way your grandfather lives.’
‘We don’t stay here all the time. Rob’s been away to school,’ I’d say defensively.
‘School! What sort of a life would you call that? They don’t see a soul but themselves from one end of the three months to the next. It’s worse than a barracks, that place, for at least a soldier gets his pay. But they’ll never make a soldier out of your brother.’
She’d never seen Rob’s school, but she knew enough from what we told her. She didn’t think it was a hard life, in spite of Rob’s spectacular tales of beatings and early runs and brutal, silent fights at night in the dormitories. After all, they had plenty to eat and enough energy to play games morning, noon and night. She just thought it was stupid to send a boy to such a place, and as for paying for it, my grandfather must be mad, especially when there was work needed on the roof.
‘I have three buckets in my bedroom, full up every time it rains,’ she informed us, ‘but then your grandfather never goes to the top of the house.’
There were no buckets at Mr Bullivant’s. No water closets that ran dry and stank in hot weather, and froze in the winter. At home we had fires that mottled our faces when we were within a few feet of them, and beyond them an icy wilderness of draughts. Mr Bullivant had put in the latest underfloor heating. Hot air blew up sweetly through square vents in the corners of rooms. There was a network of piping under the floors, and a huge furnace that was fed like a juggernaut, day and night. I imagined there was one boy to tend it, bare to the waist, sweating as he loaded his shovel, tossed it into the roaring red heart of the flames, bent to load it again. When the hall door opened you were lapped in waves of soft, flowery heat. There were always bowls of dried rose-petals, and fresh, out-of-season flowers. I think the flowers came down from London, wadded with cotton-wool against the frost. This time there were narcissi in every room, drifts of them, white and sherbet-scented with small, intensely gold hearts. Their scent pricked the air like tiny needles. They brought the delicate chill of spring with them. There was no slavery to the seasons here. I imagined waking in the morning, stretching out in the steady, even heat, peeling off my nightdress and walking naked to a bathroom where water spouted, reliably steaming, from huge brass taps. I wondered if I would miss our alternations of roasting and shivering, which were as natural to us as the squeeze and swell of our hearts.
The sun had melted a thin crust of snow but now as it sank the air was freezing again, blue in the shadows. Mr Bullivant was watching me.
‘Here,’ he said, handing me the soft brush, ‘you take this. Shall we clear the snow so you can see it?’
I stood by him, my shoulder nearly touching his arm. He took my hand, guided it, plunged it through the snow. I touched metal. But it was blunt through my glove and I couldn’t get the feel of it. I pulled my gloves off and reached in again through the coat of snow. I was touching a finger, the metal so cold it burnt me. I brushed, and it appeared, a pure, dull green. It was a hand, grasping a pouch of arrows.
‘Bronze,’ said Mr Bullivant. He began to brush the snow off in long smooth sweeps of the broom. The hand became an arm, the arm gave way to a shoulder. But I stood back, letting him reveal what was there.
‘Here she is,’ he said. ‘Diana huntress, chaste and fair. Wait, in a minute you’ll see her hounds.’
The dogs strained towards me, slavering. The woman had a bow in one hand, and her quiverful of arrows in the other. Her bronze face was fierce, the face of a huntress seen by her prey. There was dirt in the deep sockets of her eyes, and her mouth was half-open, urging the dogs on towards us.
‘See their mouths? That’s where the water comes out. I’ve found some of the piping. But the pump won’t be working, not after all this time.’ He took
‘We don’t stay here all the time. Rob’s been away to school,’ I’d say defensively.
‘School! What sort of a life would you call that? They don’t see a soul but themselves from one end of the three months to the next. It’s worse than a barracks, that place, for at least a soldier gets his pay. But they’ll never make a soldier out of your brother.’
She’d never seen Rob’s school, but she knew enough from what we told her. She didn’t think it was a hard life, in spite of Rob’s spectacular tales of beatings and early runs and brutal, silent fights at night in the dormitories. After all, they had plenty to eat and enough energy to play games morning, noon and night. She just thought it was stupid to send a boy to such a place, and as for paying for it, my grandfather must be mad, especially when there was work needed on the roof.
‘I have three buckets in my bedroom, full up every time it rains,’ she informed us, ‘but then your grandfather never goes to the top of the house.’
There were no buckets at Mr Bullivant’s. No water closets that ran dry and stank in hot weather, and froze in the winter. At home we had fires that mottled our faces when we were within a few feet of them, and beyond them an icy wilderness of draughts. Mr Bullivant had put in the latest underfloor heating. Hot air blew up sweetly through square vents in the corners of rooms. There was a network of piping under the floors, and a huge furnace that was fed like a juggernaut, day and night. I imagined there was one boy to tend it, bare to the waist, sweating as he loaded his shovel, tossed it into the roaring red heart of the flames, bent to load it again. When the hall door opened you were lapped in waves of soft, flowery heat. There were always bowls of dried rose-petals, and fresh, out-of-season flowers. I think the flowers came down from London, wadded with cotton-wool against the frost. This time there were narcissi in every room, drifts of them, white and sherbet-scented with small, intensely gold hearts. Their scent pricked the air like tiny needles. They brought the delicate chill of spring with them. There was no slavery to the seasons here. I imagined waking in the morning, stretching out in the steady, even heat, peeling off my nightdress and walking naked to a bathroom where water spouted, reliably steaming, from huge brass taps. I wondered if I would miss our alternations of roasting and shivering, which were as natural to us as the squeeze and swell of our hearts.
The sun had melted a thin crust of snow but now as it sank the air was freezing again, blue in the shadows. Mr Bullivant was watching me.
‘Here,’ he said, handing me the soft brush, ‘you take this. Shall we clear the snow so you can see it?’
I stood by him, my shoulder nearly touching his arm. He took my hand, guided it, plunged it through the snow. I touched metal. But it was blunt through my glove and I couldn’t get the feel of it. I pulled my gloves off and reached in again through the coat of snow. I was touching a finger, the metal so cold it burnt me. I brushed, and it appeared, a pure, dull green. It was a hand, grasping a pouch of arrows.
‘Bronze,’ said Mr Bullivant. He began to brush the snow off in long smooth sweeps of the broom. The hand became an arm, the arm gave way to a shoulder. But I stood back, letting him reveal what was there.
‘Here she is,’ he said. ‘Diana huntress, chaste and fair. Wait, in a minute you’ll see her hounds.’
The dogs strained towards me, slavering. The woman had a bow in one hand, and her quiverful of arrows in the other. Her bronze face was fierce, the face of a huntress seen by her prey. There was dirt in the deep sockets of her eyes, and her mouth was half-open, urging the dogs on towards us.
‘See their mouths? That’s where the water comes out. I’ve found some of the piping. But the pump won’t be working, not after all this time.’ He took
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