forth between the two pale faces in the shafts of dying light, they sat like two effigies attendant on a medieval tomb.
They were telling her—or, rather, Mummy was telling her, with Daddy nodding, and polishing his glasses, and making little noises of assent while furtively glancing at his watch—about the lovely lovely holiday they were going to have, a real family holiday, as soon as Miranda was quite recovered. Sicily… Tangiers … Morocco … it was going to be the holiday of a lifetime: warm seas, hot sunshine, exotic foreign food, and dancing in Tavernas far into the night…
It was reminiscent of a funeral service for someone who has died in not very creditable circumstances: the hushed, uneasy evocation of bliss to come, combined with a careful avoidance ofany reference to the unfortunate goings-on that had led to the demise; and all this against a background of overpowering scent from the roses with which Mummy, in a frenzy of conciliation, had filled her daughter’s bedroom. What with one thing and another, Miranda felt that she was lying on her own bier, all the formalities of death completed except only for oblivion, which had somehow, in the press of funeral arrangements, been overlooked.
I hate them. I hate them. I hate them! I’ll never forgive them: never! With eyes downcast, Miranda allowed the gruesome travelogue of sea and sky to flow round and past her, and spoke never a word in answer.
“And of course you’ll need lots of new clothes, darling,” Mrs Field was continuing, bright and indomitable as ever, and embarked straight away on a dazzling list of all the crisp sun dresses, all the expensive tailored slacks and the stylish bikinis with which she proposed to pay for the death of Baby Caroline.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I’ll die in the gutter before I’ll go with you on your grisly, murderous holiday, before I’ll wear a stitch of clothing bought with your bloodstained conscience money!
If only she’d dared to say it aloud! Where was she now, the proud girl who had flung defiance across the summer lawn, head held high, eyes blazing?—the girl whom even wild horses couldn’t subdue?
Ah, where was she? Defeated, broken, traitor to her own true self as well as to her child: a craven, vanquished thing, without courage, without pride. She hadn’t even the nerve, now, to say so much as “I’m sorry, I don’t want to go.”
“And perhaps ,” Mrs Field was concluding, with the bright panicky optimism of a conjurer scrabbling for a last rabbit in a final, desperate hat, “ perhaps, if he’s home in time, Sam could come too? It’s years since we’ve had a holiday all together, all four of us. Or maybe we could meet him somewhere en route—wouldn’t that be fun?”
Fun it would not be, nor ever could have been, even in circumstances far more propitious than these. Fond though she was of her older brother, Miranda had often found herselfwondering why it was that her parents could not accept, once and for all, that deeply though they loved their now grown-up son, they simply could not stand his company. Hadn’t been able to for years. He’d been such a disappointment to them, for one thing—and such a poor advertisement, too, for the painstakingly enlightened methods by which they’d brought him up. They’d had to stand by and watch first one and then another of his contemporaries —products, quite often, of broken marriages, corporal punishment, rigid authoritarianism, the lot—watch them one after another sailing successfully through University, landing good jobs, forming stable relationships, while all the time here was Sam continuing mildly but inexorably a disgrace to them.
Not that Sam had ever done anything so very dreadful: it was more the things he hadn’t done. Hadn’t finished his homework ever; hadn’t gone in for any creative hobbies; hadn’t practised on the expensive violin they’d bought him; hadn’t done well enough in A-levels to warrant
They were telling her—or, rather, Mummy was telling her, with Daddy nodding, and polishing his glasses, and making little noises of assent while furtively glancing at his watch—about the lovely lovely holiday they were going to have, a real family holiday, as soon as Miranda was quite recovered. Sicily… Tangiers … Morocco … it was going to be the holiday of a lifetime: warm seas, hot sunshine, exotic foreign food, and dancing in Tavernas far into the night…
It was reminiscent of a funeral service for someone who has died in not very creditable circumstances: the hushed, uneasy evocation of bliss to come, combined with a careful avoidance ofany reference to the unfortunate goings-on that had led to the demise; and all this against a background of overpowering scent from the roses with which Mummy, in a frenzy of conciliation, had filled her daughter’s bedroom. What with one thing and another, Miranda felt that she was lying on her own bier, all the formalities of death completed except only for oblivion, which had somehow, in the press of funeral arrangements, been overlooked.
I hate them. I hate them. I hate them! I’ll never forgive them: never! With eyes downcast, Miranda allowed the gruesome travelogue of sea and sky to flow round and past her, and spoke never a word in answer.
“And of course you’ll need lots of new clothes, darling,” Mrs Field was continuing, bright and indomitable as ever, and embarked straight away on a dazzling list of all the crisp sun dresses, all the expensive tailored slacks and the stylish bikinis with which she proposed to pay for the death of Baby Caroline.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I’ll die in the gutter before I’ll go with you on your grisly, murderous holiday, before I’ll wear a stitch of clothing bought with your bloodstained conscience money!
If only she’d dared to say it aloud! Where was she now, the proud girl who had flung defiance across the summer lawn, head held high, eyes blazing?—the girl whom even wild horses couldn’t subdue?
Ah, where was she? Defeated, broken, traitor to her own true self as well as to her child: a craven, vanquished thing, without courage, without pride. She hadn’t even the nerve, now, to say so much as “I’m sorry, I don’t want to go.”
“And perhaps ,” Mrs Field was concluding, with the bright panicky optimism of a conjurer scrabbling for a last rabbit in a final, desperate hat, “ perhaps, if he’s home in time, Sam could come too? It’s years since we’ve had a holiday all together, all four of us. Or maybe we could meet him somewhere en route—wouldn’t that be fun?”
Fun it would not be, nor ever could have been, even in circumstances far more propitious than these. Fond though she was of her older brother, Miranda had often found herselfwondering why it was that her parents could not accept, once and for all, that deeply though they loved their now grown-up son, they simply could not stand his company. Hadn’t been able to for years. He’d been such a disappointment to them, for one thing—and such a poor advertisement, too, for the painstakingly enlightened methods by which they’d brought him up. They’d had to stand by and watch first one and then another of his contemporaries —products, quite often, of broken marriages, corporal punishment, rigid authoritarianism, the lot—watch them one after another sailing successfully through University, landing good jobs, forming stable relationships, while all the time here was Sam continuing mildly but inexorably a disgrace to them.
Not that Sam had ever done anything so very dreadful: it was more the things he hadn’t done. Hadn’t finished his homework ever; hadn’t gone in for any creative hobbies; hadn’t practised on the expensive violin they’d bought him; hadn’t done well enough in A-levels to warrant
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