GOOD DAUGHTERS Page 9

  What Alice saw was a man half-turned from her and bending forward to take up an article of attire from a chair. Although it was the first time Alice had seen a naked man, one of her Cornish cousins had once described the organs on which her gaze now rested. Dizzy with shock, Alice clutched the window-sill and waited, whether for the wrath of God or further confirmation of Lucy’s descriptive powers, she would have been hard pressed to say. The man spoke. ‘My dear girl, let’s try to be reasonable, shall we?’ The voice was master of that adult trick of saying one thing while meaning another. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more, dear heart, but you know how damned difficult things are for me.’ While he was stepping into his pants, the auburn-haired woman came between him and the window, drawing a negligée about her with shameless leisureliness. She had a pretty face with upturned nose and slanting eyes, like a friendly, compliant cat; one could imagine her curled up on a couch, purring and flexing her claws ecstatically. The negligée had a satin sash at the waist, and as she tied it to one side her wandering gaze was arrested by the gap in the curtains. Her eyes met Alice’s; one hand went to her breasts, a raw, involuntary movement as though Alice had thrown a stone.

  The man was saying, ‘My wife could scarcely be described as demanding; however, even she . . .’

  Alice extricated herself from the flowerbed. Unfortunately, her legs, which had borne her here so eagerly, were now unable to perform the function of retreat with equal dispatch. By the time she reached the glass-panelled door, the woman was waiting for her.

  ‘Who put you up to this?’ A change had come over her. The pretty face wasn’t held together properly; the cheeks were quivering, and she was having trouble with her mouth. She looked quite old; thirty at least.

  Alice, her own mouth painfully dry, managed to say, ‘I brought a letter, it . . .’

  ‘Well, what about it?’ The woman snatched the envelope and looked at it without seeming to make much sense of it, the paper shaking in her hands. The spring breeze ruffled the frothy negligée, which looked rather absurd; the material so buoyant, the woman’s body now so heavy.

  Alice croaked, ‘It’s for Number 31, I don’t know where that is

  She looked round, indicating her lostness. The garden was shadowy, and the sky which had been so bright earlier on was pale and cold. The cherub stared past her with sightless eyes. An air of disapproval seemed to enfold her.

  ‘You little liar!’ The woman looked at her with such loathing as Alice could not believe directed at her. ‘Why did you do it? Why?’ She said this so forcefully that it did indeed seem it was Alice and not she who had something to answer for. She was behaving as if she did not know she had been dishonoured.

  Alice burst into tears. ‘It was the music,’ she sobbed. ‘The music made me do it . . .’

  The woman’s hands grasped her shoulders; the pressure of the fingers was cruel, but the bewildered eyes insisted that it was Alice who had done the hurting. ‘God, I could kill you!’ She smelt of one of those perfurmes which Alice’s mother described as cheap, although they came in expensive containers. How could she wear that kind of perfume and still be hurt?

  ‘I didn’t mean anything,’ Alice wailed. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  The woman swung her round. ‘Go on, sod off before I do something I’m sorry for.’ Her knee came up and jolted Alice in the behind.

  This attack on her posterior was particularly shocking for Alice, whose person had hitherto always been treated with respect. She stumbled across the hall and out of the front door. The sky was more remote than ever now; even the trees and houses seemed to have distanced themselves as though they wanted nothing to do with her. So much for another adventure! She had been expecting something so different – a misty, floating loveliness – when she looked through the window. But now, the nastiness in the room seemed to have reached out to her.

  She was too frightened and ashamed to think of telling anyone what had happened. By the time she met her mother at Pontings, she was sufficiently in possession of herself to explain her pallor by saying she had eaten too many cream horns. When they reached home, they were greeted with the news that Claire had spots and a high temperature. The doctor was called, and diagnosed chicken-pox. Alice, on this occasion, was not sorry to be up-staged by Claire.

  What was to be made of all this? The trouble was, it was neither one thing nor the other. It wasn’t farce, with the woman caught out not having really done anything and looking delicious in satin cammiknickers; and it wasn’t drama, because the words couldn’t be made to fit the attitudes of the players – Dishonoured; Tarnished; Her Shame; Bad Company; Betrayed . . . Only Betrayed fitted, because that was how the woman had looked at Alice. But it wasn’t Alice who had betrayed her. It didn’t make any sense at all. Oh, if she didn’t get to see any more than the trailers, how was she ever going to sort life out?

  One evening, when she had finished her homework, and her mother and father were in the front of the house with Claire, she climbed the tree and looked towards Kashmir. Perhaps in that forbidden world lay the answer to the questions she scarcely knew how to formulate.

  A few evenings later, her mother discovered her up the tree. She was not annoyed as Alice had expected, having been a tomboy herself when she was Alice’s age; all she said was, ‘As long as you never climb it while we’re out.’ She began to unpeg clothes from the line.

  Alice looked down through the branches of the tree and said, in a rush of gratitude, ‘I can see Kashmir. They’re playing croquet.’ She wondered if she might tell her mother what she had seen through the gap in the curtain.

  The mention of playing games had reminded her mother of something. ‘You’d better come in now. I want you to fetch Louise. She has been in the Vaseyelins’ for the last hour; it’s time she came in. I don’t want her spending too much time hanging around in there.’

  Alice went reluctantly, knowing her mission would not make her popular. It was a windy evening, and the sky was a lurid orange, across which rags of sooty cloud scurried as though there was a fire somewhere – but a long way off, as no fire bells were ringing.

  She knocked on the Vaseyelins’ door, but there was no answer. The window frames rattled, and there was a constant spatter of loosened concrete as though the wind was gradually dismantling the house. Somewhere upstairs Katia was practising the violin, a desolate sound unredeemed by evidence of talent. Alice was about to knock at the door again, when it opened to reveal Mrs Vaseyelin swathed in an indeterminate black garment and wearing a violet turban. Alice was not sure whether she was on her way out or to bed. Mrs Vaseyelin started guiltily.

  ‘It’s me, Alice, Mrs Vaseyelin, from next door. I’ve come for Louise.’

  Mrs Vaseyelin, perceptibly relieved by this identification, said, ‘Yes, please,’ and made a gesture indicating that Alice might take Louise and whatever else seemed appropriate. It was obvious she did not expect to be involved in the transaction.

  As it was not possible to enter without pushing Mrs Vaseyelin to one side, Alice waited. ‘It’s a windy night,’ she said, feeling it might be necessary to remind Mrs Vaseyelin – who was now looking about her furtively – of her presence.

  Mrs Vaseyelin said, ‘Excuse me,’ and turned her back on Alice. After some fumbling Alice heard the clink of coins; Mrs Vaseyelin was counting money. When she turned she said, quite brightly, but without seeming to see Alice, ‘I don’t suppose you would have sixpence?’

  Alice shook her head. ‘But I expect Mummy has.’

  ‘Oh dear no, no, no!’ Mrs Vaseyelin was vehement. ‘It is of no consequence.’ As she walked past Alice she must have been telling herself an amusing story, for her lips moved and emitted a tinkle of disdainful laughter. The wind worried at the black cloak, and she held it tightly about her.

  Alice stepped into the hall and shut the door; she had to lean against it, the wind was so strong. She went to the bottom of the stairs and called Katia; but either the door of Katia’s room was closed, or the agony
of the violin drowned all other sound, and there was no reply. Although she had been in the house quite often, Alice had never been taken upstairs. She did not see this as an indication that upstairs was forbidden territory; rather as an oversight on the part of the Vaseyelins who, not being interested in their home, could not imagine that it would be of interest to anyone else. She went to the half-landing; here, the stairs turned to the left.

  The landing was dark, but in a recess a candle burned beneath a small painting on wood of the Virgin and Child, elongated and quite unlifelike. In spite of the flame which flickered wildly in a strong draught of air, there was a aura of stillness around the recess, not in any way related to the rare moments of quiet prayer in the chapel. Here, there was neither question nor answer, neither a reaching out nor a drawing in. As Alice gazed, she felt the fear, not that something awful was going to happen, but that nothing would happen, now or ever. At first, she was conscious of her own breathing; then there seemed only to be breath and no Alice. No home with parents waiting, no clock to record the period of absence. Nothing. Her eyes were wide and unblinking. Then some thing that was hard and breakable crashed outside the house – a tile, perhaps. Alice turned and ran down the stairs, taking two at a time.

  She must have made a noise. The kitchen door opened and there was Anita, holding a basin in which she was pounding something which had a musty smell. The twins were watching her.

  ‘I’m looking for Louise,’ Alice said.

  ‘They are down there.’ Anita jerked her head in the direction of the cellar. The twins put their heads together and whispered.

  The cellar was used by the young Vaseyelins to entertain their friends. It had rush matting on the floor, two dilapidated canechairs, a Victorian day-bed with the stuffing coming out of it, and a couple of tea-chests on one of which stood two ornate but badly tarnished candlesticks. As elsewhere in the house, Alice always felt uneasy in the room, but with a different kind of uneasiness. Here, she sensed a certain anticipation, as though the room waited, indifferent, for things to happen.

  She opened the cellar door and heard laughter abruptly broken off. It’s me, Alice,’ she called as she went down the stairs. ‘Mummy asked me to come.’ She had expected to see members of the St Bartholomew’s Dramatic Society; but there was only Jacov and Louise and a dark, lowering girl whom she did not know. The latter was the only one to welcome Alice’s arrival.

  ‘Is this your kid sister come to take you home?’ she said spitefully to Alice.

  Louise said to Jacov, ‘Let’s have one more record.’ She was sitting on a cushion with her back against the wall. She looked pale in the candlelight and there were shadows beneath her eyes. Alice thought she was probably having period pains.

  Jacov looked from Louise to Alice, his brow furrowed. He read emotions as other people read thoughts, and he found conflicting emotions troublesome. They were all aware of his hesitation. Louise braced her back against the wall. The dark girl stretched herself out on the day-bed, making a shadow-play with her hands in the candlelight; she wore a black woollen dress and the seams had split under the arms. Alice thought crossly, ‘Can’t he see it’s up to him?’ In your home people had to do things your way, just as at your party you chose the games. Didn’t he know what he wanted? Alice knew: she wanted Louise to come quickly because she felt uncomfortable, and because there were roes on toast for supper. The girl on the day-bed knew; although she seemingly wasn’t paying attention, there came very strongly from her the wish that Louise would go away. But Jacov might have been watching a film in which he was not taking part, and so could not influence the action. Background music he was prepared to provide. He put a record on the gramophone. While he was winding, Alice whispered to Louise, ‘I’m sorry, Lou.’

  Louise turned her head and looked at Alice. All her movements were slow, as though a weight was pressing down on her.

  Alice said, ‘Is your tummy bad, Lou?’

  ‘It’s not what you think; not what you think at all.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  Louise turned her head away. ‘I don’t want to spend my life being sensible.’ She spat out the word sensible.

  Mystified, Alice listened to the music, which sounded Eastern, but wasn’t ‘In a Chinese Temple Garden’ – which was the one piece of Eastern music with which she was familiar. Looking down, she saw that she had scratched her knee. She dabbed at it with her handkerchief.

  ‘I was up the tree when Mummy called,’ she said, defending herself against Louise’s unspoken hostility. ‘I didn’t want to come.’

  The dark girl sneered, ‘Me, Tarzan – You, Jane?’

  ‘I was looking at Kashmir,’ Alice said loftily.

  The dark girl said, ‘Pardon me!’

  ‘Alice aims to be an explorer.’ Louise said this in a way which made Alice seem silly. She was not behaving at all like her usual self.

  ‘Why is it necessary to climb the tree if you want to get into Kashmir?’ Jacov was perplexed by so much effort. ‘Why do you not climb the wall?’

  ‘I couldn’t do that!’ Alice was aghast. ‘What would I do when I got to the other side?’

  Jacov acknowledged the difficulty, but Louise said. You’d have to worry about that when you got there. If it was something you really wanted, more than anything else, wouldn’t it be worth it?’

  Alice, at a loss, pretended to study the label on the record while Jacov wound the gramophone again.

  ‘It’s Hassan,’ Louise said, unrelenting. ‘Have you read Hassan, Alice? You’re always reading.’

  ‘I’m reading The Mill on the Floss now.’

  ‘That morbid thing! Death by drowning as a punishment for sin!’

  ‘Louise prefers the “Golden Road to Samarkand”.’ Jacov was lazily amused.

  ‘I don’t care about the pilgrims. It’s the lovers. They are offered one night of love at the price of eternal torment.’

  ‘How awful,’ Alice said warily. Torment, to her, was having a tooth drilled on the nerve, and it was much more real than anything she had so far been able to discover about the delights of lovers.

  Jacov said mockingly, ‘And they choose love, of course.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Louise was scornful. ‘But it’s the wrong way round; it’s The Mill on the Floss thing all over again. Why can’t people understand? You have the offer, and if you don’t accept it, the price is eternal torment. That’s the truth of it, Alice, and don’t ever let them tell you different.’

  The girl on the day-bed said, still making dancing shadows with her hands, ‘I don’t think Guy is coming, do you? He’s never as late as this.’

  Jacov looked at Louise, his head on one side. Alice thought that at last he was going to tell Louise she should go. But he put his hand on the top of her head, and then ran a finger right down her face to the place between her breasts, which Alice thought was a bit much. He said, ‘Not tonight, Louise.’

  Alice, pink with embarrassment, said, ‘Well, I’m going. I want my supper.’

  Louise followed her out. The dark girl stayed behind. ‘What’s she doing there?’ Alice asked as they let themselves out of the front door.

  ‘I’m sure I wasn’t such a baby when I was your age!’ Alice was surprised to see that Louise was close to tears.

  From outside, the Vaseyelins’ house had a dark, untenanted look. Then gaslight came on in an upstairs room. For a moment the Fairley girls could see Katia standing beneath the lamp; her arms upstretched, she seemed to reach out of the shadows into the circle of light in a gesture that had something appealing about it, almost a supplication.

  Their mother called to them from their own front door. There was nothing vague or indecisive about her; she was very positively angry, and Alice had never valued her more. ‘It was Louise,’ she said. ‘She wouldn’t come.’ She left Louise to make her own explanations, and went into the sitting-room to talk to Claire.

  Claire lay on Great Aunt Mathilda’s chair, which was extended to form a day-
bed in times of sickness. Seeing her there, Alice felt a great gush of happiness. In after years, this kind of chair aroused in her a wave of yearning for a vanished security of which firelight and the smell of a peeled orange were the other ingredients. There would be people pushing to and fro in the world beyond the window-pane, heads bent against driving rain while she lay cocooned in love and comfort. Sometimes she would drift away, floating in mindless contentment, and wake to see her mother drawing the blinds and know without regret that the day had passed while she slept. Her father would bend over her, repeating the family joke (he had once been accused by Louise of ‘not asking how I am’) ‘Well, how am you?’

  Claire, who still looked like a spotted dick, said, ‘Will you read me a William story?’

  Alice complied, knowing that she read well. Claire listened, completely absorbed, the usually animated features still, the eyes deep pools in the spotted face. The boys Claire met were bits and pieces of a boy; William Brown was the complete boy, in comparison with whom they were imperfect imitations – good enough in their way, but not getting this business of being a boy quite right. This was what books did, Claire thought: they gave you the real thing, and you measured up to it as best you could. ‘I’m going to be a librarian when I’m grown up,’ she said to Alice. ‘What will you be?’