it can’t be so . . . Mama . . . she looks fine.’
‘I know. Mine too. But this is why so many women die, dear. And they bleed for up to ten years afterwards. Can you imagine?’
‘No! And I don’t want to.’
It had been a bittersweet moment in my life, for I’d made up my mind then that I – like Edina – would never have children. But four years had passed since that particular revelation, and now I merely smiled at my remembrance of it. And that twelfth summer, once the best and most cherished, had faded and blurred, fusing with all previous summers into a montage of shapes and colours, scents and sounds: the hot sun upon the unmoving sycamore, the dark coolness of the lawn beneath; the hum and grind of the mowing machine; the glistening water of the lake in the distance; white butterflies on lavender, sweet peas on wicker; sun-bleached red stripes, white lines painted upon green; the hearty clank of a croquet mallet, the soft bounce of a tennis ball upon the grass.
But summer hadn’t yet ended.
I sat on the bank, alone, watching them play: Henry and George against Will and Tom. It was always towards the close of day that Henry took his competitive spirit out on to the tennis lawn, and one evening he inadvertently appropriated my rendezvous with Tom by inviting him to make up the numbers for
all-male
doubles. It was another sweet-smelling, balmy evening, the brightness of the day diffused to a liquid gold and poured out across the trees; everything languid and perfectly still, but for those white-clad figures in front of me. And in that soft westering light, a light tinged with the iridescence of early evening sun, they shone: dazzling, youthful beauty, immortal vigour and vitality.
Too perfect . . . too perfect.
Then, as though hearing my doubt, the chime of the church bell in the distance, calling out across the countryside, reverberating through that palette of overlapping colour and texture and lullaby sounds. But this time interrupting, discordant, like a call to arms, stirring a sudden pang within me and reminding me once again how fleeting the moment of rapture. I lay back, flat against the earth’s warm surface, listening to its rhythm, the bounce of the ball upon the grass, and those young male voices. I stared up at the empty sky and imagined myself floating up into it, higher and higher, and all the time looking down upon myself and Deyning: smaller and smaller. I could still hear the church bell, hear birds calling out from the tops of the trees, but I could no longer hear the voices from the tennis lawn. They had gone. Evaporated.
‘Were you dozing?’ he asked, standing over me.
I sat up. ‘No, I don’t think so . . . I’m not sure . . . who won?’
‘Henry, of course.’
‘Henry
and
George,’ I corrected him.
He sat down on the bank next to me, swatting at the grass with his racquet. He’d wanted to win, I thought.
‘Henry – as I think you already know – rather likes winning. It makes him feel . . . complete.’
He turned to me, smiling. ‘We all like to win.’
‘I’ve never won anything, ever,’ I said. ‘But it doesn’t really matter.’
‘It’s different for you,’ he said, looking away and pulling out his packet of cigarettes. ‘You don’t need to win at anything.’
‘Oh, and you do?’
He shook his head, raised one side of his mouth. ‘No, I don’t
need
to . . . but I want to. All men like to compete, I think, and win. And if I’m to make anything of my life . . .’
He didn’t finish his sentence and we sat in silence for a few minutes, watching George and William knocking balls about on the tennis lawn below us.
‘The Granvilles . . . all destined for greatness,’ he said, wistfully, still staring ahead at my brothers. I said nothing. I watched him once more from the corner of my eye. On the side of his clean-shaven face he’d missed a patch: a few dark hairs, a newly discovered imperfection, lending a perfect vulnerability.
‘No . . .
‘I know. Mine too. But this is why so many women die, dear. And they bleed for up to ten years afterwards. Can you imagine?’
‘No! And I don’t want to.’
It had been a bittersweet moment in my life, for I’d made up my mind then that I – like Edina – would never have children. But four years had passed since that particular revelation, and now I merely smiled at my remembrance of it. And that twelfth summer, once the best and most cherished, had faded and blurred, fusing with all previous summers into a montage of shapes and colours, scents and sounds: the hot sun upon the unmoving sycamore, the dark coolness of the lawn beneath; the hum and grind of the mowing machine; the glistening water of the lake in the distance; white butterflies on lavender, sweet peas on wicker; sun-bleached red stripes, white lines painted upon green; the hearty clank of a croquet mallet, the soft bounce of a tennis ball upon the grass.
But summer hadn’t yet ended.
I sat on the bank, alone, watching them play: Henry and George against Will and Tom. It was always towards the close of day that Henry took his competitive spirit out on to the tennis lawn, and one evening he inadvertently appropriated my rendezvous with Tom by inviting him to make up the numbers for
all-male
doubles. It was another sweet-smelling, balmy evening, the brightness of the day diffused to a liquid gold and poured out across the trees; everything languid and perfectly still, but for those white-clad figures in front of me. And in that soft westering light, a light tinged with the iridescence of early evening sun, they shone: dazzling, youthful beauty, immortal vigour and vitality.
Too perfect . . . too perfect.
Then, as though hearing my doubt, the chime of the church bell in the distance, calling out across the countryside, reverberating through that palette of overlapping colour and texture and lullaby sounds. But this time interrupting, discordant, like a call to arms, stirring a sudden pang within me and reminding me once again how fleeting the moment of rapture. I lay back, flat against the earth’s warm surface, listening to its rhythm, the bounce of the ball upon the grass, and those young male voices. I stared up at the empty sky and imagined myself floating up into it, higher and higher, and all the time looking down upon myself and Deyning: smaller and smaller. I could still hear the church bell, hear birds calling out from the tops of the trees, but I could no longer hear the voices from the tennis lawn. They had gone. Evaporated.
‘Were you dozing?’ he asked, standing over me.
I sat up. ‘No, I don’t think so . . . I’m not sure . . . who won?’
‘Henry, of course.’
‘Henry
and
George,’ I corrected him.
He sat down on the bank next to me, swatting at the grass with his racquet. He’d wanted to win, I thought.
‘Henry – as I think you already know – rather likes winning. It makes him feel . . . complete.’
He turned to me, smiling. ‘We all like to win.’
‘I’ve never won anything, ever,’ I said. ‘But it doesn’t really matter.’
‘It’s different for you,’ he said, looking away and pulling out his packet of cigarettes. ‘You don’t need to win at anything.’
‘Oh, and you do?’
He shook his head, raised one side of his mouth. ‘No, I don’t
need
to . . . but I want to. All men like to compete, I think, and win. And if I’m to make anything of my life . . .’
He didn’t finish his sentence and we sat in silence for a few minutes, watching George and William knocking balls about on the tennis lawn below us.
‘The Granvilles . . . all destined for greatness,’ he said, wistfully, still staring ahead at my brothers. I said nothing. I watched him once more from the corner of my eye. On the side of his clean-shaven face he’d missed a patch: a few dark hairs, a newly discovered imperfection, lending a perfect vulnerability.
‘No . . .
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