more being afraid to move from one room all day, more loneliness in her parents’ company, more nights lying in bed with her breath trapped in her throat.
She looked out across the waste ground behind the house, now a lurid patchy green after the rain, to where the sea writhed into the shore. Though her curiosity about her mother’s whereabouts was diminishing now that she was not dead in the attic, she wondered again where she was. Had she got dressed and taken herself off for a walk? But Fleur hated the beach, and there was nowhere else to walk unless you roamed along the road and it was impossible to do that without looking stray and half-witted. Lila’s eye was drawn from the distance to something almost immediately below. The front double doors of the garage were closed as usual, but the side door into the garage from the back garden was open. Above it, the garage roof seemed to be swaying slightly. When she looked properly she saw that it was the drift of a soft line of smoke rising from the joins between rows of slates that made it appear to move.
She turned and ran downstairs, out through the kitchen and across the grass. Soft rasping noises and whining grunts were coming from the open door; inside, her mother was crouched and weeping, striking matches and tossing them into a high mound of twisted newspapers and sticks set in the middle of the floor. As she moved, the skirt of the dressing gown, gauzy and flammable, floated and sank over the edges of the heap; from her wrists the long sleeves were already waving like smoke. Lila stared at the drifting folds and the crossed sticks of firewood hazy beneath the green shadow and reaching up like open beaks, pulling at the material. She couldn’t help waiting to see what would happen.
The paper was refusing to catch properly. With each dropped and extinguished match Fleur cursed, leaned forward and blew hard. Some paper crackled and the pile settled a little.
‘
God!
Oh, for God’s sake! Oh, this bloody place!’ she moaned. She paused and swallowed, crouched deeper and blew and blew again.
‘Might have…known…too…oh, bloody
typical
…damp…bloody
burn,
damn you…Oh,
God!
’
She poked at the sticks in the centre of the fire and a cloud of smoke bulged out from the papers and into her face. Weak glimmers of flame flared and subsided. She threw in another match, leaned forward and blew again. A curl of flame gusted at her and she leapt to get away, snatching her dressing gown and pulling out several sticks that clung to the hem.
She wiped her eyes and nose with her sleeve, bringing away a trail of sooty slime, and glared at Lila.
‘What do you want? What are you staring at?’
For a moment Lila could not speak. Her mother’s face had shrunk to a tiny white mask in which her lips opened and closed over teeth that seemed smaller and sharper than before. Her frayed sleeves hung over her hands; she was like a creature from a fable, a fairy wrecked and grounded after some calamity, her ruined wings in shreds. But the effort of blowing had made her look younger; her eyes were hard and bright.
‘Well?’
‘What—what are you
doing
?’
‘Oh, for God’s
sake
! For God’s sake, I am so sick and tired, have you no idea? You and your damn father, the bastard, the bloody
bastard
.’
‘But why are you…’
‘Him and his precious bloody garage! I’ve had enough, I’ll bloody show him!’
She barged past her out to the garden. Lila was too frightened to follow and besides, there was the fire; the smoke behind her was already thick and sulphurous. She stepped to the doorway for a lungful of air and turned back but there was so much smoke she could hardly see. Shielding her eyes, she stamped at the edges of the pile on the floor until her breath gave out, then she sucked in another and her throat filled with hot smoke. She stumbled to the door, retching and dizzy. Several more times she ventured back in and tried to stamp out the fire, retreating
She looked out across the waste ground behind the house, now a lurid patchy green after the rain, to where the sea writhed into the shore. Though her curiosity about her mother’s whereabouts was diminishing now that she was not dead in the attic, she wondered again where she was. Had she got dressed and taken herself off for a walk? But Fleur hated the beach, and there was nowhere else to walk unless you roamed along the road and it was impossible to do that without looking stray and half-witted. Lila’s eye was drawn from the distance to something almost immediately below. The front double doors of the garage were closed as usual, but the side door into the garage from the back garden was open. Above it, the garage roof seemed to be swaying slightly. When she looked properly she saw that it was the drift of a soft line of smoke rising from the joins between rows of slates that made it appear to move.
She turned and ran downstairs, out through the kitchen and across the grass. Soft rasping noises and whining grunts were coming from the open door; inside, her mother was crouched and weeping, striking matches and tossing them into a high mound of twisted newspapers and sticks set in the middle of the floor. As she moved, the skirt of the dressing gown, gauzy and flammable, floated and sank over the edges of the heap; from her wrists the long sleeves were already waving like smoke. Lila stared at the drifting folds and the crossed sticks of firewood hazy beneath the green shadow and reaching up like open beaks, pulling at the material. She couldn’t help waiting to see what would happen.
The paper was refusing to catch properly. With each dropped and extinguished match Fleur cursed, leaned forward and blew hard. Some paper crackled and the pile settled a little.
‘
God!
Oh, for God’s sake! Oh, this bloody place!’ she moaned. She paused and swallowed, crouched deeper and blew and blew again.
‘Might have…known…too…oh, bloody
typical
…damp…bloody
burn,
damn you…Oh,
God!
’
She poked at the sticks in the centre of the fire and a cloud of smoke bulged out from the papers and into her face. Weak glimmers of flame flared and subsided. She threw in another match, leaned forward and blew again. A curl of flame gusted at her and she leapt to get away, snatching her dressing gown and pulling out several sticks that clung to the hem.
She wiped her eyes and nose with her sleeve, bringing away a trail of sooty slime, and glared at Lila.
‘What do you want? What are you staring at?’
For a moment Lila could not speak. Her mother’s face had shrunk to a tiny white mask in which her lips opened and closed over teeth that seemed smaller and sharper than before. Her frayed sleeves hung over her hands; she was like a creature from a fable, a fairy wrecked and grounded after some calamity, her ruined wings in shreds. But the effort of blowing had made her look younger; her eyes were hard and bright.
‘Well?’
‘What—what are you
doing
?’
‘Oh, for God’s
sake
! For God’s sake, I am so sick and tired, have you no idea? You and your damn father, the bastard, the bloody
bastard
.’
‘But why are you…’
‘Him and his precious bloody garage! I’ve had enough, I’ll bloody show him!’
She barged past her out to the garden. Lila was too frightened to follow and besides, there was the fire; the smoke behind her was already thick and sulphurous. She stepped to the doorway for a lungful of air and turned back but there was so much smoke she could hardly see. Shielding her eyes, she stamped at the edges of the pile on the floor until her breath gave out, then she sucked in another and her throat filled with hot smoke. She stumbled to the door, retching and dizzy. Several more times she ventured back in and tried to stamp out the fire, retreating
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