well, noticed that the books never changed; they were just dusted and replaced. At the end of the top shelf and separated from the books by a bust of Bartok was a bottle of Johnny Walker and Kate’s Waterford tumblers.
Everything was in its place.
Elizabeth had brought Kate’s mail, which she put on the sideboard near the photographs of Walter. She stood looking at the child, until Ginnie called to her from the kitchen.
‘I think you’ve over-catered.’ Ginnie was sorting through the food. ‘It’ll take Kate weeks to eat all this. And what on earth do you think she’ll do with these?’ Ginnie was dangling two lank pieces of flesh, one from each hand. She started to laugh at the pink translucent flaps and lost her balance. Delicately, deliberately, she swung her body towards the sink and saved herself. The chicken breasts slapped on the metal draining board, deadish and humanly pink. ‘What disgusting things,’ Ginnie said, still laughing. ‘Kate won’t touch them; you know she always goes onone of her peculiar health diets when she returns from holiday.’
And of course Elizabeth knew, but it had always been a case of giving Kate more than she wanted. It was a common mistake made with people who never ask, never make their needs known: they sit and wait patiently while you guess what they want, sit and wait passively while you give and give some more.
Her name was Kathryn Marley but she called herself Kate; pale Kate with large pores, Kate from the country, the nondescript third girl of four children. A boy would have been better, and although Kate could not be blamed for the absent Y chromosome she suffered greatly. Having entered the world if not a mistake certainly a disappointment, she was relegated to the background. Hers was the name forgotten by neighbours: ‘the plain Marley girl’ she was, or ‘Jean’s third’. She shrank Kathryn to Kate in hope that the crisp common name would find her a place in the world, but Kate was no more noticeable than Kathryn and no more likely to fix in the minds of country folk.
The war was partly to blame. When the men returned everyone was in such a hurry and with the sudden influx of children into the Stirling community, it was understandable that one or two were overlooked. Faith, Kate’s oldest sister, had been born in 1942, just before Charles Marley joined up. Faith satisfied her mother in every respect, and Jean Marley, generally so sensitive to public opinion, would have tolerated the stigma of an only child if Charles had not been so insistent. He wanted more children, a son would be good, but anything would do. God knows they could afford it, could provide a fine home. And they loved each other, he said. Which of course they did.
In 1946 Robyn was born. She was a scraggy child from the beginning, jaundiced and small. And she could not eat, or, more accurately, would not keep the food down. She was a needy child with a fat intolerance. You mean a demanding child, Kate said many years later. But Jean Marley disagreed: ‘I never thought of her like that, she needed me.’
Needs? Demands? The reality was the same: Jean’s attention.To Robyn’s fat intolerance was added colic – rending, shattering spasms – and then teeth that took inordinately long in coming. Nothing came easily to Robyn but, as Kate was to note years later, while Robyn waited for whatever it was to come everyone fussed over her, and after the waiting and the abundant attention Robyn always got what she wanted.
Although she did not want Kate and certainly not a mere fourteen months after her own arrival. Faith started school in 1947 the year of Kate’s unexpected coming, and so there should have been room for the new baby, but with Faith now largely out of the way, Robyn claimed the vacated space for herself – insisted on it. By this time she had grown into a pretty child, a surprise blonde for the dark-haired Marleys, and when she got what she wanted, particularly now the colic
Everything was in its place.
Elizabeth had brought Kate’s mail, which she put on the sideboard near the photographs of Walter. She stood looking at the child, until Ginnie called to her from the kitchen.
‘I think you’ve over-catered.’ Ginnie was sorting through the food. ‘It’ll take Kate weeks to eat all this. And what on earth do you think she’ll do with these?’ Ginnie was dangling two lank pieces of flesh, one from each hand. She started to laugh at the pink translucent flaps and lost her balance. Delicately, deliberately, she swung her body towards the sink and saved herself. The chicken breasts slapped on the metal draining board, deadish and humanly pink. ‘What disgusting things,’ Ginnie said, still laughing. ‘Kate won’t touch them; you know she always goes onone of her peculiar health diets when she returns from holiday.’
And of course Elizabeth knew, but it had always been a case of giving Kate more than she wanted. It was a common mistake made with people who never ask, never make their needs known: they sit and wait patiently while you guess what they want, sit and wait passively while you give and give some more.
Her name was Kathryn Marley but she called herself Kate; pale Kate with large pores, Kate from the country, the nondescript third girl of four children. A boy would have been better, and although Kate could not be blamed for the absent Y chromosome she suffered greatly. Having entered the world if not a mistake certainly a disappointment, she was relegated to the background. Hers was the name forgotten by neighbours: ‘the plain Marley girl’ she was, or ‘Jean’s third’. She shrank Kathryn to Kate in hope that the crisp common name would find her a place in the world, but Kate was no more noticeable than Kathryn and no more likely to fix in the minds of country folk.
The war was partly to blame. When the men returned everyone was in such a hurry and with the sudden influx of children into the Stirling community, it was understandable that one or two were overlooked. Faith, Kate’s oldest sister, had been born in 1942, just before Charles Marley joined up. Faith satisfied her mother in every respect, and Jean Marley, generally so sensitive to public opinion, would have tolerated the stigma of an only child if Charles had not been so insistent. He wanted more children, a son would be good, but anything would do. God knows they could afford it, could provide a fine home. And they loved each other, he said. Which of course they did.
In 1946 Robyn was born. She was a scraggy child from the beginning, jaundiced and small. And she could not eat, or, more accurately, would not keep the food down. She was a needy child with a fat intolerance. You mean a demanding child, Kate said many years later. But Jean Marley disagreed: ‘I never thought of her like that, she needed me.’
Needs? Demands? The reality was the same: Jean’s attention.To Robyn’s fat intolerance was added colic – rending, shattering spasms – and then teeth that took inordinately long in coming. Nothing came easily to Robyn but, as Kate was to note years later, while Robyn waited for whatever it was to come everyone fussed over her, and after the waiting and the abundant attention Robyn always got what she wanted.
Although she did not want Kate and certainly not a mere fourteen months after her own arrival. Faith started school in 1947 the year of Kate’s unexpected coming, and so there should have been room for the new baby, but with Faith now largely out of the way, Robyn claimed the vacated space for herself – insisted on it. By this time she had grown into a pretty child, a surprise blonde for the dark-haired Marleys, and when she got what she wanted, particularly now the colic
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