A Desirable Residence - By Madeleine Wickham Page 0,55

knee. The final few minutes of a documentary were playing, and when the title music had finished her father silenced the screen with the remote control. He looked up and smiled at Alice.

‘Did you have a nice time this evening?’

‘Brilliant,’ said Alice, her mouth full of lasagne. ‘We played Scrabble.’

‘Scrabble! What fun. We haven’t played that for ages.’ Jonathan looked at Liz. ‘Do you feel like a game of Scrabble?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Liz spoke in a bored voice. Then she smiled. ‘No, actually, that would be nice. Get the board out.’

When he returned, Jonathan was carrying a piece of paper.

‘I’ve got my sponsorship form for the ECO Christmas Parade,’ he said. ‘Will you sponsor me?’

‘How much?’ said Alice. She felt grown-up and generous.

‘You should be going on the parade, Alice, not sponsoring it,’ objected Liz. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be a member of the society?’

‘Yes, well, I gave out leaflets, didn’t I?’ said Alice. ‘I’m not dressing up as a bloody tree again.’

‘It’s birds this year,’ said Jonathan, ‘and don’t swear. We’ve been doing a lot of interesting work in the local woodland. The number of species that manage to survive, just around Silchester, is incredible. But some of them are terribly at risk.’ He felt for his glasses. ‘Anyway, you can fill in the form later. Let’s get on with the Scrabble.’

The sight of the little square pieces in her rack made Alice want to laugh out loud again at the memory of Duncan. She rearranged them for a second or two, then looked up expectantly.

‘Who’s going first?’ she said, in a voice that sounded too loud in this little room. ‘I will.’

‘Have you forgotten?’ said her father, smiling at her indulgently. ‘We all pick a letter out of the bag to decide that. Go on.’ Alice watched in frustration as her father deliberately picked a piece from the bag, then passed it on.

‘I’m first,’ announced Liz. She looked at her pieces. ‘Hmm. What shall I put?’

Alice gazed at her as she peered at her letters, picking one up, putting it back down again, frowning and cupping her chin in her hand. Then she looked at her father, busily drawing up a chart for the scores. He was actually using a ruler. A ruler, for Christ’s sake!

‘Here we are,’ said Liz eventually. ‘Temple. Not very exciting, I’m afraid.’

‘Well done,’ said Jonathan. ‘How many’s that?’ There was a silence while he notched up the points. Alice felt like screaming. All the sounds in the room seemed magnified: the clinking of the pieces, the rustle of the bag, her mother’s breathing and her father’s Biro.

‘Alice,’ he said. ‘Your turn.’

Alice stared at her pieces, willing something exciting to happen.

‘Can I have Pete?’ she said eventually.

‘P-E-A-T?’ said her father.

‘No, P-E-T-E,’ said Alice. She looked challengingly at her father.

‘That’s a proper name,’ he said. ‘Not allowed. Try again!’

‘What about Teep? I’m sure there’s such a word as Teep!’ Her voice sounded slightly hysterical to her own ears, and she looked at her mother for a bit of support. She could at least laugh. But her mother was gazing moodily into space and didn’t even seem to have heard her.

‘Really, Alice!’ Her father looked at her in surprise. ‘You must be able to do better than that. Let me have a look.’

Alice passed her letters silently over to him, and felt a crushing sense of misery fall over her. She didn’t want to be sitting in this poky, silent little room. She didn’t want to be here, playing Scrabble with her awful, boring parents. She wanted to be back at twelve Russell Street, playing with Ginny and Duncan and laughing and drinking, and glancing up every so often to see whether, by any remote, delicious chance, Piers might be looking at her.

CHAPTER NINE

Early on the morning of the ECO Parade, Anthea drove into Silchester and came back with two big boxes.

‘Boys!’ she called as she came in through the door. ‘Come here and see what I’ve got!’

They arrived in the hall still in their pyjamas and dressing-gowns, munching on Weetabix. Hannah followed behind, holding a mug of the strong, sweet breakfast tea without which she couldn’t function in the mornings.

‘Look!’ said Anthea proudly, and held out a box to Daniel. He peered at it.

‘Owl, ten to twelve,’ he read.

‘This one’s Owl, eight to ten,’ reported Andrew. ‘I wonder what they are,’ he added interestedly.

‘Open it and see,’ said Anthea. Daniel looked up at her. He had a dawning, awful suspicion as to what might