Play Dead by Peter Dickinson Page B

having smeared large dollops round his cheeks, was now engaged in seeing whether by piling what was left in his bowl up into a mound he could convert it from its semi-liquid state back into its original solid. Ice-cream wasn’t regular fare at Abdale Grove; so this wasn’t an experiment he’d been able to try recently. Absorbed, he seemed not to notice as Deborah leaned across and scraped a blob of ice-cream off his face. The spoon paused in mid-air at her mother’s command. Then, with a look of defiant smugness, she popped her booty into the neat round of her mouth. Poppy laughed. Encouraged Deborah reached out for more.
    â€˜You can put her down now, Peony,’ said Mrs Capstone. ‘I think Toby’s really finished too,’ said Poppy. ‘Shall I clean you up, darling?’
    â€˜Num gone?’
    â€˜Yes. It melts if you don’t eat it up. That’s why you have to keep it in the fridge.’
    He nodded and let her remove the bowl and wipe his face with kitchen paper.
    â€˜He can’t really understand that,’ said Mrs Capstone.
    â€˜No, of course not, but he likes to have things explained. He knows there’ve got to be explanations. It’s no use just saying “Don’t touch. Hot.” You have to tell him about electrons jiggling around to make it hot or something like that.’
    â€˜You’re lucky to have the time. You were telling me about your son—Hugo, you said—law publishing. I imagine that’s been …’
    Rescue again, and what for an instant Poppy thought was a theatrical mask being poked round the door.
    â€˜Daddydaddydaddydaddydaddy,’ squealed Deborah and rushed across the room. The man picked her up as he came in and held her bouncing on his arm and yelling his name. The mask effect had been only an accident of light, enhanced by the angle at which he had held his head. His features were acceptably human, though emphatically modelled on the large head, with strong black eyebrows slashed across prominent brows, a bony nose and a wide, hard mouth. He was of medium height but very broad-shouldered, the sort of build no tailoring seems to fit. His pale grey suit looked expensive but was still under strain.
    â€˜We’re having a tea-party, darling,’ said Mrs Capstone. ‘Do you want Peony to warm you some milk?’
    â€˜No, thank you. I came to say I have to go to Trieste. I shall be back on Thursday.’
    The voice was harsh and flat, reviving the mask effect—hidden actor inside the tank-like body, behind the modelled visor, using a mechanical vocaliser. Nobody knew much about him, Janet had said. No wonder.
    â€˜What time do you land?’ said Mrs Capstone.
    â€˜Eighteen-fifty, supposedly.’
    â€˜That’ll do, provided you’re not more than forty minutes late. I’ll have your dinner-jacket in the car. If you’re later than that Constantin will meet you in the Mercedes and I’ll go direct to the Coombeses in your car.’
    Deftly he tilted Deborah back, caught her by the ankles and swung her to and fro pendulumwise in front of him with her dark hair streaming down. As her laughter verged towards hysteria he flipped her over, crouched and set her on her feet. Clearly she sensed he was about to go, but instead of screaming tried to prolong his interest by showing off her new trick, singing on a pure high note and using her hand to make a flutter effect. Toby at once joined in. The result was discord, but Deborah altered her pitch to make it tolerable.
    â€˜Did you hear that?’ said Poppy. ‘That’s what I mean about her being musical.’
    â€˜Mrs Tasker says Deborah is musical, darling,’ said Mrs Capstone.
    â€˜Even when she screams she’s really singing,’ said Poppy. ‘Like a prima donna.’
    â€˜When prima donnas scream, they scream,’ said Mr Capstone, evidently speaking from experience. ‘I’m afraid I have