applying to Oxford or Cambridge; hadn’t even filled in his UCCA forms properly. And when, finally, he’d arrived at his not very prestigious University, he hadn’t stayed there. Even his dropping out hadn’t been a positive act of defiance; he hadn’t marched out in mid-term as a gesture of protest against something or other, shaking the dust of the place off his feet; rather, he had simply failed to return at the end of one Easter vacation, had failed, if the truth must be told, to wake up in time to catch the right train.
From then on, the things that Sam hadn’t done were as the sands of the sea. He hadn’t applied for any proper jobs, attended any courses, or even found himself a nice steady girlfriend; and on top of everything else, he had made not the smallest attempt to get away from home and lead a life of his own. He had seemed perfectly content to remain in his parents’ house, lying in bed till midday, playing pop records, and conducting singularly labour-saving love affairs with such girls as happened along. And when, in a last desperate attempt to get him to lead a life of his own, Mr and Mrs Field had had the top floor of their house converted into a self-contained flat for him, he had taken neither pride nor interest in his new domain, letting it go to rack and ruin, nevertidying it, never cleaning it, and never even cooking anything much in the spanking new little kitchenette; preferring to bring home take-away meals from the local Kebab House, and to eat them in front of his parents’ television, just as he had always done, leaving a trail of greasy plastic containers all over the drawing room. Occasionally, when a more than usually domesticated girl happened to have floated within his range, things would be different for a few weeks. The flat would burst into sudden hectic life, pans of burnt rice left soaking in the little sink, and all the woodwork suddenly daubed with orange (or Prussian blue, as the case might be) emulsion paint, splinters, rusty nails and all; and yet another batch of gallon paint cans (bought wholesale, for economy’s sake) would stand with their lids off on the little landing, gently drying up in company with yet another set of brand new paint brushes, standing caked with paint in a jar of dried-up turpentine.
No, there was no harm in Sam; as older brothers go, he wasn’t bad at all. Miranda had always found him kind enough, and quite fun to have around. She had long ago formed the opinion that his failings, many and various though they might appear, were really only one failing: he couldn’t stand bother.
And yet, this couldn’t be the whole answer either, because hitch-hiking overland to India must surely be a bother, by any standards; and this was the adventure from which he was expected home some time during the next few weeks.
*
The daylight was nearly gone now, and as dusk gathered in her pretty flower-filled bedroom, Miranda pretended to have fallen asleep, her eyelids closed in apparent tranquillity over the hatred, rage and misery that seethed beneath. She heard her mother’s bright, strained voice faltering at last into hopelessness; and then, a little later, she heard the two of them tiptoeing furtively from the room. Presently, the familiar evening sounds of the household sank likewise into silence; and now, at last, Miranda crept softly out of bed and tiptoed across the room.
It was hard to decide what, if anything, to take with her; hard, even, to decide what to wear for the journey. What sort oftravelling outfit is the right one for a future stretching bare and featureless as a desert into the unimaginable distance?
“You’ll need lots of new clothes!” Mrs Field had declared, with manic, desperate optimism: and all the time, right here in Miranda’s wardrobe, were the new clothes she should have been needing, never yet worn: two very pretty and becoming maternity smocks, bought with her birthday money when she became fifteen only a couple of
From then on, the things that Sam hadn’t done were as the sands of the sea. He hadn’t applied for any proper jobs, attended any courses, or even found himself a nice steady girlfriend; and on top of everything else, he had made not the smallest attempt to get away from home and lead a life of his own. He had seemed perfectly content to remain in his parents’ house, lying in bed till midday, playing pop records, and conducting singularly labour-saving love affairs with such girls as happened along. And when, in a last desperate attempt to get him to lead a life of his own, Mr and Mrs Field had had the top floor of their house converted into a self-contained flat for him, he had taken neither pride nor interest in his new domain, letting it go to rack and ruin, nevertidying it, never cleaning it, and never even cooking anything much in the spanking new little kitchenette; preferring to bring home take-away meals from the local Kebab House, and to eat them in front of his parents’ television, just as he had always done, leaving a trail of greasy plastic containers all over the drawing room. Occasionally, when a more than usually domesticated girl happened to have floated within his range, things would be different for a few weeks. The flat would burst into sudden hectic life, pans of burnt rice left soaking in the little sink, and all the woodwork suddenly daubed with orange (or Prussian blue, as the case might be) emulsion paint, splinters, rusty nails and all; and yet another batch of gallon paint cans (bought wholesale, for economy’s sake) would stand with their lids off on the little landing, gently drying up in company with yet another set of brand new paint brushes, standing caked with paint in a jar of dried-up turpentine.
No, there was no harm in Sam; as older brothers go, he wasn’t bad at all. Miranda had always found him kind enough, and quite fun to have around. She had long ago formed the opinion that his failings, many and various though they might appear, were really only one failing: he couldn’t stand bother.
And yet, this couldn’t be the whole answer either, because hitch-hiking overland to India must surely be a bother, by any standards; and this was the adventure from which he was expected home some time during the next few weeks.
*
The daylight was nearly gone now, and as dusk gathered in her pretty flower-filled bedroom, Miranda pretended to have fallen asleep, her eyelids closed in apparent tranquillity over the hatred, rage and misery that seethed beneath. She heard her mother’s bright, strained voice faltering at last into hopelessness; and then, a little later, she heard the two of them tiptoeing furtively from the room. Presently, the familiar evening sounds of the household sank likewise into silence; and now, at last, Miranda crept softly out of bed and tiptoed across the room.
It was hard to decide what, if anything, to take with her; hard, even, to decide what to wear for the journey. What sort oftravelling outfit is the right one for a future stretching bare and featureless as a desert into the unimaginable distance?
“You’ll need lots of new clothes!” Mrs Field had declared, with manic, desperate optimism: and all the time, right here in Miranda’s wardrobe, were the new clothes she should have been needing, never yet worn: two very pretty and becoming maternity smocks, bought with her birthday money when she became fifteen only a couple of
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