chance to use it.
‘The ‘s’ word, dear. Whoever did you hear say that?’
‘Mother says it all the time.’
Mrs Grievous shook her head and rummaged in her handbag. The sea was choppy today and she had to suck barley sugar to stop her feeling queer. She handed one to Isis, who loved the comforting handbaggy taste. Mrs Grievous tucked a fold of blanket over Isis’ knees and they sat contentedly, sucking and watching a sea gull on the rail of the boat. Its eye was flat and yellow and there was such a hard, grim set to its hooked beak that Isis had to look away.
Mrs Grievous took her hand and stroked it.
‘I wish I had a mother like you,’ gushed out of Isis, just from the loveliness of being kept warm, and fed sweet things, and stroked.
‘Oh my!’ Mrs Grievous took a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed at the dampness that had happened round her eyes. ‘Oh, how I wish it too,’ she said, a creamy throb coming into her voice. ‘That’s quite the nicest thing a person has ever said to me.’
Isis watched the sea gull lift itself heavily off the rail and with a smirking cry, swoop out of sight, leaving a big splattered dropping on the deck. She undid her hand from the grasp of Mrs Grievous and for the first time felt a queasy pang.
‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I’d better go and see my brother.’
‘Take a sweetie for him,’ Mrs Grievous said. ‘Take the bag, I’ve got a supply.’
Isis accepted the crumpled paper bag and went down into the gloomy, vomit-smelling cabin where Osi was busy straining his eyes over his diary. She put the barley sugars down and spat the taste into the basin. There was a bulge in her throat as if she needed to cry, but she spat some more and cleaned her teeth instead. In the cramped cabin she felt grotesquely huge, and the babyishness that Mrs Grievous brought out in her seemed shameful and absurd.
‘Why not come up for some fresh air?’ she said.
Osi frowned and sucked the bristles of his brush into a point, leaving his lips smeared blue.
‘You can see gulls up there and the sea and Uncle Victor following a lady around – who’s no better than she should be,’ she added, wishing urgently for Mary.
Gazing at her blankly, Osi dipped his brush into the black. He had his tongue trapped between his teeth as he worked on a pictogram: an eye, delicate and elongated. She thought about him painting the inside of the icehouse. He must have spent hours down there, daubing on the walls, playing with his revolting dead things. It made her shudder. He did. She had not quite forgiven him for Dixie and the thought of that tightly-wrapped little skittle brought back her nausea.
Besides, it was too stuffy and annoying to stay in the cabin and she slammed the door as she went out and climbed back up onto the deck, legs weary on the stairs, the way she expected an old person’s legs might feel. Victor had got Melissa sitting down now and was leaning into her, saying something in French. The scar was hidden by a tartan scarf, and his elbow was casually pressing down on the knee of his trembling leg.
‘Will you play cards with me?’ Isis took the pack from her pocket and waved it between them.
‘Not now.’ Victor plucked two cigarettes from his case and fitted one into Melissa’s silvery holder.
‘Quoits?’
‘Run along.’
‘Charades?’ Though she knew this was ridiculous.
Melissa put the cigarette holder between her painted lips and dipped forwards as Victor clicked his lighter behind a cupped hand. She took a deep draw of her cigarette and smiled. ‘Poor kid’s bored,’ she said. She pulled Isis close to her silky knees and petted her hair. She smelled of strong violets and smoke. ‘I’ll tell you what, dearie,’ she said, and from her bag she pulled a book. ‘This is a good one, a little racy . . .’ She eyed Victor for his reaction, which was none.
‘Thank you.’ Isis gave up on them and took the book away. Out of the corner of her eye, as she
‘The ‘s’ word, dear. Whoever did you hear say that?’
‘Mother says it all the time.’
Mrs Grievous shook her head and rummaged in her handbag. The sea was choppy today and she had to suck barley sugar to stop her feeling queer. She handed one to Isis, who loved the comforting handbaggy taste. Mrs Grievous tucked a fold of blanket over Isis’ knees and they sat contentedly, sucking and watching a sea gull on the rail of the boat. Its eye was flat and yellow and there was such a hard, grim set to its hooked beak that Isis had to look away.
Mrs Grievous took her hand and stroked it.
‘I wish I had a mother like you,’ gushed out of Isis, just from the loveliness of being kept warm, and fed sweet things, and stroked.
‘Oh my!’ Mrs Grievous took a hanky from her sleeve and dabbed at the dampness that had happened round her eyes. ‘Oh, how I wish it too,’ she said, a creamy throb coming into her voice. ‘That’s quite the nicest thing a person has ever said to me.’
Isis watched the sea gull lift itself heavily off the rail and with a smirking cry, swoop out of sight, leaving a big splattered dropping on the deck. She undid her hand from the grasp of Mrs Grievous and for the first time felt a queasy pang.
‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘I’d better go and see my brother.’
‘Take a sweetie for him,’ Mrs Grievous said. ‘Take the bag, I’ve got a supply.’
Isis accepted the crumpled paper bag and went down into the gloomy, vomit-smelling cabin where Osi was busy straining his eyes over his diary. She put the barley sugars down and spat the taste into the basin. There was a bulge in her throat as if she needed to cry, but she spat some more and cleaned her teeth instead. In the cramped cabin she felt grotesquely huge, and the babyishness that Mrs Grievous brought out in her seemed shameful and absurd.
‘Why not come up for some fresh air?’ she said.
Osi frowned and sucked the bristles of his brush into a point, leaving his lips smeared blue.
‘You can see gulls up there and the sea and Uncle Victor following a lady around – who’s no better than she should be,’ she added, wishing urgently for Mary.
Gazing at her blankly, Osi dipped his brush into the black. He had his tongue trapped between his teeth as he worked on a pictogram: an eye, delicate and elongated. She thought about him painting the inside of the icehouse. He must have spent hours down there, daubing on the walls, playing with his revolting dead things. It made her shudder. He did. She had not quite forgiven him for Dixie and the thought of that tightly-wrapped little skittle brought back her nausea.
Besides, it was too stuffy and annoying to stay in the cabin and she slammed the door as she went out and climbed back up onto the deck, legs weary on the stairs, the way she expected an old person’s legs might feel. Victor had got Melissa sitting down now and was leaning into her, saying something in French. The scar was hidden by a tartan scarf, and his elbow was casually pressing down on the knee of his trembling leg.
‘Will you play cards with me?’ Isis took the pack from her pocket and waved it between them.
‘Not now.’ Victor plucked two cigarettes from his case and fitted one into Melissa’s silvery holder.
‘Quoits?’
‘Run along.’
‘Charades?’ Though she knew this was ridiculous.
Melissa put the cigarette holder between her painted lips and dipped forwards as Victor clicked his lighter behind a cupped hand. She took a deep draw of her cigarette and smiled. ‘Poor kid’s bored,’ she said. She pulled Isis close to her silky knees and petted her hair. She smelled of strong violets and smoke. ‘I’ll tell you what, dearie,’ she said, and from her bag she pulled a book. ‘This is a good one, a little racy . . .’ She eyed Victor for his reaction, which was none.
‘Thank you.’ Isis gave up on them and took the book away. Out of the corner of her eye, as she
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