The Adulterer's Daughter: A Novel Read online

  “Follow it where?”

  “Wherever it goes.”

  “How far?”

  “All the way to the metal recycling plant.”

  “What if it’s shipped off to China for recycling?”

  “That’s a good point. I should take my passport.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Of course I’m kidding. We both know my passport has expired. I keep meaning to get that sorted.”

  “Steve, promise me you won’t leave the country in pursuit of a tin can.”

  “Do Wales and Scotland count?”

  “Oh, good grief! Promise me you won’t leave Great Britain. Do not cross any large bodies of water.”

  “Got it. I’m really quite excited about this.”

  “Yes, you said that already.”

  Steve’s phone chirruped, and he removed it from his pocket and studied the screen.

  “Who is it?” said Fiona.

  “Unknown caller. I’d better take it. Hello? ... Yes, speaking … Oh, hi. How are you? … I see. Do you know where the fuse box is? … That’s right. Go and have a look at it. You’ll probably notice that one of the switches is down but all the rest are up. Yeah? … Okay, just press the one in the down position back up again and your power should come back on … Excellent. What were you doing when it switched off? … Anything good? … No, I used to watch it, but I missed a few episodes and I’ve got no idea what’s going on anymore. Did you have any other electrical items running at the time? … No, that shouldn’t have caused it … Ah, that’s probably your culprit. If a bit of water gets into your dishwasher’s electrics, it will often trip your power. I’d better come round and have a look …”

  Steve wandered out of the kitchen as the conversation continued until Fiona could no longer make out what was being said. She heard him ascend the stairs and enter their bedroom. She heard his wardrobe door bang. She heard the toilet flush. She heard him descend the stairs two at a time.

  “Is everything okay?” she called.

  “Yeah. I’m just popping out for a bit, love. Electrical emergency.”

  And she heard the front door slam.

  Ten minutes later, when she entered their bathroom, there was an unmistakable smell of aftershave.

  Chapter 38

  Saturday 18 October, 2003

  O’Connor kitchen, 7:00 p.m.

  “He’s home,” called Ava from the window.

  “Thank the Lord.” Fiona dried her hands on a tea towel and opened the front door. “You’re still alive then.”

  Steve looked bedraggled, depressed and sheepish. “I’m so sorry, love. My phone went flat.”

  “Thirty-two hours you’ve been gone. Couldn’t you have found a phone box?”

  “No. I was in hot pursuit. If I’d stopped, I might have lost it.”

  “Lost what?”

  “The signal from my tracking device in the tin can.”

  “Good grief. I was worried sick, and you were chasing a flipping baked bean tin.”

  “Language, love. Not in front of Ava.”

  “I said ‘flipping’.”

  “Must have misheard you. It’s possible I’m hallucinating due to lack of sleep.”

  “How did it go, Dad?” said Ava.

  “Thanks for asking, sweetheart. I’m glad one of you cares about the planet.” He slumped on the sofa. “The first part was pretty boring: following a garbage truck. Drive fifty yards, stop, drive another fifty yards, stop, drive another fifty yards, stop, drive to the next village and repeat. After three hours of that, with me getting funny looks from all the garbage men, the truck was full, and I followed it to a processing centre. I had to park outside the fence and wait ages there. That’s when I ate my sandwiches and drank all my coffee. Then I was dying for a piss …”

  “Steve!”

  “Sorry. For a number one. I had to go behind a tree, petrified I was going to be arrested for indecent exposure.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t need a number two,” said Fiona with a chuckle.

  “I’m coming to that. Eventually the app on my phone showed that the tracking device was on the move again, so I set off in the same direction. But I couldn’t find the right road. Every one I tried seemed okay at first, but then our directions diverged. It took me ages to realise I was following a train. From the signposts, I gathered I was heading to flipping Felixstowe, and I was right. The closest I could get to the signal was the Felixstowe rail terminal, so I assumed my device must be in one of the shipping containers I could see there. I parked nearby and waited. It was late by then, but I was determined to stay awake. I didn’t want to miss the next stage of the journey. By dawn I was feeling rough, and desperate for a … number two.”

  “Steve, you really don’t need to tell us all the details,” said Fiona wrinkling her nose.

  He pretended she hadn’t interrupted. “So I got out of the car and crouched down behind it.”

  “Seriously, Dad? We don’t need to hear this. Did you even have any toilet paper?”

  “Who needs toilet paper? My ancestors never had toilet paper. They used moss or animal fur. You haven’t lived until you’ve wiped your bum with a bit of dead rabbit.”

  “Did you have a bit of dead rabbit?”

  “No, I used a handful of grass.”

  “Gross, Dad!”

  “Moving on. Once I’d evacuated my bowels, I was desperate for something to eat. My sandwiches and coffee were long gone. Luckily, I was able to forage for some berries in the bushes.”

  “You make it sound as if you were lost in the wilderness for weeks, desperately trying to survive against the odds. At that stage you’d only been gone about twenty hours, and you were probably less than a mile from a supermarket and a nice hotel with proper toilet facilities.”

  “But I was on an undercover mission on behalf of the planet.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Nobody. I volunteered. I’m a nonconformist eco-warrior. A lone wolf. A maverick on a solo mission. I follow my own rules. I’m not afraid to push the envelope if it needs pushing.”

  “What envelope? There’s no envelope.”

  “I mean, I’m willing to go outside the normal boundaries to achieve my goal.”

  “Then just say that. There’s no need to bring stationery into the conversation.”

  “Sorry, love.”

  “Uh-huh. What happened after your poop and berries?”

  “I sat in the car for a few more hours waiting for the tracking device to move.”

  “And did it?”

  “Eventually. Unfortunately, it started moving out into the North Sea on the back of an effing ship.”

  “That’s not good. What did you do?”

  “I hired a jet ski and set off in pursuit.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course not. But I bribed a bloke at the port to tell me where the ship was going.”

  “How much?”

  “Hmm?”

  “How much of our hard-earned money did you part with to obtain this useless information.”

  “Fifty quid.”

  “Fifty quid! That seems a bit steep to find out the destination of a container ship.”

  “Is it? I’ve never bribed anyone before. How much should I have given him?”

  Fiona sighed. “Personally, whenever I bribe stevedores or longshoremen, I start at a fiver and work my way up.”

  “Yeah, that might have been a better strategy. I thought he seemed happy.”

  “I suspect you made his day. What happened after that?”

  “Nothing. I drove home.”

  “I’ll probably regret asking this, but where was the ship going?”

  “Guangzhou, China. Coincidentally, that’s where we’re going to spend our Christmas vacation this year.”

  “What?”

  “Relax. I’m kidding. The battery on the tracking device will only last a few days. I guess I’ll never know where that particular baked bean tin ends up.”

>   “Shame. Well, I can honestly say, that was the most boring story I’ve ever heard, but I’m glad you’ve got it out of your system.”

  “What do you mean? This is just the beginning. I’ve barely scratched the surface. Will our tin get recycled in China or will it end up in a landfill? Why didn’t we recycle a perfectly good tin in this country? I’ve got so many unanswered questions.”

  “Just let it go, love. It’s not important.”

  “No way. The next recycling collection is in a fortnight, and this time I’m going to track a plastic bottle and see if I have any better luck.”

  Fiona muttered something which sounded a lot like “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” but it couldn’t have been.

  “Right,” Steve yawned. “I’m going to have a nice long soak in the bath and then go to bed.”

  Chapter 39

  Saturday 25 October, 2003

  The pub, 8:52 p.m.

  “So, what are we discussing tonight, Steve?”

  “My song.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ve written a song.”

  “Huh? You have no musical talent whatsoever,” said Ollie. “You can’t even play an instrument.”

  “I didn’t need an instrument to write this one. It’s a song designed to be sung a cappella.”

  “Presumably it’s another bloody love song,” said Eric. “As if there aren’t enough of those in the world already.”

  “It’s not a love song. It’s more of a chant. A chant that can be sung whenever England are participating in any sport: football, rugby, cricket, athletics, tennis, golf, you name it.”

  “Ah, so it’s a song for the fans to sing to motivate their team.”

  “Not quite. It’s more of a song for the fans to sing to dispel their angst and frustration.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Ollie.

  Steve rolled up his sleeves. “You know we’re rubbish at every sport we take part in?”

  “Hang on a minute. We won the football World Cup in 1966.”

  “Doesn’t count. That was thirty-seven years ago, and it was held in England.”

  “We’ve got a good chance of winning the Rugby Union World Cup this time around, even if it is in Australia. We won our first match 84-6. That’s pretty convincing.”

  “Doesn’t count. That was against Georgia, population three million. We have a population of fifty million.”

  “Well, we beat the Springboks 25-6 last Saturday, and South Africa are one of the best teams in the world.”

  Steve scratched his chin. “To be fair, that was a pretty good result, but none of the matches really count until we get out of the pool stages. It wouldn’t surprise me if we lose to Samoa tomorrow.”

  “Don’t be daft. Johnny Wilkinson could beat Samoa on his own. God, I hope he doesn’t get injured. He scored twenty of our twenty-five points against the Boks.”

  “You worry too much, Ollie. Where are we going to watch the match tomorrow?”

  “You’ve got the biggest telly, Eric. Will Serena let us watch it at your place at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning?”

  “What do you mean will she? Who do you think wears the trousers in our house?”

  Steve and Ollie looked at each other and said, in unison, “She does.”

  Eric nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, you’re probably right. You won’t believe this: she suggested I should ‘record the match and watch it later at a less ungodly hour’.”

  “What?”

  “I had to explain to her how you can only affect a sporting fixture if you watch it live. If you record a match, by the time you get around to watching it, it’s already happened, and obviously you can’t influence it once it’s in the past.”

  “Exactly.”

  “She seemed to think I couldn’t affect it at all from twenty-thousand miles away.”

  “Women! They don’t know anything about sport. What would be the point of us shouting advice at our teams from the comfort of our armchairs, if it didn’t have any effect?”

  “You need to convince her, mate. We could watch it at mine, but our telly is shit and Mia, Barney and Jemima will be in and out all the time, breaking our concentration.”

  “That’s no good. We’re going to have to really focus if we’re going win this World Cup. No distractions. Martin Johnson, Johnny Wilkinson, and the whole squad require our undivided attention.”

  “I’m sure I can convince her,” said Eric. “I’ll point out that watching sport boosts testosterone levels. It’s brilliant for the libido.”

  “Yours or hers?” Ollie asked innocently.

  Eric frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Apparently some women get aroused by watching thirty hunky, sweaty men rubbing up against each other in pursuit of an oval ball.”

  “Not Serena. She only has eyes for me. I’ll tell her there are plenty of scientific studies showing that exercise increases testosterone in men my age.”

  “Isn’t that from taking part in sport, rather than just watching it?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Are you still having problems with your libido, mate?” said Steve.

  “What do you mean ‘still’? I’ve never had any problems in that area, but Serena lets me get away with anything if she thinks it will increase her chances of getting pregnant.”

  “I see. Can we assume we’re watching the match at your place then?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Cool. So, how does this song of yours go then, Steve?”

  “Oh, yeah. The lyrics are pretty simple: ‘We suck! La la la la, we suck!’ And then it repeats ad infinitum in the tradition of all good sporting chants, like ‘You’re shit and you know you are!’ and the classic ‘The referee’s a wanker!’”

  “What’s the tune?”

  “I’ll sing it:

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la la la, we suuuuuuuck.

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la la la, we suuuuuuuck.

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la la la, we suuuuuuuck.

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la la …

  “All right. I think we get the idea.”

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la la la, we suuuuuuuck.

  We suuuuuuuuck! La la ...

  “You can stop now, mate. People are staring.”

  “Probably impressed by my talent. What do you think?”

  “It’s not exactly very supportive, is it?”

  “Obviously we don’t sing it while we’re winning. This chant is for when we’ve once again managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, and there’s still twenty minutes of misery left in the match. It’s a cathartic way to get rid of all our frustration.”

  “I like the tune. It’s catchy.”

  “But not the lyrics?”

  “They’re hardly lyrics. There’s only three words, and one of them is ‘la’.”

  “Well, Mandy is very impressed with my songwriting talents.”

  “Mandy?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Mandy the barmaid over there with the big boobs who’s smiling at you?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “She’s easily impressed.”

  “I don’t think you guys realise you’re sitting in the presence of greatness. I could be the next Barry Gibb.”

  “Who?”

  “The good-looking one from the Bee Gees.”

  “Does he write songs? I thought he was just in the band for his handsome face and hairy chest.”

  “Nuh-uh. He’s the main talent. He writes all their best songs.”

  “Fascinating. So, here’s an interesting question: When did you sing your song to Mandy?”

  “Before I answer that,” said Steve. “There’s something I’d like to circle back to.”

  “That’s not an expression, mate.”

  “You know what I mean. Eric, you described a rugby ball as ‘oval’. I once made that same mistake, and Mia nearly bit my head off. An oval – from the Latin ovum – is a closed curve in a plane which resembles the ou
tline of an egg, but it’s flat. Two dimensional. A rugby ball is clearly three dimensional. The 3D version of an oval is called an ovoid, but rugby balls aren’t that shape either. They’re actually prolate spheroids with the profile of an elongated ellipse.”

  “Now you’re just showing off,” said Eric.

  Nine more drinks were imbibed that night before the three friends went their separate ways, but Steve never did answer the question.

  Chapter 40

  Sunday 26 October, 2003

  McDougal living room, 10:45 a.m.

  “Hmm.” Ollie slumped in his chair. “That was closer than I was expecting.”

  “35-22,” said Eric.

  “Against Samoa,” said Steve.

  “Rough,” barked Stumpy.

  “Coffee?” said Serena.

  Chapter 41

  Wednesday 29 October, 2003

  The quarry car park, 5:30 p.m.

  Betty Reed (65) parked her car near the old quarry, well back from the precipitous edge, and took out a flask of hot chocolate. From her high vantage point, she could already tell it was going to be a beautiful sunset. Beyond the village, stolid cows were casting long shadows over the lush grass. From the north, in v-formation, a flock of pink-footed geese (Anser brachyrhynchus) honked across the sky, nearing the end of their long annual journey from Greenland to Norfolk.

  “Nine consonants in a row, Bet,” Henry would have said, as he always did. He loved his birds and his words did Henry.

  Betty had been sixteen the first time he drove her there in his swanky second-hand Morris Minor. It was the car that seduced her. None of her friends was dating a boy with a car, but she was. He was kind of cute too. Shy at first, but slowly gaining in confidence. She laughed at his jokes, feigned interest in his anecdotes, and kept her head at exactly the perfect angle to enable him to kiss her if only he would lean forward another six inches. Perhaps if she pouted, it would reduce the distance slightly.

  That had been nearly fifty years ago. Within weeks she had fallen pregnant. Within months they were married. Within years they were a happy family of five.