was flat and firm, comfortless but solid; it offered a long night if you managed to drift
off there. And the very centre, where the mattress gave out and yielded to her every move, was deep water where dreams were
guaranteed. Lying there was like rocking in a ship at sea; waves of sleep came up to meet you, then pitched you back into
wakefulness.
When waiting for Diana’s nightmares, Geenie favoured the flat, unsurprising middle-right plane. Sleep was least likely to
grasp her there.
She waited, thinking of how Jimmy had once come into her bedroom at night and looked over her. She was six years old, and
had listened to another long row for what seemed like hours. She could never quite make out the thread of the argument, only
occasional words, such as your money (Jimmy) or not fair (her mother), or, once, better writer than you (her mother again). It had been quiet for a while when the door handle shook and turned. She could smell him immediately:
whisky, tobacco, glue, sandalwood talcum powder.
As Jimmy opened the door, and the light from the landing brightened her room, Geenie lifted her eyelids a fraction of an inch
so she could spy on him. She wished she looked deeply, sweetly asleep, with her blonde waves chasing across the pillow, so
Jimmy could stand and admire her and think about how much he’d lose if he left her mother. But instead she was curled in this
tight ball, her fist clenching the sheet, her hair caught behind her neck, both feet tucked up below her bottom, and her eyelids
fluttering with the effort of remaining slightly lifted.
She didn’t move. She listened to Jimmy’s breathing, which was slightly laboured, as if he’d run up the stairs. His hand would
be on his hip, as it always was when he was watching something – her mother dancing on a tabletop, or Geenie riding her horse.
He might be smiling his bright, sudden smile that made his cheeks wrinkle, the way he had when she’d shown him the drawings
she’d done on the paving stones outside their London house. ‘Ellen will never forgive you,’ he’d said, smiling.
She waited for him to retreat. She thought perhaps he’d come to calm himself. She hoped the sight of his sleeping Flossy –
even in this strangled position – did that.
But instead he sat on the chair by her bed. She closed her eyes in case he saw her lids flickering. The smell of whisky grew
warmer. His breathing was steadier now. Perhaps he would sleep there tonight. Perhaps Ellen had locked him out of their bedroom
and he had nowhere else to go. Geenie’s bedroom was the only place he could rest. That wasn’t true of course. There were plenty
of guest rooms and a huge chaise longue downstairs in his study.
Her limbs were stiff from staying in one position for so long, curled in this tight ball. Her toes started to itch with heat.
How long would he sit there? She opened her eyes a crack. Jimmy had his face in his hands and was rubbing at his cheeks. Then
he looked at her and she clamped her eyes shut again. Perhaps she should do heavy breathing to make her sleep more convincing.
‘Geenie,’ he said, in a soft voice. ‘Are you awake?’
Her legs not moving, her arms not moving. Just the air in her lungs, out of her lungs, in her lungs, out of her lungs.
It was silent for a long moment before the sob. And even then, she couldn’t be sure it was a sob, because she couldn’t open
her eyes again. Was that thin rasp of air the sound of Jimmy crying? That sudden rush of breath, was that the sound of Jimmy’s
sadness? She couldn’t be sure. There was no way to be sure of that.
· · · Thirteen · · ·
O n Sunday afternoon, when she was free until Monday morning, Kitty prepared herself for tea with Lou. She put on her blue frock
with the lily print, which was nipped in at the waist in just the right way, and took the bus from the village to Petersfield.
On the journey, she peered at the Downs through the dirty
off there. And the very centre, where the mattress gave out and yielded to her every move, was deep water where dreams were
guaranteed. Lying there was like rocking in a ship at sea; waves of sleep came up to meet you, then pitched you back into
wakefulness.
When waiting for Diana’s nightmares, Geenie favoured the flat, unsurprising middle-right plane. Sleep was least likely to
grasp her there.
She waited, thinking of how Jimmy had once come into her bedroom at night and looked over her. She was six years old, and
had listened to another long row for what seemed like hours. She could never quite make out the thread of the argument, only
occasional words, such as your money (Jimmy) or not fair (her mother), or, once, better writer than you (her mother again). It had been quiet for a while when the door handle shook and turned. She could smell him immediately:
whisky, tobacco, glue, sandalwood talcum powder.
As Jimmy opened the door, and the light from the landing brightened her room, Geenie lifted her eyelids a fraction of an inch
so she could spy on him. She wished she looked deeply, sweetly asleep, with her blonde waves chasing across the pillow, so
Jimmy could stand and admire her and think about how much he’d lose if he left her mother. But instead she was curled in this
tight ball, her fist clenching the sheet, her hair caught behind her neck, both feet tucked up below her bottom, and her eyelids
fluttering with the effort of remaining slightly lifted.
She didn’t move. She listened to Jimmy’s breathing, which was slightly laboured, as if he’d run up the stairs. His hand would
be on his hip, as it always was when he was watching something – her mother dancing on a tabletop, or Geenie riding her horse.
He might be smiling his bright, sudden smile that made his cheeks wrinkle, the way he had when she’d shown him the drawings
she’d done on the paving stones outside their London house. ‘Ellen will never forgive you,’ he’d said, smiling.
She waited for him to retreat. She thought perhaps he’d come to calm himself. She hoped the sight of his sleeping Flossy –
even in this strangled position – did that.
But instead he sat on the chair by her bed. She closed her eyes in case he saw her lids flickering. The smell of whisky grew
warmer. His breathing was steadier now. Perhaps he would sleep there tonight. Perhaps Ellen had locked him out of their bedroom
and he had nowhere else to go. Geenie’s bedroom was the only place he could rest. That wasn’t true of course. There were plenty
of guest rooms and a huge chaise longue downstairs in his study.
Her limbs were stiff from staying in one position for so long, curled in this tight ball. Her toes started to itch with heat.
How long would he sit there? She opened her eyes a crack. Jimmy had his face in his hands and was rubbing at his cheeks. Then
he looked at her and she clamped her eyes shut again. Perhaps she should do heavy breathing to make her sleep more convincing.
‘Geenie,’ he said, in a soft voice. ‘Are you awake?’
Her legs not moving, her arms not moving. Just the air in her lungs, out of her lungs, in her lungs, out of her lungs.
It was silent for a long moment before the sob. And even then, she couldn’t be sure it was a sob, because she couldn’t open
her eyes again. Was that thin rasp of air the sound of Jimmy crying? That sudden rush of breath, was that the sound of Jimmy’s
sadness? She couldn’t be sure. There was no way to be sure of that.
· · · Thirteen · · ·
O n Sunday afternoon, when she was free until Monday morning, Kitty prepared herself for tea with Lou. She put on her blue frock
with the lily print, which was nipped in at the waist in just the right way, and took the bus from the village to Petersfield.
On the journey, she peered at the Downs through the dirty
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