Undercurrent by Frances Fyfield Page B

with Francesca Chisholm, occupying at least one half of his waking thoughts as well as many of his dreams. It was only when he thought of his father, and what he might have inherited by way of personal worth, that Henry Evans allowed himself to think he might be a decent enough man himself. He looked down at the fishing platform and noticed missing planks, the water churning beneath. The sense of fatigue came back.

    The child looked angelic in sleep. Looking at her in this state made Angela wince with sheer pleasure, amazed that she should be such a graceful and placid sleeper, no tossing and turning, no signs of distress in her unconsciousness. She lay flat on her stomach, her perfect hands pressed into the pillow above her head, face on one side, displaying on the white of the linen the dark, rich curls of her hair. A proper auburn, Angela admired; the colour of horse chestnuts startlingly combined not with the pale skin and blue eyes of the traditional redhead, but a sallower complexion which always looked kissed by the sun.

    And remarkable brown eyes, above a delicate nose which was sweeter than ever in profile like this, breathing in and out with the minimal sound of a contented baby animal. The lips were slightly parted; the fingertips were lightly curled; there were no nightmares and she was a piece of perfection who deserved to be the centre of the universe; she deserved any sacrifice which could be made and she would sleep for hours. Angela turned from her, feeling satisfied.

    The child slept the sleep of healthy exhaustion, fresh air, exercise, stimulation and plenty of food. She was a wiry little thing. Not so little, and incredibly strong. She might make an athlete; she shone at school sports and showed a capacity to excel if only she was not so bored with it all.
    Difficult to get the hang of the rules. Why not outrun everyone else and shove the ball in the net, using the quickest route, even if it did mean going out of the ground and pushing people over?

    Why obey the whistle if you were ahead? Why not use skull, feet and fists and anything else which was useful, even if you were only supposed to use your hands or a stick? She was learning, though; she learned fast. Angela smiled fondly, touched the pillow in benediction, then touched her own hair, hidden beneath a rustling shower cap. Time to rinse. Twenty minutes maximum, or her hair would look like a bonflre in full flame once it was dry. There would only be a slight resemblance to the rich auburn of her daughter.

    Tanya had said that a girl at school had said, why hasn't your mummy got hair like yours?
    The fond and logical explanation that only half the mothers who collected at the school gates had a colour of hair resembling that of their children, or even their own, had failed to reassure. There were gaps in Tanya's logic, as well as her sensitivities, and if she wanted Mummy to have the same hair colour as herself, well then, Mummy would fix it. Angela glanced in the mirror and wondered if Uncle Joe would notice the difference when she visited next; she'd take a bet on it.

    Henna was such messy stuff and the application was roughly the equivalent of shoving her head in a cow pat of warm dung, with a not dissimilar smell and texture. It stained where it touched the porcelain; she had spent half the waiting time scrubbing at it, and the towel round her neck would never be the same again. It would be relegated to towels to be used for swimming in summer. If they ever did that again. Of course they would. By the end of the summer before, Tanya could float like a cork and swim like an eel, although eels had better understanding of the tides.

    Angela set about the task of getting the muck out of her hair with the aid of the shower attachment, cricking her neck at an uncomfortable angle over the sink. All finished, and she felt a huge impatience to get it dry and see the result. Tanya might not like it and she might have to do it all over again, but if