The Chinese Egg (4 page)

“If it was magic, I could see anything I wanted. I could see my father,” Vicky said to herself.

A man stepped into the frame. With a start of fright, relief and disappointment, Vicky saw Mr. Stanford, her Dad, back from the tube train depot at the end of his Saturday morning shift.

The term ended. Suddenly released from the pressure of work and from regular hours, Chris and Vicky had an orgy of self-indulgence. They stayed up watching the late-night shows on television, fell into bed after midnight, and didn't get up next morning till lunch-time. They went up to Oxford Street and window-shopped for hours, coming back exhausted and almost as much pleased with themselves as if they'd bought any of the stupendous clothes they'd seen. They spent whole lazy mornings sitting in cafés, making one cup of coffee and a packet of biscuits last for an hour. Fired by Mrs. Stanford's success with the dress for Vicky, Chris bought a length of white material and a pattern and made herself a skirt for the first time ever. She bought a palest pink skinny cotton top to wear with it and looked like a delicious ice-cream. Vicky was half envious, half proud to be seen with her. Boys swarmed round her, pressing her with invitations, eager to please, and Chris dealt with them all sweetly and firmly and politely and went out with those she liked, her head totally unturned, choosing, in spite of the flattery of these male attentions, to spend most of her time with Vicky as she had for the last fifteen years.

“You don't have to turn anyone down because of me. I wouldn't mind if you wanted to go out with a fellow,” Vicky said one day that first week of freedom. They were sitting over their coffees in the café near the pedestrian crossing. Vicky would have liked to avoid it, but it was the only one nearby that supplied proper coffee and where the biscuits were not infinitely old.

“I don't not go out with anyone because I think you'd mind. I didn't want to go with Joe, he's not my type.”

“What is your type?”

“Don't know, really. Suggest someone.”

“Timmy?”

“I like what he looks like, but he's terribly conceited.”

“Nick?”

“Not really. I mean I like Nick all right, he's sweet but I wouldn't want to go out with him. I mean be going out with him properly, if you see what I mean.”

“What about Alistair?” Vicky asked. She had rather a thing about Alistair herself, though he'd never taken any notice of her.

“He looks great, but he's terribly dull. When we went out the other evening he hardly said anything at all.”

“Perhaps he's shy.”

“He may be, but it's not much fun for whoever he's with. Go on.”

“Can't think of anyone else,” Vicky said lazily.

“I'll tell you who I do like. I like Paul.”

“Paul? But he's—what do you like about him?”

“Don't know. I just do, that's all.”

“I like him. He's nice. But I wouldn't have thought you'd want to go out with him. Properly, like you said,” Vicky said.

“Because he's lame? That's what you were going to say, isn't it?”

“I know it really doesn't matter. I just wouldn't have thought you'd fancy him.”

“You talk about him as if he was some kind of leper,” Chris said, for once unusually disturbed.

“I didn't mean to.”

“He's clever. He's about the cleverest boy they've ever had in the school. Molly told me. He's in her father's class.”

“Has he ever asked you to go steady?” Vicky asked.

“No.”

How surprising it was, Vicky thought, when you thought you knew someone, when you'd lived with them all the years she and Chris had lived together, done the same things, worn the same clothes, shared friends and lessons and confidences, to find that the other person had feelings and ideas you'd never guessed at. Chris had never let on, that she'd even looked at Paul twice.
He'd been to the house occasionally, but so had all Chris's other admirers. But, thinking about this secret life that presumably everyone had going on inside them, Vicky realised that she didn't say everything to Chris any more than Chris did to her. For instance she hadn't said anything like as much as she'd thought about the experience with the accident nearly a week ago. Chris might well imagine that she'd forgotten about it, or at least written it off as unimportant.

As if on cue, Chris said suddenly, “There's that boy again.”

“What boy? Where?”

“Outside on the pavement. Look, going back past the zebra light.”

“I can't see,” Vicky said, craning.

“Well, it was him, I'm sure of it. That's not the first time, either.”

“What d'you mean? Did he go past before?”

“Not just now. But I've seen him around before.”

“Where? How d'you mean?”

“I'm sure I saw him yesterday when we went to swim. And then afterwards in the library, while I was waiting for you, I thought I saw him sitting at the table where the papers are. He had one up in front of his face, but I'd seen it was him before.”

“What d'you think he's doing it for?” Vicky asked unhappily.

“I don't know.”

“P'raps he wants to take you out.”

“He could ask, couldn't he? I mean, it's stupid just hanging about like that.”

“I suppose so.”

“What did you do with Honey?” Chris wanted to know.

“It's here. What do you want?”

“Want to see my stars.”

“They're never any good.”

“I like reading what they say.”

“Tell me what mine is then.”

“Wait a minute. Look, someone's left a Standard at that table. You look in that and then we'll see if they're the same.”

Vicky retrieved the paper from the next table and searched for the forecast as predicted by the stars and Madam Katina.

“I don't think he's come after me. I think he wants that bit of his egg thing you've got,” Chris said, busily rifling through the pages of Honey.

“I don't see why I should give it to him.”

“It is his.”

“You can't be sure of that.”

“You could let him try and see if it fits.”

“I found it. Findings Keepings.”

“You are funny. What do you want to keep it for? It's no good to you,” Chris said.

“I just don't see why I shouldn't. Here we are. What are we? Libra. Says, ‘Venus in conjunction with Mars indicates difficulties and promises in your emotional life which may be hard to deal with. . . .'”

“He's there again!” Chris said.

“Where?”

“He was standing by that woman with the little girl.”

“I can't see.”

“I swear it was him.”

“I think you're imagining things.”

“I'm not! You're the one who sees things that aren't there.” Vicky didn't listen. She'd begun to read the story on the opposite page. “Chris, why do people steal babies? It seems such a crazy thing to do.”

“I don't know. Who has?”

“Says here, ‘
BABY STOLEN FROM PRAM WHILE MOTHER SHOPPED IN HIGH STREET
.'”

“Which High Street? There's High Streets everywhere.”

Vicky didn't answer. Chris, looking up, saw that she'd gone very pale.

“What's the matter? Vicky!”

Vicky handed the paper across the table with a shaky hand.

“Read what it says. On that page, not the one with the stars.”

Chris read the top headline. “Angry householders protest about new airport plans.”

“Not that. Farther down. Isn't there anything about someone stealing a baby?”

“Not a thing. Must have been on another page,”

“It wasn't. It was opposite the stars.”

“You must have turned over without knowing.”

“You look, then.”

Chris went through the paper, page by page. It was the midday edition, more than half was racing forecasts, there weren't many sheets of newsprint. She handed it back to Vicky.

“Nothing there.”

“I saw it.”

“You didn't. You just thought you did.”

“I did. Chris. . . .”

“What?”

“It was like the other time. It had those sort of black things round it.”

She didn't have to explain. They looked at each other across the table.

“You mean, you think it might be going to happen? Like the accident?”

“I don't know. I just don't like it, that's all.”

“Which High Street, Vicky? Vicky! Which High Street?”

“It didn't say. I didn't see, anyhow.”

“Perhaps you could see it again. Try.”

Unwillingly, Vicky took the newspaper and spread it out on the table, the page with the forecasts of the stars on the left, the page of news about the angry householders, a baby who needed a kidney, and the advertisements on the right.

“It's not there.”

“Have you got that bit of wood? Try with that.”

Vicky put the odd-shaped fragment down on the newsprint. “Well?”

“It doesn't make any difference. I only saw it for a moment, then it changed back into like it is now.”

“You mean, you saw it here, on this page, and then it disappeared.”

“Mm.”

“You didn't see the name of the baby? Or its mother? Or anything?”

“Just what I told you. I saw the headline, and I said to you, ‘Why do people take babies?' or something like that, and you
said, ‘Who?' and 1 read the headline again, and then you said, ‘Where?' and it all disappeared.”

“Tell you what. Did you notice the date?”

“Of course not. I just thought it was today's paper.”

After a pause, Chris said, “If it's like the other time, it hasn't happened yet. Perhaps we could stop it happening.”

“How? It could be anywhere.”

“It could be here. We'd better see if there are any babies in prams in the street. Then we could warn their mothers.”

“They'd think we were crazy.”

“That wouldn't be as bad as having their babies stolen.”

Vicky reluctantly saw Chris's point.

“You go and start walking down the street while I pay.”

Outside in the grey street, Vicky saw several prams and made towards them. But none of them was unattended. Three together were being guarded by an alert small girl. Four prams were being packed or briskly pushed by the occupants' mothers. Towards the southern end, prams petered out; these were not the shops for everyday buying, they were estate agents, tool makers, betting shops. Vicky turned back and met Chris.

“Only one. I went into the shop and found the Mum, but she wasn't nice about it. Not at all.”

“I didn't see any.”

“But one could come along any minute.”

“I don't believe it's going to happen.”

“The accident did,” Chris reminded her.

“Well, I don't think it was anything to do with what I saw.”

“That wasn't what you said.”

“I don't care. I think it's all stupid. I'm going home.”

“But Vicky! Think if someone really stole a poor little baby. . .!”

“We don't know if it's going to happen. And even if we did, we don't know where. Or when. We can't stay here all day just waiting for something that probably won't ever happen.”

On their silent walk home, Chris asked only one question.

“You going to tell Mum?”

“No. And you don't, Chris. Please.”

Chris agreed, and not another word was said.

Vicky's guess had been the right one. Stephen had, to his own immense surprise, and rather to his disgust, “happened” to find himself in Chris's neighbourhood more than once, not so much because he had the conscious intention of approaching her as from an unexpressed, submerged feeling that to be near her, to see her going about her ordinary life, somehow conferred an extra dimension on his own. He had spent a long time examining television sets in a shop near the café where he and the two girls had sat on that day when he'd seen—what had he seen? When he'd been, so sure that the screech of brakes he'd heard, and the flashed picture of someone falling, had meant an accident, that he'd called out. Like when you see a dog run out into the road and your heart jumps and you cry out as your eyes involuntarily close, and then when you open them again the car has barely slowed and the dog, unconcerned, is trotting down the opposite pavement, unaware of having caused any anguish. He'd felt a fool for opening his mouth, and even more of a fool when the dark girl, who'd fainted, had seemed to know why. In spite of his disinclination to think about the incident, Stephen continued to think about Chris. And to spend more time than usual in the High Street and near the end of the rather ordinary little road where she lived. In the same vague, unformulated way he had supposed that if he ever got to know Chris, he would be in a better position to persuade her friend—he still supposed them to be friends rather than sisters—to give him back the missing piece of his Chinese Egg which she'd so inexplicably found.

He saw them that morning, sitting in the window table of the
café, drinking apparently innumerable cups of coffee. Or was it only one cup that took them for ever to drink? And talking. What on earth did girls always talk about so much? The boys he knew didn't go on and on like that, they said something and someone answered, and that was that Girls nattered; like his mother, who could ask the same question twenty times, not appearing to notice that you'd answered it the first time.

He dodged about a bit among the shopping crowds, and strolled down the street to admire the patterned window of tools in the universal suppliers. When he came back, the two girls were still there. They weren't talking, however, they were reading. The pretty one had a magazine, the plain one was looking through an evening paper.