by Meg Rosoff
He sat down, hooked the scissors on one forefinger and swung them round and round. He didn’t look at me, just watched the scissors.
‘Well?’
‘Nothing. Just be careful.’
He was talking about Kit, obviously. But I was careful. And anyway, I knew something about Kit that Hugo had no way of knowing. I knew how he behaved with Mattie, that he wasn’t serious. Anyone could see that.
And I also knew how he looked at me.
16
After another forty-eight hours of avoiding Mattie completely, Kit appeared at ours for breakfast with Gomez and Mal, slid in across from her and slowly unleashed the Godden smile. Mattie flinched as if he’d hit her and I could feel cold uncertainty pooling at her feet like blood.
But Kit was just starting.
Slowly, like a gymnast warming up, he joked and cajoled, made eye contact and broke it, found her eyes again and held them, went serious for a minute, laughed, smouldered. I could tell that something was going on under the table too. Slowly the colour returned to Mattie’s cheeks and she started to forget the misery of the past few days. I watched her release and soften until once more she was his.
Just like that.
But I could see traces in her eyes of hesitation. The Did I just imagine that? look I recognised so well. And I hated seeing it, how pathetic it looked.
None of the responsible adults noticed what was happening because Kit didn’t want them to notice. He made sure to pay exactly the correct amount of attention to Mattie when other people were around so the mental manipulation stayed their little secret. And if those three words don’t make you shudder, you’re not having the correct reaction.
They agreed to a walk after breakfast and Kit talked about camping out on the beach in Malcolm’s tent, while Mattie listened, eager as a spaniel for everything to be perfect between them once more.
Mum joined us with coffee and seemed delighted at the warmth of the atmosphere. She and Dad had this cosy idea that Mattie and Kit were still getting to know each other, in a sort of old-fashioned way, maybe holding hands sometimes on the beach or talking into the night. A great deal more was happening but only when Kit was in the mood. Or maybe when it was so dark that he could close his eyes and pretend she was someone else.
The question was who.
Hugo arrived, perching on the end of the opposite bench like an animal who might need to flee at any moment. I made a genuine effort to catch his eye, but he refused to throw it and I felt like hurling a fork at him. Why did I even bother?
Eventually Mal got up and said he was going to buy a newspaper and did anyone want to come, but Mattie and Kit didn’t even notice. Mal ran his hand up and down between them to check if they were blind, but they ignored him.
Hugo said, ‘I’ll come,’ and followed Mal out, and it was the first time we’d actually seen him volunteer to be sociable.
I got up to leave too, only to be waylaid by Dad with that big-eyed pleading look you see on the faces of baby pandas.
‘Tamsin’s competing today and I promised I’d help out.’
‘Great,’ I said and turned away, entirely not in the mood. ‘Have fun.’
‘Oh, please,’ he said. ‘Please come. You know what I’m like with horses.’
He looked so hangdog, and of course I know that you have to play with your parents sometimes to keep them from feeling unloved, though I’m ashamed to say I normally can’t be bothered. I sighed and followed him to the car.
‘What a gorgeous day,’ he offered as an opener, but it didn’t work for me because (a) I wasn’t interested in the weather, and (b) I was so baffled by various Goddens that it had, frankly, been a pretty shite day so far. Weather notwithstanding.
‘Wotcha thinking?’
I sighed again and glanced at the sweet guileless face of my father.
‘Nothing,’ I said, not wanting to upset him with the Byzantine goings-on in the teen underworld. ‘Just wondering if I can remember anything about pony prep.’
‘The important thing is to be there for Tamsin. You know how she gets.’
Yes, I know how she gets. She gets blamey and panicky and freaked out and if her pony’s toes aren’t shiny or his mane isn’t plaited just right she bursts into tears and stays there. I don’t know how I got sisters like mine. I bet my dad doesn’t know either. Neither he nor Mum is a narcissist weirdo.
We pulled up at the yard, and there were about a zillion ponies being groomed by a zillion little girls. It smelled of horse manure, grease from the burger van and, underneath it all, the stink of performance anxiety. This is where it all starts, I thought, the anorexia, the self-loathing, the control-freakery. My pony’s not as nice as that pony. We knocked down a pole. Must work harder. Must go faster. Must jump higher. Must grow up and marry a banker to support my expensive taste in extra-curricular activities.
There were a lot of bankers’ kids in the practice arena, and I felt a slight pang that Tam was so outclassed on Duke, who’s kind of a dirty chestnut and well past the first blush of youth, but when we found them he looked glossy and alert, his mane and tail plaited, all his tack buffed and gleaming and Tam in immaculate white jods and black boots and stock. They looked good.
‘You’re gorgeous, darling,’ said Dad, and kissed her, which was the wrong thing to do because she’d just managed to get her hairnet absolutely straight and didn’t want to be disarranged.
‘Help me with my number,’ she said through gritted teeth, and he tied the bib carefully over her jacket. I held Duke’s head while Dad gave her a leg up, and then I said good luck like I meant it. For Duke’s sake I wanted her to win, so she didn’t insist on upgrading to some shiny new model. For a moment I felt a rush of longing for the good old days when we all rode scrubby bad-tempered ponies who never did anything we asked. This whole new performance element seemed wrong, fun-free and somehow anti-pony.
We waited with Tamsin by the warm-up arena, and when they called her number Dad gripped the rail and shot me a look that said, Here we go!
Duke knew his job and when Tam got her approach wrong he adjusted his stride so smoothly she didn’t even notice. I kept thinking she’d forget the order of fences, but she didn’t, and Duke went round like a champion, jumping clear. Tam was radiant, leaning over to hug and kiss Duke’s neck as they left the arena.
‘Good boy!’ she said and I thought, Well done, Tamsin, still in love with your pony, no issues with you.
No one else went clear so there was no jump-off, praise Allah-Jehovah-Zeus, and after Dad delivered the requisite well-dones and I’m-so-proud-of-yous I nudged him and pointed at the car. He glanced nervously at Tam, who was leading Duke back up to his box, and shrugged.
‘Let’s risk it,’ he said, and we escaped, laughing like schoolkids.
It’s a short drive home and as we came round the corner towards the beach, we almost hit a figure walking on the verge with his back to us and his thumb out. Dad slowed.
‘It’s Hugo,’ he said, and pulled over. ‘Hop in, Hugo.’
I wish he hadn’t just said, ‘Hop in, Hugo,’ like Hugo was Skippy the Kangaroo.
‘Hello,’ I said, in what might have been construed as a somewhat aggressive tone of voice. ‘Hello, hello, HELL-O.’
Hop-in-Hugo looked slightly panicked.
‘How are you enjoying your summer, Hugo? Settling in?’ asked Dad, as if Hugo were a box of cereal on a shelf.
‘Fine,’ answered Hugo nervously.
Another silence. Longer this time. Awkward. But I was done with making all the effort.
We passed our drive and Dad stopped at the end of Malanhope’s.
‘OK,’ he said in an overly friendly voice. ‘Mind if I drop you here?’
Hugo hopped out kangaroo-style. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ he said, and closed the door without a backward glance.
‘Seems a nice boy,’ said Dad.
A nice boy?
I smiled and nodded kindly to protect him from his own tragically flaw
ed lack of insight.
17
Mum was working on a jacket to go with Hope’s outfit. She wanted a slight swing in the bell shape and was sewing stiffeners along all the seams so the linen wouldn’t flop. The jacket was more difficult than the dress because it was tailored and she kept running down the beach with it draped over her arm to check the fit.
I was just coming up from a swim when I saw her leave the house, so I waved.
‘Come and see it on,’ she called, and I wrapped the towel round my shoulders and followed her. Hope was in a striped T-shirt and jeans when we arrived, and looked so much like a hopeful eighteen-year-old that it was hard to imagine her ever getting married.
‘I don’t even like dressing up,’ she muttered as Mum helped her into the jacket, adjusted the shoulders and pinned the side seams.
‘Now you tell me,’ Mum said.
Even though the outfit was complicated to make, it looked simple on, like a child’s idea of a party dress.
‘And,’ said Mum through a mouthful of pins. ‘It fastens – like this.’ She tucked the ends under a spare strip of fabric and held it up to the jacket.
Hope looked at herself in the mirror. ‘Pretty,’ she said, without smiling.
Mum nodded. ‘Where’s Mal? I haven’t seen him all day.’
‘In hiding. Learning lines. I think he might have dragged Kit in to play the rest of the parts. I’d help him, but he won’t have it. Says I give him disapproving looks.’
‘Do you?’
‘Probably.’
‘Last seam,’ Mum said, and Hope sighed.
‘I won’t have a decent conversation with him till the run is over. Maybe I should get pregnant. Make your own best friend.’
‘Don’t even joke about it,’ Mum said, frowning.
‘What’s wrong with children?’ I asked. ‘Your life isn’t blighted.’
‘Get a cat,’ she said, ignoring me. ‘To keep Gomez company.’
‘He’d love that.’
Gomez, hearing his name, padded over and flopped down on the floor next to me like a sack of hammers. I scratched his ears. ‘Would you like a cat for company, my darling?’
He didn’t answer.
We heard the back door open.
‘Greetings, fans.’ It was Mal.
Hope smiled. ‘You look quite cheerful for the son of a whoresome queen.’
‘Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O, vengeance! Though this be madness, yet there is method in it! What a piece of work is a man! I must unpack my heart with words and fall a-cursing like a very drab, a scallion!’
We looked at him.
He paused. ‘Not a scallion. A scullion. Just testing.’
Kit entered the room after him, threw his arms out and struck a pose. ‘Fie upon’t! Foh!’
‘Foe? What foe?’
‘Not foe, f-o-e. Foh, f-o-h.’
‘What on earth is foh?’ Hope laughed.
Kit shrugged.
‘More.’ Mal crossed his arms and waited.
‘Don’t tempt me. I could do the whole play tomorrow.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of showing you up, Malcolm, me bonny Scottish swain. But I am ready to step in at a moment’s notice should you require a more age-appropriate Hamlet.’
Mal rapped him on the head. ‘Ah, callow youth.’
‘I like remorseless, treacherous, lecherous villain,’ I said. ‘I’m going to use it on Alex.’
‘Alex, lecherous?’ Mum looked at me.
‘Remorseless, then.’
‘Try it,’ Kit said, grabbing my arm and pulling me to my feet. ‘Declaim. You can make it up as you go along.’
‘No.’
‘Go on,’ said Mal. ‘Here, I’ll start you off. Fie! Ye treacherous villainous whelp of a whore …’
‘Thanks,’ said Mum.
Mal looked at her. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken.
He turned his gaze back to me.
‘No.’
‘Come on.’
‘Go on,’ Hope said.
I sighed and struck a half-hearted pose. ‘Begone, forsooth, afore I strecken ye entrails to a pulp. O Romeo, thou black-hearted knave, that is the question, me hearties.’
Mal looked pained. ‘What was that?’
‘Pirate Shakespeare,’ Kit said, nodding admiration. ‘Very modern.’
‘It was your idea.’
‘Pirate Shakespeare?’ Mal frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’
I shrugged.
‘Whatever it was, don’t make a habit of it,’ Mal said, his eyes lighting on Hope. ‘Is this the sacred garment of our impending nuptials?’
‘You’re not supposed to look,’ Mum muttered from under the hem. ‘So bugger off and stop looking.’
‘Come on,’ he said to me, ‘let’s go and declaim a game of tennis. I’ve got to clear my brain by murdering someone.’
‘I can’t play like this.’
‘Then go and get changed and meet me over there. Come on, chop-chop.’
‘Hang on, I’ll come and watch,’ Mum said, gathering up the panels of unfinished jacket that Hope had carefully removed. ‘I’m finished for now.’
‘Thank you for being a saint.’ Hope hugged Mum.
‘Can I borrow Dad’s racket?’
‘What’s wrong with yours?’
‘Broken string.’
Mum shook her head. ‘Why does everything in our lives always need fixing?’
I took this as rhetorical.
Mal murdered me at tennis, which cheered him greatly. Mattie was mooning around when I came in the door.
‘Hey, Matts.’
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Seen anyone around?’
‘Anyone in particular? Just played tennis with Mal. Hope’s at home. Mum’s probably upstairs. Alex? Tam? Hugo? Nope. Kit? Last seen with Mal. What happened to your walk?’
She didn’t answer, just dropped back on the sofa face down with her head buried in pillows. So the roller coaster was heading down once more. The high–low cycle seemed to be speeding up.
A bit later, when I did my usual afternoon beach survey, I spotted Gomez lying on a nest of towels, watching Malcolm, Kit and Mattie in the sea. Mal was swimming parallel to the shore in a lazy front crawl, while Kit floated further out, blowing streams of water into the air. Mattie paddled nearer the shore, where she could catch the waves just before they broke. Every few seconds she glanced casually out towards Mal and Kit, though neither paid her much attention. She finally gave up hoping that Kit would swim back to her, and set off in a casual breaststroke towards the deep water, where she floated with the boys, bobbing and swooping the swells.
You could pretend all you liked that Kit adored her and pursuit just wasn’t his style, but it looked to me as if he was perfectly happy to hang out with her, as happy as he was to hang out with anyone else on the beach, give or take some after-hours action.
I swept the beach from end to end but saw no sign of Hugo.
The sun was warm, even this late in the day, and after Mal et al went back up to the house the beach was deserted, so I walked down to the edge, looked around quickly, stripped off and stepped in. Swimming naked in broad daylight is a good incentive not to linger. The August sun sparkled on the sea. Big black cormorants stood out on the sandbars, arms outstretched, drying their ragged feathers in the sunshine. I ducked my head and held my breath, then came up so that only my eyes floated on the surface and glided along on the border between sea and sky, my body suspended below, like a crocodile looking for prey.
I couldn’t see another soul in any direction. Existence distilled to peace and freedom and a sense of waiting in an infinite present.
18
If there hadn’t been a wedding planned that summer, it all would have been different. If there hadn’t been Hamlet, ditto. And if there hadn’t been any Goddens, it presumably would have turned out to be just another summer, indistinguishable from the rest.
Would that have been better?
One thing that continued to puzzle me was that we’d heard nothing at all from Florence Godden.
‘She doesn’t do email,’ Kit said. ‘Finds modern technology terribly crass. “That’s why I have an assistant, darling.”’
‘Doesn’t she ever phone? WhatsApp? Text? It’s not like it costs anything.’ I was drawing a cardoon in black pencil, a glorious four-foot purple flowering artichoke. Kit was reading an Edward Albee play.
‘My mother? Only if it occurs to her, and it never does. Postcards, once or twice a year.’ He peered at me sideways. ‘You don’t feel sorry for me, do you? That would be nice. But don’t bother, I don’t miss her.’
‘Never?’ I reached for my charcoal.
‘Not since I was about six. I hardly think of her as my mother. She’s more like some vague relation, a crazy aunt you only see at Christmas.’
I shaded the fat stem in vertical lines. ‘What about Hugo?’
‘What about him?’
‘Maybe he misses having a family.’
Kit shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know much about my brother.’
‘Aren’t you interested in finding out?’
‘Nope.’
‘I’d say he knows a thing or two about you.’
Kit grimaced. ‘He thinks he knows a thing or two about just about everything.’
‘So, I should ignore him?’
It killed Kit not to ask what Hugo had told me. But he didn’t. He just shrugged. ‘Do what you like.’
‘I think I will.’
Kit held out for a few minutes just to prove that he wasn’t going off in a huff, then got up and left. He didn’t like any conversation that included his brother.
What had happened to cause so much bad feeling? They didn’t go to the same school. They didn’t live in the same house (boarding schools). The subject of a father was never raised, in itself suspicious. And of course Florence clearly favoured Kit over Hugo, which never led to positive sibling relations. See also King Lear.
I finished my drawing and went in search of the reviled one, finding him at the little house, on the sofa, eyes closed, earphones in. I tapped his shoulder, resisting the urge to peek at his playlist. He was weirdly private about stuff like that and I didn’t want to piss him off.