The Chalice

'Interesting to meet you. Councillor.' Archer watched him go, shaking his head almost kindly. 'Quaint little person. Surely the last of a dying breed.'

'He's a nice man, Archer.' Diane moved defensively behind the counter.

'I'm sure he is. Diane, reason I called. Father's been trying to reach you – with a conspicuous lack of success – to find out what you were doing for Christmas.'

'If you remember,' Diane said icily, 'the last time I saw Father was when he had me kidnapped.'

'Oh Diane…' Archer twitching off his gloves. 'What can one say? The old man was thinking of me. A trifle embarrassing if the news of one's election had appeared next to the arrest of one's sister, along with two dozen smelly hippies, for public order offences. But you're quite right, an overreaction Educated people make allowances for you now.'

Archer smiled his vulpine smile She noticed he'd developed lady Thatcher's mannerism of finishing a sentence by putting the head on one side and exposing the teeth.

'Archer…' Diane stopped suddenly, realising she was being given a chance to mention what the Rankins had done to Headlice. Archer was watching her, unblinking, and Diane felt a stillness come upon the room. The colours of the books on the display stands seemed to be neutralising before her eyes.

She let her arms fall to her sides in defeat. 'It… it's just you can't do that, you know, that… that sort of thing.'

The words mushy and inexact, not quite aware of what she was saying. 'I mean I'm twenty-seven, which… which makes me a… grown-up person, you know?' Blinking to clear her vision. 'I mean, what… what was he going to do, lock me in the attic?'

Archer retracted his smile If he was relieved she hadn't mentioned the Headlice business he wasn't showing it.

'Diane, believe me, when Juanita Carey arrived to collect you, we couldn't have been more happy. A responsible woman, in spite of…'

Archer gesticulated at the books with a certain nosewrinkling contempt.

'Really 'palling tragedy, though. Wondering if I ought to pop in and see her in hospital. Take a bunch of flaaahs.'

'Perhaps not,' Diane said carefully. She felt as if she were standing in a pool of grey water, its temperature just above her body heat.

'Whatever you think best. Anyway, we're all jolly happy to see you apparently settled and working on this little… ah… periodical… pamphlet thing.'

Diane let it go. They weren't making a great secret of The Avalonian, but the less Archer knew the better. She didn't want to talk about the new road either. And certainly not the Tor; Archer was its enemy. And her…

'So.' He beamed, 'What are you doing for Christmas? Because, Father and I thought you might like to join us – family, friends, neighbours. Party people – at Bowermead. The usual Christmas Day gathering and then the hunt, of course, on Boxing Day. We couldn't possibly think of you being so close and not joining in the festive fun.'

Diane could almost feel the bloody dampness on her thighs as she remembered Archer's idea of festive fun. She could hardly see him now, the shop was so dark, its window and door clouded with fog. She heard her own voice say, 'Tell Father it's terribly kind of him, but I think Juanita's going to be out of hospital for Christmas. And she won't be able to use her hands much, you see. Not properly. Not for some time.'

'Ah, yes. How good you are, Diane. I shall try and explain it to Father.'

Diane felt a movement in the pool of mist at her side.

'Of course it was his original intention…' Archer's little smile was almost coy, '… to invite Patrick and his family.'

She clutched at the counter, feeling sick with hatred, the loathing solid and real inside her and also, somehow, existing separately, in the room

'If you'd then refused to come, he'd doubtless have sent Patrick to fetch you and it would all have been horribly embarrassing. Tact, diplomacy and forethought never being Father's middle names. Don't worry, my dear, I've talked him out of it.'

'Thank you,' Diane said on a long, volcanic breath. 'Thank you, Archer.'

'I'll be on my way then.' Archer slipped a glove over his hand, paused in the doorway. 'And when is this little paper of yours to be published?'

'Er… er, next year perhaps.'

'Oh, nothing imminent then?'

'We want to get it right.'

'Absolutely. I'm sure Father will be delighted to see you deploying your, ah, new-found journalistic skills.'

She saw how cold his eyes were.

'Even if it is in our backyard, as it were,' Archer said.

'Even if it scorns all our best endeavours.'

He raised a gloved hand. 'Look after yourself, Diane Damned hippies and squatters are turning this town into a jungle. Drug-dealing. Burglaries. Muggings. Vandalism.' He caught her eyes. 'Graffiti.'

Diane's insides were already pumping like a sewage works as she slammed the door in his face and barely made it to the kitchen sink before her meagre carob-bar breakfast came up in a horrid brown fountain.

FIVE All for Real

Sam tried to gaze casually out or the print-shop window, his chair angled meaningfully away as Charlotte rushed out, slammed into her Golf – blatantly parked on the double-yellows, Daddy being in the same lodge as the chief superintendent – and wafted imperiously off down Magdalene Street.

'Bitch.' He saw two blokes unloading the lights for the Christmas tree in front of the bank. Some bloody Christmas this was going to be.

'What's that, Sam?'

'Didn't say a word, Paul.'

'Oh. Right. Thought you didn't.' Paul, young Mr Tact, went back to his work. He didn't like Charlotte, Sam could tell. He guessed the kid was still a bit scared of high-octane women, not realising they could be just as half-baked under the gloss.

Charlotte, eh? like, what a snotty cow. All the advertising she could have pointed The Avalonian's way… what with working for Stan Pike and Daddy being chairman of the Chamber of Trade and all this crap. She could even have put the arm on Pike to give The Avalonian the all-clear to his mates. 'It is not a hippy rag,' Sam had insisted. 'How many times I got to spell it out? It's a genuine, solid publication.'

'With Diane Ffitch?' Charlotte had replied just now. 'Diane Ffitch? You call being edited by that fruitcake solid?'

'All right, stuff it, then,' Sam had snarled 'We don't need Pike, bloody backstreet used-house dealer.'

Charlotte. Bloody Charlotte, eh? Things had been very much on the blink since he'd made that minor scene at the Glastonbury First gig over the old man and Archer Ffitch. Time to call it a day?

Three years, though. Three years of storms and upsets and sexy making-up sessions. Three years of political arguments and being produced as Charlotte's bit of rough at too many posh parties.

Naturally, she'd backed him all the way in starting up the print-shop, becoming a local businessman, like Daddy, like Stanlow Pike. When Sam became a businessman, Charlotte started circling dates on the calendar for the engagement party. Cracked it at last, brought the anarchist to heel.

Charlotte had got Sam the contract for printing all Pike and Corner's property brochures, which was a major deal.

The major deal… until Juanita Carey had come up with the idea for The Avalonian. Which little Charlotte, of course, didn't like the sound of at all, from the outset.

Sam lit a cigarette.

Another thing about Charlotte was the way she nagged him about his smoking. like he was already her property and she was making sure he came with a full warranty. How could a woman of twenty-six come over so bloody middle-aged? Nil prospect of her moving into the flat without something official, on paper, signed in triplicate. Twice they'd almost wound it up. Trouble was, she looked so seriously edible, waiting for him by the market cross, parked on a double yellow. Could he really stand to see her hanging out for some slimy accountant with a BMW?