in the room. Being allowed to leave the table at last had never been much of a relief; the whole house had seemed neurotically aware of Hermione, waiting for her to touch something she shouldn’t, knock over an ornament, peep into one of the numerous rooms the children had been told to stay out of. Long before they left she would be constipated by the sense of always being watched.
She was beginning to feel angry, not afraid. There was no point in pretending Queenie hadn’t been vicious. Hermione dug her fork into the flower bed, remembering the night after Queenie’s father had been buried. Queenie had never been more vicious than that night, when Hermione had ventured up to sympathize with her.
She had been six years old, and glimpsing the hidden world of adults. The family had converged on the house in Waterloo when it became clear that the old man was dying at last. He and Queenie had lived there alone for years. Hermione recalled him dimly as a bony man with a disproportionately large mild face and a shock of grey hair, who’d sat hunched at the head of the dining table and who had emitted questions now and then, questions which she’d never understood and which seemed to elude him too. He must have been trying to recall his tenure as a professor in Liverpool. She hadn’t realised he was dying until Lance had looked into the room she’d shared with Alison, to tell them he was dead.
By then the girls were huddled in Hermione’s bed, where Alison had taken refuge from the screams, their aunt’s screams, so piercing and desperate they’d seemed to come from all over the house. The floor shook as people ran upstairs, and Keith told the girls to stay in their room. The screams grew intermittent, until the girls were breathless with dread of the next scream. The murmur of the adults overhead seemed far too distant, two corridors and a staircase away. When Lance sidled round the door to tell them their grandfather was dead, Hermione ordered him out of the room, though she would have pleaded with him to stay if he had been anyone but Lance.
During the night Queenie calmed down but refused to leave her father’s room. That much Hermione learned in the morning, when Lance’s father Richard took Lance and the girls for a walk on the wintry beach. Between then and the funeral the children were kept away from the house as much as possible, but Hermione gathered that even the doctor hadn’t succeeded in moving their aunt from beside her father’s bed. The family had to give her a drink laced with a sleeping pill before the undertakers could remove the corpse. She didn’t scream when she awakened by the empty bed; she didn’t speak to anyone, even to ask where they’d taken her father. No wonder the house felt like a trap about to spring. No wonder Edith kept the girls at the back of the church during the funeral.
The pews were full of ranks of grey professors. The church smelled of wreaths and mothballed suits. Edith craned to watch Queenie over the grey heads, and Hermione saw her knuckles whitening as she gripped the pew in front. Suddenly a murmur passed through the congregation, for Queenie had reared up, flinging Richard aside as he reached for her arm, and was running stiff-legged toward the coffin, her arms outstretched as if she meant to hoist the corpse. Edith rushed the girls out of the church, and Hermione couldn’t see what happened as the priest and several other men closed in on Queenie, her face glaring wildly above them. Keith and Richard brought Queenie out behind the coffin, but she ignored the ceremony: she stood at the graveside and stared at the sky, smiling bitterly and secretly as if she could see something none of the mourners could. Afterwards the family drove back to Waterloo, where she went straight up to her father’s room and lay on the bed. She refused to speak to anyone or even look at them, and the family was unwilling to leave her alone in the house in case she planned to do away
She was beginning to feel angry, not afraid. There was no point in pretending Queenie hadn’t been vicious. Hermione dug her fork into the flower bed, remembering the night after Queenie’s father had been buried. Queenie had never been more vicious than that night, when Hermione had ventured up to sympathize with her.
She had been six years old, and glimpsing the hidden world of adults. The family had converged on the house in Waterloo when it became clear that the old man was dying at last. He and Queenie had lived there alone for years. Hermione recalled him dimly as a bony man with a disproportionately large mild face and a shock of grey hair, who’d sat hunched at the head of the dining table and who had emitted questions now and then, questions which she’d never understood and which seemed to elude him too. He must have been trying to recall his tenure as a professor in Liverpool. She hadn’t realised he was dying until Lance had looked into the room she’d shared with Alison, to tell them he was dead.
By then the girls were huddled in Hermione’s bed, where Alison had taken refuge from the screams, their aunt’s screams, so piercing and desperate they’d seemed to come from all over the house. The floor shook as people ran upstairs, and Keith told the girls to stay in their room. The screams grew intermittent, until the girls were breathless with dread of the next scream. The murmur of the adults overhead seemed far too distant, two corridors and a staircase away. When Lance sidled round the door to tell them their grandfather was dead, Hermione ordered him out of the room, though she would have pleaded with him to stay if he had been anyone but Lance.
During the night Queenie calmed down but refused to leave her father’s room. That much Hermione learned in the morning, when Lance’s father Richard took Lance and the girls for a walk on the wintry beach. Between then and the funeral the children were kept away from the house as much as possible, but Hermione gathered that even the doctor hadn’t succeeded in moving their aunt from beside her father’s bed. The family had to give her a drink laced with a sleeping pill before the undertakers could remove the corpse. She didn’t scream when she awakened by the empty bed; she didn’t speak to anyone, even to ask where they’d taken her father. No wonder the house felt like a trap about to spring. No wonder Edith kept the girls at the back of the church during the funeral.
The pews were full of ranks of grey professors. The church smelled of wreaths and mothballed suits. Edith craned to watch Queenie over the grey heads, and Hermione saw her knuckles whitening as she gripped the pew in front. Suddenly a murmur passed through the congregation, for Queenie had reared up, flinging Richard aside as he reached for her arm, and was running stiff-legged toward the coffin, her arms outstretched as if she meant to hoist the corpse. Edith rushed the girls out of the church, and Hermione couldn’t see what happened as the priest and several other men closed in on Queenie, her face glaring wildly above them. Keith and Richard brought Queenie out behind the coffin, but she ignored the ceremony: she stood at the graveside and stared at the sky, smiling bitterly and secretly as if she could see something none of the mourners could. Afterwards the family drove back to Waterloo, where she went straight up to her father’s room and lay on the bed. She refused to speak to anyone or even look at them, and the family was unwilling to leave her alone in the house in case she planned to do away
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