sweating, with big wet patches showing on her blouse under her arms, her face red, drops of sweat trickling down the sides of her nose. Joyce would have been humiliated and appalled at herself in that condition, but Daphne seemed to relish it, wiping her face with the back of her hand, blowing and gasping comically while she got her breath.
âHot ride? Joyce said.
âBloody hot, said Daphne. Want to feel?
And she pulled her sopping shirt away from her wet back as if Joyce seriously might.
Daphne didnât exactly make conversation; she kept up a stream of jokes and sayings and teasings. When she made a burping noise she said, âPardon me for being rude; it was not me, it was my foodâ; she told Peter to stop gawping or the wind would change and heâd be stuck like that; she said, âEvery little helps, said the lady as she piddled in the sea,â and, when she leaned across someone, âScuse me reaching, Iâve just got off the boat.â
When Martin and Peter disappeared sometimes in the evenings, Joyce suspected they were haunting the dunes behind the beach in hope and dread of finding Gilbert and Daphne there together.
âSheâs foul, Mum, said Peter. You should tell Uncle Gilbert heâs not allowed to bring her in the house.
âHeâs a perfect right to make friends with whoever he likes, Vera said sorrowfully.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Influenced by Mr. Scofield, his violin teacher, Peter had started listening to classical music. They had a gramophone in the front room that Dick had bought secondhand for Vera in the North: a tall wooden cabinet with a lid that propped open at the top, doors at the front, a wind-up handle on the side. The needles were made of bone and had to be sharpened on a piece of emery paper; new ones were kept in a tiny tin with the His Masterâs Voice dog on the front. Peter sorted through the records in their brown card sleeves, mastering the names of the composers, sampling and replacing them, quickly expert in the rituals of placing the record, checking it for dust, lowering the arm. Vera found him adjusting the speed because the turntable was too slow and played everything slightly out of tune. She would never have noticed. She gave way to her son with a new respect and sat mutely while he explained to her.
âListen to this, Ma, this is a jolly bit. Then it gets all tragic and moody. Especially listen to the horns. Only they ought to be brighter. The Philharmonic do it better; you should hear the recording old Scofferâs got, itâs splendid.
The front room smelled of damp. The flags were laid directly on the earth, and they hardly ever lit a fire in there except at Christmas. It was overcrowded with big pieces of furniture, chairs and sideboards and occasional tables that no one had tried to arrange properly. Veraâs things were heavy carved oak; she and Dick had bought them along with their first house in Gateshead. Lilâs were cheap utility. They were doubled up in readiness for when their lives might separate again.
Peter was as tall as Vera was now. He started to advise her on her dress, as well as on her reading and her opinions. Her blue scarf was a ghastly clash with her green blouse, and if she didnât replace her horrible old handbag he wouldnât be seen out with her. She ought to read Dylan Thomas and George Barker, not stuffy old Masefield and de la Mare. Vera was surprisingly compliant, almost girlish in her willingness to relinquish her command to this authoritative son. She looked at him in quizzical pleased surprise, as though she did not quite know where he had sprung from.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Gilbert said he was going to Marry Daphne, but no one knew whether he had really asked her. Ann pestered him over it: Was it going to be in church? What would Daphne wear? Had he bought her a ring? Would there be bridesmaids?
âAnd if you have children, what are you going to call
âHot ride? Joyce said.
âBloody hot, said Daphne. Want to feel?
And she pulled her sopping shirt away from her wet back as if Joyce seriously might.
Daphne didnât exactly make conversation; she kept up a stream of jokes and sayings and teasings. When she made a burping noise she said, âPardon me for being rude; it was not me, it was my foodâ; she told Peter to stop gawping or the wind would change and heâd be stuck like that; she said, âEvery little helps, said the lady as she piddled in the sea,â and, when she leaned across someone, âScuse me reaching, Iâve just got off the boat.â
When Martin and Peter disappeared sometimes in the evenings, Joyce suspected they were haunting the dunes behind the beach in hope and dread of finding Gilbert and Daphne there together.
âSheâs foul, Mum, said Peter. You should tell Uncle Gilbert heâs not allowed to bring her in the house.
âHeâs a perfect right to make friends with whoever he likes, Vera said sorrowfully.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Influenced by Mr. Scofield, his violin teacher, Peter had started listening to classical music. They had a gramophone in the front room that Dick had bought secondhand for Vera in the North: a tall wooden cabinet with a lid that propped open at the top, doors at the front, a wind-up handle on the side. The needles were made of bone and had to be sharpened on a piece of emery paper; new ones were kept in a tiny tin with the His Masterâs Voice dog on the front. Peter sorted through the records in their brown card sleeves, mastering the names of the composers, sampling and replacing them, quickly expert in the rituals of placing the record, checking it for dust, lowering the arm. Vera found him adjusting the speed because the turntable was too slow and played everything slightly out of tune. She would never have noticed. She gave way to her son with a new respect and sat mutely while he explained to her.
âListen to this, Ma, this is a jolly bit. Then it gets all tragic and moody. Especially listen to the horns. Only they ought to be brighter. The Philharmonic do it better; you should hear the recording old Scofferâs got, itâs splendid.
The front room smelled of damp. The flags were laid directly on the earth, and they hardly ever lit a fire in there except at Christmas. It was overcrowded with big pieces of furniture, chairs and sideboards and occasional tables that no one had tried to arrange properly. Veraâs things were heavy carved oak; she and Dick had bought them along with their first house in Gateshead. Lilâs were cheap utility. They were doubled up in readiness for when their lives might separate again.
Peter was as tall as Vera was now. He started to advise her on her dress, as well as on her reading and her opinions. Her blue scarf was a ghastly clash with her green blouse, and if she didnât replace her horrible old handbag he wouldnât be seen out with her. She ought to read Dylan Thomas and George Barker, not stuffy old Masefield and de la Mare. Vera was surprisingly compliant, almost girlish in her willingness to relinquish her command to this authoritative son. She looked at him in quizzical pleased surprise, as though she did not quite know where he had sprung from.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Gilbert said he was going to Marry Daphne, but no one knew whether he had really asked her. Ann pestered him over it: Was it going to be in church? What would Daphne wear? Had he bought her a ring? Would there be bridesmaids?
âAnd if you have children, what are you going to call
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