Майкл Ридпат - The Diplomat’s Wife

Phil’s father wasn’t usually a mean bastard. David Dewar was a kind, eminently reasonable, reliable husband and father. But he didn’t like risk; he was a little afraid of life. He had been unhappy when Phil had decided to hitch-hike rather than take the train. He had been disappointed when Phil had turned down the chance to work in an insurance company in London over the summer. Dad saw this as a great opportunity for Phil to see what the insurance business — his world — was like, and to secure the all-important bottom rung on a sturdy career ladder. Phil thought, feared even, that he would end up spending most of the rest of his life in an office and he didn’t want to start now.

The replacement for the Rover was going to cost £550, in addition to the insurance money, and the previous evening Dad had informed Phil that Phil would have to pay. Three hundred now and the remaining £250 when he had earned it over the summer.

Phil had argued; he had pleaded. He had almost burst into tears.

But Dad had loved his brown Rover. He believed, deeply and passionately, in financial accountability. Phil would have to pay.

Now Phil wouldn’t have the money to go to Europe. Not only that, he would have to go back to the building site to earn the £250 he was short — if there was still a job for him.

Grams fixed her son-in-law with those interrogating eyes. ‘Didn’t you insure the car, David?’

‘Of course I did, Emma,’ said Dad. ‘You have to; it’s the law. But with Phil on the policy, the premiums were high, so I took a five-hundred-and-fifty-pound excess. It always makes sense to do that if you can afford it, you know.’

‘If you can afford it?’ said Grams. ‘Not if Phil can afford it?’

‘I’m the one paying the premium.’

‘Yes, I see that. But apparently Phil is the one paying the excess. And he demonstrably cannot afford it.’

One — nil to Grams! Phil did his best not to chuckle into his Yorkshire pudding. A quick glance at his father’s reddening face told him two things. Dad immediately understood his mother-in-law’s point. And he hadn’t thought of it himself. Which, as the insurance executive, he should have done.

A glimmer of hope flared. Maybe Dad would admit defeat? Maybe he would pay the excess? Maybe Phil was still going to Europe?

Dad bit back whatever he was going to say and took a sip from his small wine glass.

‘Phil has to learn financial responsibility at some point, and eighteen is the right age.’ Dad’s voice was uncharacteristically firm. Phil realized he had been backed into a corner; there was no way out to save face apart from sticking to his guns. He glanced at his son. ‘I’m sorry, Phil, that’s just the way it is.’

‘Caroline? What do you think?’

‘I think David’s absolutely right, Mother.’ Mum was sticking by Dad, as she always would in any argument with Grams. Reluctantly, Phil acknowledged the score was now two — one to his father.

Grams seemed about to argue, but then she threw in the towel. ‘I do hope I can come and see you when you get to Edinburgh?’ she said.

‘If I get to Edinburgh,’ said Phil. ‘I’ve got to get my grades first. But, yes, I’d love to see you.’

‘Anything for free food,’ said Mum in an attempt to lighten the mood. Phil couldn’t bring himself to smile. In fact, he almost didn’t ask for seconds, to make the point that he was very unhappy. But the beef was very good. And so were the roast potatoes.

The conversation flowed as the three adults coped well with the grumpy teenager, however justified his grumps. Mel kept her head down until Emma questioned her on a new musical form she had read about in The Times , something called ‘2 Tone ska’. Phil had barely heard of it, but Mel was an avid reader of the New Musical Express, and was able to fill her grandmother in, while Grams told Mel all about Jamaican ska in the 1960s.

Not for the first time, Phil found himself wondering how the hell does she know that? He was sure his parents were asking themselves the same thing.

Phil was finishing his second helping of his mother’s excellent Eve’s pudding and custard when his grandmother took a sip of her wine.

‘You know, David, I might have something for Philip.’

‘Something?’ said Dad.

‘Yes. A job. A way for him to earn his two hundred and fifty pounds. Possibly a bit more.’

‘Oh yes?’ Dad was guarded. Phil was all ears.

‘Of course, he might not want to do it.’

Dad looked pleased at this.

Grams glanced at Phil. ‘For a while now, I have been thinking of driving around Europe myself. Visiting some of my old haunts from before the war. You know — Paris, Berlin, places Roland was posted.’

Roland was Phil’s late grandfather, a former diplomat.

‘I really thought this would be the summer to do it. In fact, I was intending to perhaps meet you and your friend and take you out to dinner in Paris or somewhere.’

Phil’s father’s brows knitted in a frown.

‘I don’t want to go by myself. And now it looks as if I will need a driver. So I wonder if you would oblige, Philip? I would pay for all your meals and accommodation, naturally. And perhaps three hundred pounds?’

‘Why will you need a driver?’ asked Mum.

‘Philip isn’t the only one in trouble, I’m afraid. I’m due for a visit to the magistrates’ court on Tuesday. I was caught over the limit on the road to St Austell. Most embarrassing. We’ll see, but I suspect I will lose my licence for a year. So I could do with a chauffeur. And the company.’

She smiled at Phil. It was an extraordinarily sweet, innocent smile, all the more affecting for its rarity.

‘Mother!’ Caroline looked shocked.

‘I know. I won’t do it again, I promise.’

‘And you’re planning to go in the Triumph?’ Dad asked. ‘Are you sure you are happy with Phil driving it?’

Grams’s sleek green TR6 was visible through the dining-room window, a fine-looking two-seater convertible that Phil had long admired.

‘That was my intention. Don’t worry, David, I will make sure it’s insured properly. But what do you think, Philip? I know it will be frightfully dull for you, carting an old woman around. Nothing like hitch-hiking with your friend.’

Phil grinned. ‘I think that would be great, Grams. Thank you so much!’

Dad’s frown deepened. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Emma.’

‘Oh come now, David. Philip’s eighteen. He owes money. He needs a job. He’s found a job. There’s nothing more financially responsible than that.’

Dad glanced at Mum. The score was now three — two to Grams. Dad let the final whistle blow. ‘Your grandmother is right, Phil. It’s your choice.’

‘When do we leave?’ Phil asked.

‘Next weekend all right for you?’

Phil sauntered the couple of hundred yards through the village to the Three Castles. It was a lovely summer’s evening. The rooks were settling themselves in the trees behind the vicarage; the narrow village street was quiet as the inhabitants watched Coronation Street or Crossroads , or, as in his parents’ case, tucked into the first of the evening’s gin and tonics.

Wittingcombe snoozed gently in its valley, bathed in soft evening sunlight. Ancient timbers supported the crooked bricks of the cottages that lined the road, as red, yellow and pink roses crept up the walls towards roofs that buckled and bowed. The Three Castles stood at the far end of the village, as it had done for centuries, at the point where the village high street became a country lane lined with high hedges and tangles of Queen Anne’s lace.

Phil ordered himself a pint of Brakspear at the bar, and settled at his favourite table between the dartboard and the jukebox. Although school hadn’t technically broken up yet, now exams were over the pupils didn’t have to show up, so Phil had been surprised and a little flattered when his French teacher, Mr Parsons, had rung him to suggest they meet for a drink.