Damage Read Free Page B

chagrin, he was made political correspondent. When he was twenty-three, he got a junior journalist’s job on a Fleet Street newspaper. He left the small flat we had created for him over the garage, and found a place of his own.
    Ingrid was pleased by his success, and single-mindedness. It was such a flattering contrast to the sons of our friends, who seemed so unsure of everything. To me, however, he remained an enigma. I looked at him sometimes and reminded myself that he was my son. He would shoot a questioning look back at me, and smile. I knew that with Martyn my performance was only adequate.
    With Sally, I fared a little better. She was earnest and sweet. Her small talent for painting she developed to its highest potential. She became a junior in the design department of a publishing company.
    So here was a marriage, its outlines clear. I was a faithful, if not passionate, husband, and I acted lovingly and responsibly towards my children. I had seen them safely through to young adulthood. My ambitions, in important and respected fields, had been realised. I had enough money from income, and private means, to put me beyond financial worry.
    What man was luckier?
    I had obeyed the rules. I had been rewarded.
    Clear direction, some luck, and here I was, fifty and fully realised.

S EVEN
    I HAVE SOMETIMES LOOKED at old photographs of the smiling faces of victims, and searched them desperately for some sign that they knew. Surely they must have known that within hours or days their life was to end in that car crash, in that aeroplane disaster, or in domestic tragedy. But I can find no sign whatever. Nothing. They look out serenely, a terrible warning to us all. ‘No I didn’t know. Just like you … there were no signs.’ ‘I who died at thirty … I too had planned my forties.’ ‘I who died at twenty had dreamed, as you do, of the roses round the cottage some day. It could happen to you. Why not? Why me? Why you? Why not?’
    So I know that in whatever photographs were taken of me at that time, my face will gaze back at you confident, a trifle cold, but basically unknowing. It is the face of a man I no longer understand. I know the bridge that connects me to him. But the other side has disappeared. Disappeared like some piece of land the sea has overtaken. There may be some landmarks on the beach, at low tide, but that is all.
    ‘She looks older than you. Not a lot. But how old is she?’
    ‘She’s thirty-three.’
    ‘Well, that’s eight years older than you, Martyn.’
    ‘So what?’
    ‘So nothing. Just the fact that she is eight years older than you.’
    ‘Who are you talking about?’ I asked. We were in the kitchen.
    ‘Anna Barton, Martyn’s latest girlfriend.’
    ‘Oh. She’s new, isn’t she?’
    ‘Oh, God. You make me sound as if I’m some sort of Casanova.’
    ‘Well, aren’t you?’
    ‘No.’ Martyn sounded sad. ‘Or if I was once, it’s finished. Well, anyway, I just never met anyone who mattered.’
    ‘Does she?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘This Anna Burton.’
    ‘Barton. Anna Barton. I’ve only known her for a few months. Well, she’s more important than the others.’
    ‘Brighter too,’ said Sally.
    ‘Oh, you’d recognise a bright girl would you, Sally? She’d be something like you no doubt.’
    ‘There are many different types of intelligence, Martyn. Mine’s artistic. Yours is for words. That’s all. But you couldn’t draw a cat to save your life.’
    The Sally who had blushed or cried at Martyn’s attacks was long gone. She was not close to her brother, and depended on him not at all. The subject of Anna Barton was dropped quietly with the Sunday post-lunch conversation. She was not referred to again by either Martyn or Sally.
    ‘You don’t like this Anna person then?’ I asked Ingrid as we prepared for bed.
    She paused for a long time and then said:
    ‘No. No, I don’t.’
    ‘Why? Surely it’s not just because she’s eight years older than Martyn.’
    ‘Partly. No, she