In a Good Light (10 page)

Eventually, when we had managed to dispose ourselves around the room in positions that didn't threaten the television's fragile equilibrium, the grey and white fuzz resolved itself into a picture of women in bell-shaped dresses, whirling around a vast ballroom.

‘In a moment,' said Dad, sitting between me and Donovan on the couch and putting his arms around us, ‘we're going to see Donovan's mummy.'

‘On telly?' I said.

‘Is she an actress?' Christian asked, turning to Donovan. ‘You never said.'

‘You never asked,' he replied. ‘Anyway, she's not famous or anything.'

‘She must be if she's on telly,' I said.

The door opened and Mum came in, bringing a plate of malt loaf, lightly greased with margarine.

‘Aunty Barbara's going to be on telly,' Christian told her.

‘She's an actress,' I explained.

‘I know.' Mum smiled at Donovan. ‘And a very good one too. We used to go and see her on the stage in London when we were first married.'

‘You must be filthy rich,' Christian accused Donovan. ‘Actors and actresses earn billions.'

‘No we're not,' Donovan replied in some indignation.
‘Mum says if it wasn't for the alimony we wouldn't have a pot to piss in.'

This remark, and our parents' astonished expressions, sent Christian into convulsions.

‘What's alley money?' I asked, feeling sure that this must contain the germ of the joke.

‘Quiet now everyone, or we'll miss her,' Dad said, leaning forward to turn up the volume. Five pairs of eyes swivelled back to the screen. The minutes passed. Scenes changed and characters came and went with no sign of Aunty Barbara. When the appearance of any female between the ages of eight and eighty had prompted the question ‘Is that her?' once too often, Dad plucked the newspaper from the jaws of the magazine rack. ‘Are we watching the right programme, do you suppose?'

‘Well, I don't think it was a major part,' Mum reminded him, reaching down beside her for the knitting bag. ‘She was only twenty at the time. Donovan,' she went on. ‘Mummy rang last night. She's feeling much better and she's coming to pick you up tomorrow.'

Donovan's face darkened. ‘Do I have to go?'

‘I'm afraid so, dear. Though we've loved having you. School starts on Monday. And besides, your mummy's been missing you and wants you back.'

‘Did she say that?' he asked, brightening.

There was a second's hesitation before Mum said, ‘Yes', then Dad said, ‘Oh there she is!' and we all leaned towards the screen with one movement. A young woman in a maid's costume of black dress and white pinafore had entered a large drawing room where some sort of concert party was in progress. She minced across the room with that double-quick way of walking that women did before comfortable
shoes were invented and said to one of the men standing at the wall, ‘There's a gentleman to see you, sir, name of Jessup,' and then tip-tapped out again.

‘She looks so young,' said Dad.

‘That was before I was even born,' Donovan said.

‘She's got a look of Audrey Hepburn about her,' said Mum. ‘I've never noticed it before.'

‘This is exciting isn't it?' said Dad, trying to stir up a show of enthusiasm for Donovan's benefit. ‘It's not every day we see one of our friends on the television.'

‘It's not every day we see a television,' Christian pointed out.

We watched on, waiting in vain for Aunty Barbara's reappearance, until finally Christian, who wasn't finding the film much to his liking, said, ‘Is that all?' and Mum and Dad conceded that it probably was.

‘Good,' said Donovan, checking his watch. ‘Can we have BBC One now? It's
Crackerjack
.'

THE AUNTY BARBARA
who arrived the next day to claim Donovan looked quite different from the one with the bird's nest hair and stained dressing gown, who had forgotten to make us lunch and didn't have a pot to piss in. Different again from the lady's maid with a look of Audrey Hepburn, who had flitted briefly across the TV screen the day before. This time she was washed and brushed, with her dark hair twisted into a rope over one ear, and she was wearing a long fur coat even though it was just September and the rest of us were still in T-shirts. It wasn't one of those plush black coats that go with diamonds and Rolls Royces, but a brown patchy thing that looked as if it might have been made from hundreds of Chewy's relations stitched together. Mum hung it up in the downstairs cloakroom with our anoraks and the weight of it brought the rail off the wall so that the whole lot collapsed in a heap on top of our muddy wellingtons.

Once Aunty Barbara had been divested of this pelt and
a number of interesting packages she treated each of us in turn to a bony one-armed hug. In her free hand was a smouldering cigarette in a tortoiseshell holder, like the back end of a fountain pen, which she continued to suck long after the butt was ground out in a saucer.

‘Donovan, have you been a massive nuisance?' she said to her son by way of greeting.

‘Of course not,' said Mum, seconding Donovan's grunt of denial. ‘He's been a treasure. Hasn't he, Gordon?'

Dad nodded vigorously. ‘He's welcome here any time.
Any time
,' he said, laying his hand on Donovan's head.

‘Well, it was very good of you. I can't tell you,' said Aunty Barbara. ‘You'll have to let me have your two in return some time.' And she gave Christian and me a menacing wink with her twiggy eyelashes, while Mum and Dad exchanged glances.

There were presents next, which was the main thing: a Mary Quant doll in a black and white suit for me, a dartboard for Christian, and a bottle of vodka for my teetotal parents, which would go straight in the box for the tombola the minute Aunty Barbara had gone.

‘Have you got anything for me?' Donovan asked, when the bags were emptied and we'd said our thank yous.

‘Don't be so grasping,' said his mother. ‘As a matter of fact I have, but it's at home.'

‘Why didn't you bring it?'

‘Because it's a fish tank, that's why. Satisfied?'

‘A fish tank! With fish in it?'

‘No – with parrots in it. Of course fish, you dunce.'

‘Oh, cool.'

As soon as introductions were over and Christian and I had endured Aunty Barbara's compliments on the rapidity
of our growth and striking looks, we were allowed to escape upstairs with our gifts.

‘She's gorgeous,' Aunty Barbara said to Mum before we were quite out of earshot. ‘I wish I'd had a girl.'

In his bedroom Christian removed his framed scraper-board etching of a hedgehog from the wall and hung the new dartboard in its place. Pretty soon the surrounding wallpaper – and even the ceiling – was pitted with tiny holes, evidence of our enthusiasm and inaccuracy. Occasionally one of the darts would strike the metal frame on the board and come flying back to spear the floorboards at our feet.

‘Does anyone know the rules of darts?' Christian said after a while, when he had become slightly more proficient at hitting the target. We looked blank.

‘Hey, Esther, you could stand against the board and we've got to throw the darts around your head without hitting you,' Donovan suggested.

‘No way,' I protested. ‘You can't even throw straight.'

‘We'd blindfold you so you wouldn't see them coming,' he added kindly.

‘It might be a bit dangerous to use a real person,' Christian conceded. His glance fell on my new Mary Quant doll, still in her cellophane box. I could well imagine the fate that would be in store for her. Donovan had already told me that he had set fire to his Action Men because he liked to watch them melt.

‘I'm going downstairs to talk to the grown-ups,' I said, snatching Mary up and taking her with me.

‘Spoilsport,' said Donovan.

‘
Girl
,' said Christian.

Mum, Dad and Aunty Barbara were sitting out in the garden drinking iced coffee. Aunty Barbara had the comfortable sun-lounger, which always had to be given up for visitors or the elderly. Mum and Dad were sitting – very carefully – on the lethal folding deckchairs which, we were often informed, were liable to collapse flat and amputate the limbs of the occupant without warning.

‘It's good to see you looking so well,' Mum was saying to Aunty Barbara, whose face was half hidden by a giant pair of mirrored sunglasses.

‘It's because I'm working again,' she replied. ‘I know it's only a tiny job, this radio thing, but it's
work
. And I have to work.' She plugged another cigarette into the tortoiseshell holder and lit it, drawing deeply.

‘There's always unpaid work, between whiles,' Mum suggested. ‘You could do meals on wheels. Or prison visiting.'

‘Prison visiting? Does that still go on? I thought it went out with the Victorians. Oh here's this gorgeous creature,' she went on, seizing one of my hands in hers and crushing it with her ringed fingers. Her flattery made me squirm: Mum wasn't given to praising our appearance: when pressed she might say that I looked perfectly acceptable, but that was as far as she'd go.

‘Has she started ballet yet?' Aunty Barbara went on. ‘I've still got all my old tutus in a trunk in the loft. I don't know what I'm saving them for.'

‘Esther's not really a ballet girl,' Dad explained. ‘She's more . . .'

‘Outdoorsy,' Mum suggested.

‘A tomboy, are you?' said Aunty Barbara. ‘Well. Never mind.' She seemed to lose interest in me after that, though
she kept my hand grasped in hers so that I was forced to squat on the grass beside her chair. Presently she turned to Mum and Dad. ‘You've heard that Alan and his new wife have just had a baby girl, I suppose?'

‘No, we hadn't. We're not in contact any more,' Dad replied. This seemed to please Aunty Barbara.

‘I only found out because a letter came from Alan for Donovan while he was away and when I opened it a photo fell out,' she went on. ‘I must say it gave me a jolt.'

‘Well, that's what comes of opening other people's mail,' said Dad, affronted on Donovan's behalf.

‘I thought it might be urgent,' Aunty Barbara replied, waving away his objection with a plume of smoke. ‘She's ever so fair, even blonder than Donovan was.' She dropped my hand to reach for her handbag. ‘I've got the photo here somewhere. Do you want to look?'

‘Not especially,' said Mum.

Aunty Barbara produced it anyway and wafted it about, before dropping it back in the bag. ‘A new baby. At his age. Well good luck to them,' she said, in a voice that suggested she wished them anything but.

‘It must be difficult for you,' Mum said in a gentle voice.

Aunty Barbara shook her head and smoke streamed from her nostrils. ‘I'm fine. Fine,' she insisted, mashing her cigarette into the lawn. ‘Donovan doesn't know yet. I'm wondering how best to tell him.'

‘He surely knows they were expecting?' said Mum.

‘He never told me. And he hasn't seen them for five months. She might not have been showing much then. And he's not terribly observant,' said Aunty Barbara, untying and retying her plait. I wanted to ask who they were talking about, but I knew from experience that the minute you
reminded grown-ups you were there listening, they invariably started talking about something less interesting. It was better to sit quietly and pretend to be away with the fairies.

‘Perhaps you should sit him down when you get home and show him the letter and photo,' Mum advised. ‘Maybe encourage him to send a little card or gift.'

‘Yes,' Dad agreed. ‘Try to present it as something positive. For his sake.'

Aunty Barbara nodded slowly as she digested this advice. There was a commotion from inside and Donovan and Christian came crashing through the kitchen door clutching a pair of chewed tennis rackets in wooden presses.

‘Can we put a net up?' Christian asked as they approached.

‘Not right where we're sitting,' Mum said. ‘Over there.' She pointed to the wilderness beyond the oak tree, a sloping triangle of knee-length grass and nettles. Christian rolled his eyes.

‘Why not just come and have a drink?' Dad suggested. ‘We'll be having lunch in a moment.' He poured out two more glasses of iced coffee and the boys flopped down on the lawn beside me. In the stillness and silence that accompanied their drinking, Aunty Barbara twitched the photograph out of her bag and across to Donovan. ‘You've got a new baby sister,' she said, in the tone of voice you might use to tell someone they had an earwig on their shirt.

Mum and Dad froze, their glasses halfway to their lips, in a pantomime of shock and dismay.

‘What do you mean?' said Donovan, suspicious that he was the butt of some private joke. He picked up the photo and frowned. ‘Who's this?'

‘Your sister. Half-sister, I should say. Daddy and Suzie have had a little girl.'

Donovan looked from Aunty Barbara to Mum and Dad for confirmation that this was true. Their stricken faces cracked into reassuring smiles and Donovan's cheeks flared.

‘That's jolly nice, isn't it,' said Dad at last.

‘You'll be able to take her out in the pram when you go and stay,' Mum added. ‘I'm sure you'll be a great help to them.'

‘Oh, God, they won't want Donovan around yet,' said his mother. Donovan's eyes narrowed.

‘Not right away, perhaps. But soon, surely?' said Mum. Her voice sounded unusually high and bright.

‘Well, don't you want to know her name?' Aunty Barbara asked.

Donovan shrugged.

‘It's Pippa.'

‘Oh.' Donovan gave an indifferent grunt, then seemed to become absorbed in tightening the catch on the racket press, and the subject was dropped.

‘He seemed to take the news okay,' Aunty Barbara hissed to Mum as we made our way in for lunch, but Mum's lips formed a tight, straight line and she said nothing.