It would be a dreadful deprivation. She drew the back of her finger up the side of Isobel’s neck, over the jaw, up the cheekbone – all silk and firm, and the rosy cheek lightened by tiny, silvery hairs. She clasped the child closer to her – a mistake. Isobel at once sensed that someone else was getting more from the contact than she. “Let me down,” she cried, bashing away Amy’s arms, kicking her shins. “I’m not a baby.”
“Then why behave like one?” Dora asked, now unscrewing without fuss the top of a very difficult peanut-butter jar.
It wouldn’t be too good to have a sister like that, Amy thought.
Dora’s tea seemed unlikely ever to end. It was going through one phase after another.
When James at last returned, Dora and Isobel were in bed, as by now Amy, too, would have liked to be. She had read
Les Malheurs de Sophie,
and had alsorefused to bring trays of eggs and bacon, which Maggie was said by Isobel to do.
“Tomorrow I’m going to be pretty,” Isobel had said, choosing the clothes she would wear.
James had not stayed long at The Windsor Castle, where there had been too many young people, and no one he knew. He had been reminded of the difficulty with his hair, which had never grown luxuriantly, and now had to be draped about, and flicked up above his collar. Nothing was there for those over thirty any more, though he felt young still, and had never been strident. On his way home, he wondered if he should buy a dark blue velvet suit.
To make up for the disappointment of the pub, he gave himself a good stiff whisky. Amy had already helped herself, going downstairs and straight to the drinks cupboard, like a sleep-walker. James’s preoccupation with other things – Maggie in hospital, his future clothes, his thinning hair, his mother’s widowhood – was making him drink haphazardly. He watched Amy laying the table for supper, putting knives and forks on a plastic cloth with a William Morris design. Maggie had left a casserole in the oven, and the kitchen was filled with a smell of meat and wine and onions and peppers.
Opening drawers, Amy asked, “Where are the napkins?”
“Oh, don’t bother.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t bother’? What bother is it?”
“They just have to be washed.”
“It’s all right. I’ve found some.”
He watched her making her selection, not telling her, ‘We only use them when you come.’
He fetched an uncorked bottle of wine from the draining-board and put it on the table. It was wine he had made himself, which his father had always refused to drink. Having also set out two odd glasses from the dresser, he felt he had contributed something. He topped up his whisky and sat down.
Amy, so rarely allowed to be busy in a kitchen, felt like a little girl playing at keeping house. Self-consciously she bustled about, shifting things round needlessly, just as Dora did when she was acting shops or dolls’ hospitals.
James went on watching her. Hadn’t really looked at her for ages, not since the early days after his father’s death, when he had anxiously scanned her face for signs of grief receding. As far as he could now tell, she hadn’t altered greatly over the years. Her hair was still cut short and fringed, as it had been for as long as he could remember, and always, probably; but its dark blue, Japanese sheen had gone, and perhaps she would soon begin to turn grey. Her face was pale – never had been otherwise – and there were little dents beneath her eyes, set in slight puffiness. Nothing much going on but anno domini, he thought, and passed a hand anxiously down the back of his head. She was wearing a dress of striped silky material with very wide long sleeves, which she had pinned up to her shoulders to bathe the children, and now for cooking. She had had this dress a long time, and perhaps Nick had chosen it. It was the sort of thing he would have liked to paint, with those black andwhite striped folds imposing a pleasant
“Then why behave like one?” Dora asked, now unscrewing without fuss the top of a very difficult peanut-butter jar.
It wouldn’t be too good to have a sister like that, Amy thought.
Dora’s tea seemed unlikely ever to end. It was going through one phase after another.
When James at last returned, Dora and Isobel were in bed, as by now Amy, too, would have liked to be. She had read
Les Malheurs de Sophie,
and had alsorefused to bring trays of eggs and bacon, which Maggie was said by Isobel to do.
“Tomorrow I’m going to be pretty,” Isobel had said, choosing the clothes she would wear.
James had not stayed long at The Windsor Castle, where there had been too many young people, and no one he knew. He had been reminded of the difficulty with his hair, which had never grown luxuriantly, and now had to be draped about, and flicked up above his collar. Nothing was there for those over thirty any more, though he felt young still, and had never been strident. On his way home, he wondered if he should buy a dark blue velvet suit.
To make up for the disappointment of the pub, he gave himself a good stiff whisky. Amy had already helped herself, going downstairs and straight to the drinks cupboard, like a sleep-walker. James’s preoccupation with other things – Maggie in hospital, his future clothes, his thinning hair, his mother’s widowhood – was making him drink haphazardly. He watched Amy laying the table for supper, putting knives and forks on a plastic cloth with a William Morris design. Maggie had left a casserole in the oven, and the kitchen was filled with a smell of meat and wine and onions and peppers.
Opening drawers, Amy asked, “Where are the napkins?”
“Oh, don’t bother.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t bother’? What bother is it?”
“They just have to be washed.”
“It’s all right. I’ve found some.”
He watched her making her selection, not telling her, ‘We only use them when you come.’
He fetched an uncorked bottle of wine from the draining-board and put it on the table. It was wine he had made himself, which his father had always refused to drink. Having also set out two odd glasses from the dresser, he felt he had contributed something. He topped up his whisky and sat down.
Amy, so rarely allowed to be busy in a kitchen, felt like a little girl playing at keeping house. Self-consciously she bustled about, shifting things round needlessly, just as Dora did when she was acting shops or dolls’ hospitals.
James went on watching her. Hadn’t really looked at her for ages, not since the early days after his father’s death, when he had anxiously scanned her face for signs of grief receding. As far as he could now tell, she hadn’t altered greatly over the years. Her hair was still cut short and fringed, as it had been for as long as he could remember, and always, probably; but its dark blue, Japanese sheen had gone, and perhaps she would soon begin to turn grey. Her face was pale – never had been otherwise – and there were little dents beneath her eyes, set in slight puffiness. Nothing much going on but anno domini, he thought, and passed a hand anxiously down the back of his head. She was wearing a dress of striped silky material with very wide long sleeves, which she had pinned up to her shoulders to bathe the children, and now for cooking. She had had this dress a long time, and perhaps Nick had chosen it. It was the sort of thing he would have liked to paint, with those black andwhite striped folds imposing a pleasant
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