do about it. Deborah will be what she chooses to be. I do think you can mess children around by having theories about them. My husband was brought up rigidly on the Truby King system, and it made … oh, you don’t want to know that. I think you should do whatever really feels right at the time, and in particular show that you love them. I thought