Breaking the Chain Read Online Free PDF Page A

would speak when he was spoken to, certainly, but he never chatted. He never spontaneously brought up a subject and enlarged upon it. He never delighted her with unexpected thoughts, or (crazy optimistic idea) expressed his hopes or his fears … In the four years she had been with him, he had never yet confided in her. Phoebe felt that she had changed and become ‘we’. Duncan was still stubbornly T. She sighed. ‘Did you ever meet her?’ she asked.
    ‘A f-few times, yes.’
    ‘What was she like?’
    ‘Nice e-enough.’
    ‘No! Describe her to me. Was she tall/short? fair/dark? fat/thin? happy/sad? clever/stupid? warm/cold? posh/common?rich/poor?’ Phoebe drew breath. ‘I mean, what was she
like?’
She could hear herself sounding exasperated and she could see Duncan pulling up his drawbridge. His face took on a familiar mulish look and he refused to meet her eyes.
    ‘Sh-She was g-grey when I knew her, and she w-was t-tallish and c-c-c-c-c …’ He always stammered more at times like this. Phoebe clenched her hands into fists under the table, and willed him to get it out. ‘… Clever. She had a doctorate,’ Duncan said eventually.
    ‘What in?’
    ‘I d-don’t know.’
    ‘Your mother said she was tiresome,’ Phoebe probed.
    ‘J-Just give it a rest, w-will you?’ Duncan said, getting up and banging his mug of tea down.
    ‘Where are you going?’
    He didn’t answer. Instead he said, ‘T-Talking of Mother r-reminds me. She told me to t-tell you. This November the t-twenty-seventh is their G-Golden Wedding,’ and he went out into the garden.
    Hell! thought Phoebe. I suppose that means she’s expecting us to do something about it.

Chapter Three
    Duncan enjoyed his honeymoon in Norfolk in June of’87. They hired a dinghy on one of the secluded Broads where motorboats are not allowed, and they rowed out to a far bay through rafts of water lilies, towards a patch of clear brown water. Here they anchored and whilst Phoebe read a novel, Duncan got out his tin of questing maggots and his fishing rod and proceeded to fill his keepnet with coarse freshwater fish; bream and roach and the odd rudd.
    ‘What do they taste like?’ Phoebe asked.
    ‘M-Mud and b-bones.’
    ‘You mean you’re going to all that trouble and we aren’t going to eat any of them? What are you going to do with them then?’
    ‘P-Put them back again.’
    ‘What’s the point?’
    ‘S-S-skill!’ Duncan smiled at her. She had got herself cozily curled up at the bow end of the boat, with her sleeping bag wrapped round her and an inflatable cushion behind her head. Her hair shone redly in the sun and the top strands lifted lazily in the gentle breeze. The water plopped at the sides of the boat, but otherwise all was quiet. They had brought sandwiches and a flask of coffee and a large umbrella in case of rain. What more could one want? Duncan thought contentedly. ‘Good book?’ he asked her.
    ‘Very. It’s all about how women feel and how people don’t communicate with each other like they should, and about the crises that happen in their lives because of that. It’s fascinating. You should read it.’
    ‘D-Doesn’t sound m-much like my sort of thing,’ Duncan said.
    ‘What is your sort of thing then?’
    ‘I don’t know – thrillers, w-war stories, b-biography…’
    ‘Does emotion frighten you?’ She had put her book down andwas staring straight at him. He felt as if she were challenging him to a contest; one in which he had no desire to engage. He avoided her eyes.
    ‘What an o-odd qu-question!’ he parried.
    ‘So why don’t you answer it?’
    But his line tightened at that moment and he became fully occupied with landing another bream. Phoebe went back to her book and appeared once more to be absorbed in it. He wished she wouldn’t suddenly come out with attacks like that. They were disconcerting. He didn’t wish to discuss such things.
    There was a sudden splash. Duncan looked up to see a large pale bird of prey