secrets. She hadn’t stopped talking about them, or sharing them, ever since she’d learned of their existence at the age of two.
“Let your sisters talk to him too!” called out Cecilia.
She picked up her cup of tea and placed the letter next to her, squaring it up with the edge of the table. So that was that. Nothing to worry about. She would file it away and forget about it.
He’d been embarrassed. That was all. It was sweet.
Of course, now that she’d promised not to open it, she couldn’t. It would have been better not to have mentioned it. She’d finish her tea and make a start on that slice.
She pulled Esther’s book about the Berlin Wall over, flipped the pages and stopped at a photo of a young boy with an angelic, serious face that reminded her a little of John-Paul, the way he’d looked as a young man, when she first fell in love with him. John-Paul always took great care with his hair, using a lot of gel to sculpt it into place, and he was quite adorably serious, even when he was drunk (they were often drunk in those early days). His gravity used to make Cecilia feel girly and giggly. They’d been together for ages before he revealed a lighter side.
The boy, she read, was Peter Fechter, an eighteen-year-old bricklayer who was one of the first people to die trying to escape over the Berlin Wall. He was shot in the pelvis and fell back into the “death strip” on the Eastern side, where he took an hour to bleed to death. Hundreds of witnesses on both sides watched, but nobody offered him medical assistance, although some people threw him bandages.
“For heaven’s sake,” said Cecilia crossly, and pushed the book away. What a thing for Esther to read, to know, that such things were possible.
Cecilia would have helped that boy. She would have marched straight out there. She would have called for an ambulance. She would have shouted, “What’s wrong with you people?”
Who knew what she would have done really; probably nothing, if it meant the risk of being shot herself. She was a mother. She needed to be alive. Death strips were not part of her life. Nature strips. Shopping strips. She’d never been tested. She probably never would be tested.
“Polly! You’ve been talking to him for hours! Dad is probably bored!” yelled Isabel.
Why must they always be yelling? The girls missed their father desperately when he was away. He was more patient with them than Cecilia was, and right from when they were little he’d always been prepared to be involved in their lives in ways in which Cecilia quite honestly couldn’t be bothered. He played endless tea parties with Polly, holding tiny teacups with his little finger held out. He listened thoughtfully to Isabel talk on and on about the latest drama with her friends. It was always a relief for all of them when John-Paul came home. “Take the little darlings!” Cecilia would cry, and he would, driving them off on some adventure, bringing them back hours later, sandy and sticky.
“Daddy does not think I’m boring!” screamed Polly.
“Give the phone to your sister right
now
!” yelled Cecilia.
There was a scuffle in the hallway, and Polly reappeared in the kitchen. She came and sat down at the table with Cecilia and put her head in her hands.
Cecilia slid John-Paul’s letter in between the pages of Esther’s book and looked at her six-year-old daughter’s beautiful little heart-shaped face. Polly was a genetic anomaly. John-Paul was good-looking (a spunk, they used to call him) and Cecilia was attractive enough in low lighting, but somehow they’d managed to produce one daughter who was in a different league altogether. Polly looked just like Snow White: black hair, brilliant blue eyes and ruby lips.
Genuinely
ruby lips; people thought she was wearing lipstick. Her two elder sisters with their ash-blond hair and freckled noses were beautiful to her parents, but it was only Polly who consistently turned heads in shopping centers. “Far
“Let your sisters talk to him too!” called out Cecilia.
She picked up her cup of tea and placed the letter next to her, squaring it up with the edge of the table. So that was that. Nothing to worry about. She would file it away and forget about it.
He’d been embarrassed. That was all. It was sweet.
Of course, now that she’d promised not to open it, she couldn’t. It would have been better not to have mentioned it. She’d finish her tea and make a start on that slice.
She pulled Esther’s book about the Berlin Wall over, flipped the pages and stopped at a photo of a young boy with an angelic, serious face that reminded her a little of John-Paul, the way he’d looked as a young man, when she first fell in love with him. John-Paul always took great care with his hair, using a lot of gel to sculpt it into place, and he was quite adorably serious, even when he was drunk (they were often drunk in those early days). His gravity used to make Cecilia feel girly and giggly. They’d been together for ages before he revealed a lighter side.
The boy, she read, was Peter Fechter, an eighteen-year-old bricklayer who was one of the first people to die trying to escape over the Berlin Wall. He was shot in the pelvis and fell back into the “death strip” on the Eastern side, where he took an hour to bleed to death. Hundreds of witnesses on both sides watched, but nobody offered him medical assistance, although some people threw him bandages.
“For heaven’s sake,” said Cecilia crossly, and pushed the book away. What a thing for Esther to read, to know, that such things were possible.
Cecilia would have helped that boy. She would have marched straight out there. She would have called for an ambulance. She would have shouted, “What’s wrong with you people?”
Who knew what she would have done really; probably nothing, if it meant the risk of being shot herself. She was a mother. She needed to be alive. Death strips were not part of her life. Nature strips. Shopping strips. She’d never been tested. She probably never would be tested.
“Polly! You’ve been talking to him for hours! Dad is probably bored!” yelled Isabel.
Why must they always be yelling? The girls missed their father desperately when he was away. He was more patient with them than Cecilia was, and right from when they were little he’d always been prepared to be involved in their lives in ways in which Cecilia quite honestly couldn’t be bothered. He played endless tea parties with Polly, holding tiny teacups with his little finger held out. He listened thoughtfully to Isabel talk on and on about the latest drama with her friends. It was always a relief for all of them when John-Paul came home. “Take the little darlings!” Cecilia would cry, and he would, driving them off on some adventure, bringing them back hours later, sandy and sticky.
“Daddy does not think I’m boring!” screamed Polly.
“Give the phone to your sister right
now
!” yelled Cecilia.
There was a scuffle in the hallway, and Polly reappeared in the kitchen. She came and sat down at the table with Cecilia and put her head in her hands.
Cecilia slid John-Paul’s letter in between the pages of Esther’s book and looked at her six-year-old daughter’s beautiful little heart-shaped face. Polly was a genetic anomaly. John-Paul was good-looking (a spunk, they used to call him) and Cecilia was attractive enough in low lighting, but somehow they’d managed to produce one daughter who was in a different league altogether. Polly looked just like Snow White: black hair, brilliant blue eyes and ruby lips.
Genuinely
ruby lips; people thought she was wearing lipstick. Her two elder sisters with their ash-blond hair and freckled noses were beautiful to her parents, but it was only Polly who consistently turned heads in shopping centers. “Far
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