Family Album

by Penelope Lively

  Stefan studied the result. He had already mentioned that at home he and his parents sometimes played Scrabble in English, just for fun (Fun? thought Roger, aghast). He said, “With my family we don’t allow that word. It is different here, I suppose.”

  There was just the faintest criticism implied, and Roger saw that he was scuppered. Either he came clean about Allersmead house rules and admitted cheating but retrieved the family honor, or he kept quiet and allowed the family to be tarnished in comparison with Stefan’s decent and superior home lifestyle. Or—a possible third way occurred to him—he gave a little snort of amusement at this priggish scenario, as one accustomed to a climate of liberal self-expression.

  He stared hopelessly at the board, avoiding Stefan’s eye.

  The door opened. “What about bed, boys?” said Alison. “Stefan must be more than ready, after that journey. Or do you want to finish the game?”

  Roger swept up the pieces. “Oh, we just about have,” he said. “Stefan’s won anyway.”

  Much later, lying awake, it came to him that if Stefan’s family was so clean-living, then “fuck” shouldn’t be a part of their English vocabulary. After all, Stefan had apparently been baffled by “sod.”

  The next day Roger and Stefan took a football to the local park, at Alison’s suggestion. Roger had not quite reckoned with this enforced twinning by the cultural exchange program: whatever you did, you did together. You and he were an artificial unit, for the duration of his stay. You slept together, you played together, you ate, drank, and communed. There was no escape, it seemed. “What are you boys going to do now?” Alison would inquire brightly.

  They played football, obedient to requirements. For Roger, this was no penance; it was clear that Stefan was less keen, but he kicked the ball around gamely for an hour or so, somewhat inept, which was an embarrassment to both. Eventually, by mutual consent, they trailed back to the house. The day yawned ahead.

  Left to himself, Roger would have luxuriated in holidays boredom; he would have mooched, idled, done nothing in particular for many constructive hours. This was now not an option: he must be seen to be doing something in order that Stefan should do it with him. Monopoly, badminton in the garden, demon patience, quoits in the garden, snakes and ladders, why not get out the table tennis things and set them up in the garden? It was exhausting.

  Stefan appeared to be all compliance. Except, Roger realized, that his good manners were so ingrained that it was virtually impossible for him not to comply. “Yes,” he would say. “I would like that. You must teach me this game—I do not know it.” He played with awful determination; he played for the honor of his country, one felt. At night, he was haggard with fatigue.

  Thirteen-year-olds are not strong on empathy. Roger was not strong on empathy, but just occasionally he glimpsed in Stefan a sort of shuttered anguish. He saw it when Stefan awaited his turn for the bathroom, he saw it when Stefan so evidently tried and failed to follow the exchanges over the Allersmead kitchen table, at mealtimes, he saw it when Stefan faced a plateful of corned beef hash (“No, we do not have this at home”).

  It was during one of those quick-fire, competitive, coded Allersmead mealtimes that Alison began to explain to Stefan the treat in store.

  “It’s such fun that you’re here for it, Stefan—one of our big family events. It’s my birthday, you see, and since it happens so nicely in the school holidays—so sensible of me to have been born in August—we always have a family picnic. The birthday picnic. Now—quiet, everybody, please!—we haven’t decided yet where it’s going to be this year, and it’s only two days away, so I want some ideas.”

  “Alton Towers theme park,” said Clare.

  “Oxford Street,” said Sandra. “With shopping opportunities for those who wish.”

  “That green bit outside the Houses of Parliament,” said Paul. “With placards extolling the sanctity of family life.”

  Alison frowned. “Sensible suggestions, please.” She turned to Charles. “What about you, dear? Anywhere you’d particularly like to go?”

  Charles had appeared to be lost in some private reverie. Now he surfaced. “Ah, yes, the annual celebration.” He glanced at Stefan. “Perhaps our visitor should be allowed to choose the destination?”

  Stefan looked panic stricken. “I do not think . . .” he began.

  Katie came to his rescue. “Actually, why don’t we go to Whipsnade Zoo?”

  Groans. “Oh, puh-leeze,” said Sandra.

  Charles again addressed Stefan. “You will note a certain absence of agreement in this family. A tradition that a ritual should also be a matter of dissension. It’s always a challenge to see for how long it can go on.” He looked around the table expectantly.

  “That’s right, Dad,” muttered Paul. “Muddy the waters.”

  Gina went to kick him, and found Stefan’s leg instead. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

  “Perhaps a beach would be nice,” said Ingrid. “For the swimming.”

  Alison waved her arms. “Hush, all of you. In fact, I’ve had an inspiration. Maiden Castle—nice and grassy for the picnic, and we can have a wander around Dorchester before.”

  There was a silence. “What castle?” said Sandra.

  “You know Maiden Castle,” said Paul. “Famous for the ritual sacrifice of maidens in—um—the twelfth century.”

  Charles spoke. “A neat choice, if I may say so. A combination of historical and literary contexts for our visitor. The Iron Age meets the sage of Wessex.” He surveyed the table. “Hands up anyone who knows what I’m talking about?”

  His children sat in silence, stony-eyed. “That’s it, then,” cried Alison merrily. “Maiden Castle it is. Fingers crossed for the weather.”

  The days of the Volkswagen were long gone. There were now two cars—an elderly Volvo estate that was mainly Alison’s and an equally mature Vauxhall that was perhaps mainly Charles’s except that Charles was not a man to have any sort of relationship with a car. He used it from time to time, but was unsure where the keys were kept and did not know how you would check the oil or the tire pressure. These two vehicles would accommodate the entire family for occasions such as this (fewer and further between, these days)—five in one and four in the other, with room to squeeze in an extra such as Stefan.

  There was argument about who should go in which car for the drive to Dorchester, which would take an hour and a half or so. Charles and Alison would both appreciate a navigator, and the only volunteer map readers were Paul and Gina. Clare would feel sick in the Vauxhall. The Vauxhall being the smaller car, the two other smaller people—Roger and Stefan—would have to go in that, or there would be a squash. Eventually, the two parties were sorted out thus: Gina, Ingrid, Katie, and Clare in the Volvo, driven by Alison; Sandra, Paul, Stefan, and Roger in the Vauxhall, with Charles driving. The picnic—several baskets, boxes, and hampers—was loaded into the back of the Volvo, along with rugs and a few folding chairs. The weather was looking a little dubious, but Alison was all optimism: “It’ll clear up—you’ll see.”

  In the Vauxhall, Paul sat next to Charles in the front, with the map; Sandra, Roger, and Stefan occupied the backseat. Initially they tailed the Volvo, but soon lost it at a roundabout. Charles and Paul bickered over Paul’s map reading after one wrong turn was taken, landing them in a housing estate. “I thought we’d do the scenic route,” said Paul cheerfully. Charles was not amused: “I understood you to be competent with a map.”

  After a further half hour they went wrong again. “I meant left,” said Paul. “Sorry about that.” Charles was silent for a few moments. Then, “You’ll notice, Stefan, that my son seems unable to distinguish left and right, a failing that would make him ineligible even for army recruitment.”

  “I don’t think Stefan quite heard that, Dad,” said Paul. “Don’t worry—if the army won’t have me I daresay something else will turn up.”

  Stefan stared rigidly out of the window.

  They stopped for petrol. Paul left th
e car while Charles was filling up and returned from the shop with a six-pack of lager.

  “Are you going to drink that?” said Sandra.

  Paul sat down and stowed the lager alongside his seat. “No, I’m going to pour it down the slopes of Maiden Castle as a libation.”

  Charles returned. They set off once more. Stefan, who, along with Roger, had bought a bar of chocolate and seemed to rally a little, said, “The place we are going to . . . it is very old?”

  “Maiden Castle,” said Paul, “is the site of the annual slaughter of a dozen nubile maidens in a ritual designed to ensure national productivity. Interestingly, this practice continues . . .”

  Sandra leaned forward. “Shut up. This is so boring. Plus, it’s contemptuous of women.”

  Roger looked nervously at Stefan, whose expression was blank.

  Charles drove in silence. Presently, he said, “For our visitor’s sake, I should remind you all that Dorchester, where we shall meet up with the rest of the party, is Thomas Hardy’s Casterbridge. As in The Mayor of . . . We are now in Wessex, scene of most if not all of the novels.”

  “I’ve seen a film,” said Sandra. “Alan Bates. So sexy. Fantastic.”

  Paul broached one of the cans of lager. His father glanced sideways. “Would you mind applying yourself to the map. I think we should be turning off soon.”

  In the car park at Dorchester they met up with the rest of the party. Alison was in high spirits: “We’ve got plenty of time before the picnic. What shall we head for?”

  “Topshop?” said Sandra. “French Connection? Next?”

  “Does it have a swimming pool?” said Clare.

  Roger knew where they would go. That was where they always went, in any new place. Dad would announce that that was where they were going, and Mum would agree, to avoid argument and to be seen to be supportive.

  “The museum is apparently worth a visit,” said Charles. “I believe they have Thomas Hardy’s study, re-created.”

  “Good idea!” cried Alison.

  They moved off into the town. From time to time Charles spoke about Thomas Hardy, or the Iron Age, but nobody paid any attention, except Stefan, who trailed dutifully alongside. He would be no stranger to museums, Roger reckoned; his family probably took in a museum before breakfast. Clare was still bleating about swimming pools. Paul brought up the rear, occasionally swigging lager.

  In front of Thomas Hardy’s re-created study Charles fell silent; the desk, the pen, the papers evidently struck a chord. Probably he felt like getting in there, thought Roger. His natural habitat.

  “I don’t believe I’ve read any of his books,” said Alison brightly.

  Charles sighed. He told Stefan that Thomas Hardy was a novelist who had chronicled the lost way of life of rural England in the late nineteenth century.

  “We did him for A level,” said Gina. “A girl who has a baby and gets hanged in the end, heavy going but it had its moments.”

  Charles sighed again. “A neat synopsis, I suppose, but short on literary appreciation.” He turned away. “I suggest the archaeological section next, as briefing for Maiden Castle.”

  In Iron Age Wessex, Sandra established herself on a bench and began a meticulous reapplication of makeup. Paul sought the reinforcement of the lager can. Clare’s plait had come undone and required some remedial work from Ingrid. The rest drifted from case to case. Roger stared at an array of gangrenous metal weapons and thought that archaeology was mainly about killing people, when you got down to it. Charles was telling Stefan about the Roman invasions.

  Alison leaped to her feet. “It’s past twelve. Lunch, everybody! Picnic time!”

  They straggled back to the car park, into the cars. “Now for the assault on Everest,” said Paul. He seemed more animated, for some reason. Charles, on the other hand, had become morose. He snapped at Paul to look out for the signs.

  “Don’t worry,” said Paul. “You can see it.”

  You could indeed. This great hill with grassy ramparts and a path snaking up from the car park. Roger eyed it with a flicker of interest; you could roll down those.

  The cars were parked, the Volvo unpacked, and its contents distributed by Alison. “You carry this . . . Paul, take the chairs . . . Be careful of that, it’s got the bottles in it . . .” The party wound upwards along the path, everyone laden, like refugees in flight from some disaster, or a troop bearing votive offerings. “Keep those bottles the right way up,” called Alison. “Has someone got the big rug?” She veered off the path, gesturing: “Along here is best. I remember from when we came years ago. Away from other people and a lovely view.”

  Her chosen spot, the ridge of one of the ramparts, turned out to command a fine view of a courting couple busy in the dip below, who broke off to glare indignantly. Katie said, “Mum, I think maybe we should go a bit further along.”

  “It’s perfect here, dear. A nice flat bit, and no thistles. Paul, the chairs over there, and whoever’s got the rug here.”

  A settlement was established, strewn with open baskets and boxes, a phalanx of bottles arranged on a folding table (wine for adults, soft drinks for the rest), an area designated for sitting. The courting couple got up and departed, with resentful glances. “How to spoil someone’s day . . .” murmured Katie.

  Alison had excelled herself. There were quiches, sausages on sticks, salads, cold roast chicken, homemade strawberry ice cream, raspberry tarts. Roger perked up further. The group settled—some people sprawled on rugs, the three adults on chairs, and Sandra, who did not want to risk messing up her skirt. Alison distributed food: “Paper napkins over here, plus bowls and spoons for the ice cream. Charles, will you open the wine?”

  Charles poured wine for Ingrid, Alison, and himself. He drank some immediately, which seemed to put him in better humor. He raised his glass: “Here’s to the birthday!”

  Beakers of lemonade and Coke, and a can of lager, were raised. “Cheers, Mum,” said Sandra. Stefan said, “I wish you a happy birthday,” and then sank into mortified embarrassment.

  Ingrid said, “So many birthdays. But perhaps not so many more.”

  “Thanks, everyone!” Alison was complacent. “What do you mean, Ingrid dear? Oh—people growing up. But they’ll come back, won’t you all? Family traditions are sacred”—a merry laugh—“and anyway, that’s ages off. Roger, pass around the sausages and the chicken—I want it all eaten up. Do you have traditions in your family, Stefan? So important. I mean, everyone has Christmas and birthdays, but it’s making them special, isn’t it?”

  “Personalized,” said Sandra.

  “What, dear? The thing is, in this family I’ve always made sure we had our little ceremonies. When everyone was younger we had the treasure hunts at birthday parties, and we always have a special lunch when anyone has something particular to celebrate. Lots of GCSEs—that sort of thing.”

  “Or few, in one case,” said Charles.

  Paul hurled an empty lager can down the side of the rampart, with great force.

  “Oh, Paul, don’t do that,” cried Alison. “Litter. Naughty boy. Go and pick it up later. Now, that salad wants finishing and there’s masses of quiche still. The thing about a tradition is that you have all these memories. There was the time we had the treasure hunt in Kew Gardens—Katie’s day, that was. Kew Gardens are famous—well, gardens, Stefan.”

  “I remember,” says Katie. “Someone’s dog chased me.”

  “But mostly of course at home—the treasure hunts. All over the house, if wet.”

  “In the garden was best,” said Ingrid. “Except the time Gina . . . fell.”

  Alison was halted. “Well, such a pity, but accidents will happen.”

  “And really the scar does not much show,” Ingrid continued.

  Gina closed her eyes for a moment, reopened them, and said, “Thanks, Ingrid. Thanks ever so.”

  Sandra was lost in examination of her fingernails.

  “Ah, such happy times,” said Paul.

  A
lison beamed at him. “Of course they were. Now you had the best birthday of all. The first. All to yourself.”

  “Quite. It’s been downhill ever since.”

  “I made you a little cake, with your name in blue icing. Talking of which . . .”

  Alison got up, bent over an as yet unopened box, and produced, with a flourish, the birthday cake. “Chocolate walnut, with you in mind, Clare—I know you love it. Now, where’s the knife got to?”

  “Happy birthday!” sang Paul. “Happy birthday, dear mother . . .”

  They all sang. Stefan sang, looking around nervously. Roger sang, and as he did so he seemed to see the others with detachment—this group sitting on the side of a hill, singing: his parents and his brother and his sisters, those infinitely familiar people, who could not be otherwise, and yet, it occurred to him, they could, they had been, they would be once more. They had been younger (a smaller Clare floated suddenly into his head) and would be older. As would he. Grown-ups, eventually.

  Except that that was impossible. Unimaginable. Out of the question.

  Cake was eaten.

  “Ceremonial feasting,” said Charles. “Plenty of that done up here in Celtic times.” He poured himself another glass of wine.

  “What did people eat in those days?” asked Stefan, valiantly.

  He was told, at some length. “. . . emmer wheat,” Roger heard, with half an ear. “. . . fermented barley . . .” He eyed the slope of the hill, and wondered about rolling down it. “That is most interesting,” Stefan was saying, and Roger felt a twinge of sympathy. It came to him with horror that in due course he would have to converse with Stefan’s father, only it would be all in German so he wouldn’t understand a word.

  “Who did the cooking?” said Sandra, looking up suddenly. It had not been apparent that she was listening.