away from her face, “you have some kind of oral fixation, you do know that, don’t you?” Julia smoked in a theatrical fashion, making a performance of it, as she did of everything. She used to practice in the mirror when she was a teenager (as Amelia remembered it, a lot of Julia’s younger life had been practiced in the mirror). The way Julia was holding her hand up to the morning light revealed the ghostly silver thread of the scar where her little finger had been sewn back onto her hand.
Why had they had so many accidents when they were young? Were they trying to get Rosemary (or indeed anyone) to notice them, to single them out from the melee of
Amelia-Julia-Sylvia?
Even now, Julia and Amelia were clumsy, always covered in bruises from bumping into furniture or tripping over carpets. Last year alone, Amelia had dropped a heavy pan on her foot and trapped her hand in a car door while Julia had sustained a whiplash in a taxi and sprained her ankle falling off a stepladder. Amelia didn’t think there was much point in seeking attention once you were over forty, especially if there was no one to give it. “Do you remember the way Sylvia used to faint?” she asked Julia.
“No. Sort of.”
Every time she remembered Victor was dead, Amelia felt giddy. It was as if someone had lifted a great stone off her body and now she might be about to rise up, like a kite, like a balloon. Victor’s corpse was still tucked up in bed upstairs, and although they knew they should do something, phone someone, react in an urgent way to death, they were overcome with a kind of indolence.
In fact it wasn’t until the next day that they journeyed to the Poor Clares’ convent and, after an interminable wait, spoke to “Sister Mary Luke”—the ridiculous name that, even after nearly thirty years, neither of them could get used to. When they told her that Victor was dead, Sylvia looked astonished and said, “Daddy? Dead?” And just for once her saintly composure slipped and she burst out laughing.
As a nun in an enclosed order, Sylvia was so excluded from normal life that it never occurred to them to consult with her about the funeral. By then they had already decided what to do with him anyway. After the undertaker had eventually removed Victor’s body, Julia had produced the gin and they proceeded to get horribly drunk. Amelia couldn’t remember when she had been so drunk, possibly never. The afternoon gin, sitting on top of the morning brandy, made them almost hysterical, and somewhere in the midst of this alcoholic orgy they tossed a coin to determine Victor’s final fate.
Julia, histrionic as usual, was cross-legged and clutching onto her crotch, saying, “Oh God, stop it, I’m going to wet myself!” and Amelia had to run outside and be sick on the lawn. The damp night air almost brought her back to sobriety but by then it was nearly dawn and Amelia had claimed heads but the coin had come down tails (which was a one-in-two probability, thank you, Daddy) and Julia declared that “the old fucker was going to be burned.”
A melia was awake early, too early. She wouldn’t have minded if she’d been at home—her real home, in Oxford—but she didn’t want to rattle around on her own in this place and Julia wouldn’t be up for ages—Amelia sometimes wondered if her sister’s genes hadn’t been spliced with a cat’s. Julia scoffed at the “provincial hours” that Amelia kept—Julia hadn’t been in her bed before two in the morning since they arrived, emerging bleary-eyed at midday, begging hoarsely for coffee (“Sweetie, please,”) as if she had been on some great nighttime quest that had tested her nerves and spirit, rather than having spent the time slumped on the sofa with a bottle of red wine, watching long-forgotten films on cable.
It had amazed them when they discovered that Victor—who neither of them could remember ever having watched television—not only owned a huge wide-screen set but also
Why had they had so many accidents when they were young? Were they trying to get Rosemary (or indeed anyone) to notice them, to single them out from the melee of
Amelia-Julia-Sylvia?
Even now, Julia and Amelia were clumsy, always covered in bruises from bumping into furniture or tripping over carpets. Last year alone, Amelia had dropped a heavy pan on her foot and trapped her hand in a car door while Julia had sustained a whiplash in a taxi and sprained her ankle falling off a stepladder. Amelia didn’t think there was much point in seeking attention once you were over forty, especially if there was no one to give it. “Do you remember the way Sylvia used to faint?” she asked Julia.
“No. Sort of.”
Every time she remembered Victor was dead, Amelia felt giddy. It was as if someone had lifted a great stone off her body and now she might be about to rise up, like a kite, like a balloon. Victor’s corpse was still tucked up in bed upstairs, and although they knew they should do something, phone someone, react in an urgent way to death, they were overcome with a kind of indolence.
In fact it wasn’t until the next day that they journeyed to the Poor Clares’ convent and, after an interminable wait, spoke to “Sister Mary Luke”—the ridiculous name that, even after nearly thirty years, neither of them could get used to. When they told her that Victor was dead, Sylvia looked astonished and said, “Daddy? Dead?” And just for once her saintly composure slipped and she burst out laughing.
As a nun in an enclosed order, Sylvia was so excluded from normal life that it never occurred to them to consult with her about the funeral. By then they had already decided what to do with him anyway. After the undertaker had eventually removed Victor’s body, Julia had produced the gin and they proceeded to get horribly drunk. Amelia couldn’t remember when she had been so drunk, possibly never. The afternoon gin, sitting on top of the morning brandy, made them almost hysterical, and somewhere in the midst of this alcoholic orgy they tossed a coin to determine Victor’s final fate.
Julia, histrionic as usual, was cross-legged and clutching onto her crotch, saying, “Oh God, stop it, I’m going to wet myself!” and Amelia had to run outside and be sick on the lawn. The damp night air almost brought her back to sobriety but by then it was nearly dawn and Amelia had claimed heads but the coin had come down tails (which was a one-in-two probability, thank you, Daddy) and Julia declared that “the old fucker was going to be burned.”
A melia was awake early, too early. She wouldn’t have minded if she’d been at home—her real home, in Oxford—but she didn’t want to rattle around on her own in this place and Julia wouldn’t be up for ages—Amelia sometimes wondered if her sister’s genes hadn’t been spliced with a cat’s. Julia scoffed at the “provincial hours” that Amelia kept—Julia hadn’t been in her bed before two in the morning since they arrived, emerging bleary-eyed at midday, begging hoarsely for coffee (“Sweetie, please,”) as if she had been on some great nighttime quest that had tested her nerves and spirit, rather than having spent the time slumped on the sofa with a bottle of red wine, watching long-forgotten films on cable.
It had amazed them when they discovered that Victor—who neither of them could remember ever having watched television—not only owned a huge wide-screen set but also
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