assassinated, and I’d heard him say to Papa, ‘This’ll surely mean war.’ At that time I had no notion of war, or death. God, I believed, created life, all of nature and beauty, and I had faith in Him. I loved Him. My father and brother were speaking of a strange-sounding, almost unpronounceable place, far away from us. These were modern times, civilised times; and wars – at least in my mind – belonged to history.
But events in Europe and talk of war began to take over
all
mealtime conversation. I tried to ignore these discussions, for I didn’t understand them, didn’t want to understand them, and they did not belong to summer. Instead, I continued to luxuriate in the reverie of the season. I walked through the walled garden, where even the curls of peeling paint upon the greenhouse door seemed unusually perfect to my eye. And where, inside, the heady aroma of ripening tomatoes and cucumbers fed my senses. I inhabited a profoundly fragrant world, where the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle mixed with sweet geranium, verbena and mint; where the incessant hum of bumblebees serenaded my thoughts and only butterflies caught my eye; where peaches and nectarines grew fat and ripe under a warm English sun. And when I looked out towards the cornfields in the distance, I saw only the glinting colour of my future. There would be no war. How could there be? Certainly not in the midst of that summer.
But the cuckoo had already begun to change his tune, and a sudden, cruel westerly wind had scattered rose heads and petals about the lawns and pathways – like snow in summer. And I began to have the queerest feeling, a slipping away sort of feeling. As though my material world was as ephemeral as the colours of that season, as though nothing was quite fixed any more. You see, I wanted time to stand still; I wanted to fasten down those days and harness every colour and shape in them.
I met Tom every evening, on what Mama referred to as my ‘solitary amble’. And though we now spoke easily with each other, and had learned much of one another’s characters in the preceding weeks, he seemed reluctant to move beyond a certain point. His reticence had made me bolder than I should have been, I knew this, and sometimes, alone in my room, replaying a conversation we’d had in my head, I’d find myself aghast at my own unscripted lines. There had been so many moments when he could have, should have, almost kissed me, I was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had some sort of problem – with me, or with girls. My cousin Edina (named after my mother) had explained to me the previous summer that some men simply
aren’t that way inclined
. There are some men who
prefer
men, she’d told me. At that time I’d remained unconvinced; I needed evidence, I said. She’d picked on Broughton as an example, simply because he was, she estimated, over forty, and remained so very unmarried and unattached. And the idea of Broughton falling in love with another man had reduced me to a fit of giggles. But now I wondered if Tom fell into Edina’s
disinclined
category, for he certainly seemed troubled.
It had been Edina who, four summers earlier, had educated me on
other matters
too. Sitting on our own in the summerhouse one afternoon she’d informed me, in her own inimitable way, how babies were conceived and born. We’d both sat in silence for a moment, each of us distracted by the image of any future husband attempting such a gross act upon us. Then, with immeasurable horror, I realised that Papa had done this to Mama – and not once, but four times!
‘Oh my God! Papa . . . Mama . . .’
‘I know. It’s beyond belief, but I had to tell you, Issa. You need to know.’
‘And the baby?’ I asked, my hands still over my mouth.
‘The baby grows inside its mother until it’s ready to be bornand then . . . are you ready for this? Prepare yourself, please dear . . . it comes out of her bottom, ripping her in two!’
‘Ugh! No . . . but
But events in Europe and talk of war began to take over
all
mealtime conversation. I tried to ignore these discussions, for I didn’t understand them, didn’t want to understand them, and they did not belong to summer. Instead, I continued to luxuriate in the reverie of the season. I walked through the walled garden, where even the curls of peeling paint upon the greenhouse door seemed unusually perfect to my eye. And where, inside, the heady aroma of ripening tomatoes and cucumbers fed my senses. I inhabited a profoundly fragrant world, where the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle mixed with sweet geranium, verbena and mint; where the incessant hum of bumblebees serenaded my thoughts and only butterflies caught my eye; where peaches and nectarines grew fat and ripe under a warm English sun. And when I looked out towards the cornfields in the distance, I saw only the glinting colour of my future. There would be no war. How could there be? Certainly not in the midst of that summer.
But the cuckoo had already begun to change his tune, and a sudden, cruel westerly wind had scattered rose heads and petals about the lawns and pathways – like snow in summer. And I began to have the queerest feeling, a slipping away sort of feeling. As though my material world was as ephemeral as the colours of that season, as though nothing was quite fixed any more. You see, I wanted time to stand still; I wanted to fasten down those days and harness every colour and shape in them.
I met Tom every evening, on what Mama referred to as my ‘solitary amble’. And though we now spoke easily with each other, and had learned much of one another’s characters in the preceding weeks, he seemed reluctant to move beyond a certain point. His reticence had made me bolder than I should have been, I knew this, and sometimes, alone in my room, replaying a conversation we’d had in my head, I’d find myself aghast at my own unscripted lines. There had been so many moments when he could have, should have, almost kissed me, I was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had some sort of problem – with me, or with girls. My cousin Edina (named after my mother) had explained to me the previous summer that some men simply
aren’t that way inclined
. There are some men who
prefer
men, she’d told me. At that time I’d remained unconvinced; I needed evidence, I said. She’d picked on Broughton as an example, simply because he was, she estimated, over forty, and remained so very unmarried and unattached. And the idea of Broughton falling in love with another man had reduced me to a fit of giggles. But now I wondered if Tom fell into Edina’s
disinclined
category, for he certainly seemed troubled.
It had been Edina who, four summers earlier, had educated me on
other matters
too. Sitting on our own in the summerhouse one afternoon she’d informed me, in her own inimitable way, how babies were conceived and born. We’d both sat in silence for a moment, each of us distracted by the image of any future husband attempting such a gross act upon us. Then, with immeasurable horror, I realised that Papa had done this to Mama – and not once, but four times!
‘Oh my God! Papa . . . Mama . . .’
‘I know. It’s beyond belief, but I had to tell you, Issa. You need to know.’
‘And the baby?’ I asked, my hands still over my mouth.
‘The baby grows inside its mother until it’s ready to be bornand then . . . are you ready for this? Prepare yourself, please dear . . . it comes out of her bottom, ripping her in two!’
‘Ugh! No . . . but
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