Sun Child

by Angela Huth

  ‘There are more essential things.’

  ‘I’m glad you found her so satisfactory.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’ Idle’s voice had swooped down again. Emily, alarmed, took the bunch of dead daffodils from Fen.

  ‘We’re sorry, Mama,’ she said. ‘Don’t be so cross now you’ve just got home. Let’s go and get some more straight away. There are millions in the orchard.’

  With an effort Fen smiled at her, took her hand. They went out into the garden. Idle followed them. There, while they stood by their favourite apple tree admiring the tide of flowers in the orchard, Idle stood close to Fen and put his arm round her shoulder. He grasped her firmly and forgivingly, quite unlike the hesitant way he had touched Marcia Burrows. Fen smiled up at him briefly, then shrugged off his hand and bent down to sniff at a cluster of yellow heads.

  She had brought with her from London boxes of rich pates and spicy Greek things for lunch. As it was so warm, for the first time that year they ate in the garden. Fen rolled her bread into small pellets and threw them at the bantams. Emily and Idle told her stories – funny versions that made her laugh-of what had happened during their week, and nobody mentioned either Kevin or the north.

  While her parents drank their coffee, Emily pushed back her chair and drew her knees under her chin. She watched them, relaxed and sparkling, as she would always remember them best, and thought back to her conversation with Idle. Perhaps it was best that they came and went as they did, because though the partings were sad, as Papa said, the coming together again was like this. Like this the house, the garden, was utterly theirs, its normal shape, its normal feeling again. A sensation of well-being began to seep through Emily, so intense that it made her drowsy, and her parents’ voices became distant chimes, a simple music with no meaning. But she roused herself to say goodbye to Idle, who had to leave far too soon. Still, he was coming back on Saturday, four days from now. Something to look forward to. They’d all be together for the weekend-have a real picnic, perhaps, and fly the kite. Mama loved running along the tops of the hills, her long skirts puffed up by the wind. It made Papa laugh: he said she’d be blown right away one day. If she was, no doubt Papa would fly after her, chasing her through the clouds, and catch her, and bring her back.

  ‘See you Saturday.’ Idle was kissing Fen’s cheek.

  ‘Saturday, early as you can. We’ll have a picnic lunch.’ Fen was touching his face. Emily was right. All was well, all was well.

  For the rest of the week Fen made a great fuss of Emily, who was in her element. There was nothing she liked more than to be alone with her mother when Fen was in this mood – funny and gay, and full of interesting ideas. A hot spring sun shone every day, and they spent most of the time out of doors, doing ordinary things: picking flowers, sowing a patch of herbs, tidying up the ground floor of the barn, going for walks on the common and picnic teas (with wonderful squashed cakes) in the hills. Wolf came with them most of the time, and although she liked his being there, to Emily the best part of the day was when he departed after tea, and she and her mother were left on their own for the lengthening evenings. They had begun reading Great Expectations, but after a page or two neither of them could concentrate any more. Fen would get up and begin to cook, almost in a frenzy, with great energy: different coloured pale mousses – ’cloud food’, as Emily called it – and store them in the cool of the larder. Emily would help her, standing at the thick scarred wooden board, chopping slowly and carefully, listening all the while to Fen’s stories about her wicked childhood. There was only one thing that puzzled Emily in this idyllic routine: every evening, when they had finished supper, Fen asked Emily to be quiet for half an hour while she wrote a letter.

  ‘But you never write letters,’ Emily complained, the first evening.

  ‘I do now, it’s my new craze. I write letters every day instead of a diary. We have such nice days I feel I have to write about them, or they’d be wasted.’

  ‘But who wants to know about our days? Who do you write to?’

  Fen shrugged. She was bent over her paper, hair all over her face, so that Emily couldn’t see it.

  ‘Oh, people. Shush now, Em, till I’ve finished. Then we’ll do whatever you like.’

  And every morning Fen was up unusually early, and had breakfast waiting on the table by the time Emily came down. Each morning at the same time they would hear the thud of letters on the floor by the front door. Fen would leap up with a start, almost as if she had been waiting for the postman, and dash away to collect them before Emily had a chance to do so. She would come back more slowly, splitting brown envelopes as she walked, complaining about bills. But on two mornings, Emily noticed, she had put a fat unopened letter in the breast pocket of her shirt, and on those mornings she wasn’t hungry and only drank black coffee.

  Every evening, Idle rang them from Brussels, and every night, much later, the telephone went again, after Emily was in bed. But through her open door, she could just hear the rise and fall of her mother’s voice, and the frequent laughter. The conversations went on a very long time, till she fell asleep. The next morning she always forgot to ask who had rung. There were so many other more important things to think about: a donkey, perhaps. She and Wolf had planned to save up for a donkey to pull the old cart in the barn, and to eat the thistles in the field. That part of the reasoning might appeal to Fen, they thought. She might help them out with the money. Then there was the bird town to think of again-Fen had revived their enthusiasm with an idea of making one of the houses into a night-club for the birds who came to life after dark. Nightingales, for instance. Why shouldn’t they have as much fun as the sparrows and blue tits? They would decorate the club with a small string of Christmas tree lights, and stick sequins round the windows. Tomorrow they were to go to Woolworths in Oxford to choose the lights and sequins.

  With so many plans, the days went very fast.

  Idle returned on Saturday for lunch, and, surprisingly to Emily, Uncle Tom came too. For once he was without a girlfriend, although Emily understood a certain Amabel with curly hair was hastening to join him on Sunday. Today, it seemed, a plan had already been made which Emily was told about at lunch. She was to spend the afternoon with Uncle Tom in Oxford, where he was rehearsing a student production of Twelfth Night. It would be good for her education, Idle explained, and Fen said she was very lucky to have such a chance. Privately, Emily had been looking forward to getting on with the night club with Wolf. But she always enjoyed doing things with Uncle Tom, and quickly readjusted her anticipation.

  They left Fen and Idle sitting at the kitchen table, a new bottle of wine between them, wearing serious faces.

  ‘You two look as if you’re going to have a talk about money,’ said Emily, and they both smiled weakly.

  Tom had taken the roof of the car down. They drove slowly to Oxford, to prolong the pleasure of sun and wind.

  ‘Had a letter from you and Wolf,’ he said. ‘What’s she really like, this Marcia Burrows?’

  ‘Like we said, fabulous.’ Emily put her hand over her mouth so that Uncle Tom shouldn’t see her smile.

  ‘You spelt fabulous wrong.’

  ‘Well, anyway, she is.’

  ‘What makes you think I’d like her?’

  ‘Like her? You’d love her. She’s quiet and gentle, and she doesn’t want to go to sleep all the time, and she does things like clean men’s shoes. She’d look after you very well, and I’m sure she’d like you to teach her about poets and things.’

  Tom laughed.

  ‘You’d better arrange a meeting.’

  ‘Wolf and I are going to do that, as soon as possible. We’re going to have this restaurant up in the barn in the summer holidays. Mama and Papa are going to come – we’ll make Papa pay. And we’ll keep a table for you, reserve it, you know. And when you come in, there’ll she be at your table, all waiting.’ This plan had come to Emily on a sudden inspiration. She felt sure Wolf would approve.

  ‘What happens then?’


  ‘Easy, silly. You’ll talk about marrying – she’s longing to get married, so she won’t argue at all. Then you just get on with the wedding.’

  Tom put his foot on the accelerator.

  ‘Just one other thing, Em. Very important. Is she sexy ?’

  Emily looked at him. He seemed quite serious, so she braced herself for seriousness too.

  ‘I should think she’s probably the sexiest woman I’ve ever met, that’s all.’ Wolf would be very pleased with her when she told him what she had said. She was quite sure Tom was encouraged.

  They arrived at one of the colleges and walked through its gardens. Glossy lawns curved through stately trees: all was newly green. A group of students sat waiting by the side of a lake, wearing identical jeans and tee-shirts. Looking like younger versions of Tom, they clustered about him, laughing and gesturing, flicking their cigarette stubs into the water, which confused the swans. One of them threw his book high into the air and caught it on his head: another, for no reason, did a somersault. Tom didn’t seem to mind. Emily stood a little apart from the group, forgotten.

  But suddenly all their revels ended, at the same moment. They moved away across the lawn, a serious group, ready for work. Tom came over to Emily, stood with his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘You want to be an actress, don’t you, Em? Well, one of the first things you have to learn about is getting to know your fellow actors. Really getting to know them, so that you feel you can do anything in front of them, uninhibited. In this little session this afternoon, we’re just going to loosen up a bit, get to know each other. Sit on the grass and watch for a while. We won’t be long.’

  He went back to the group and spoke to them quietly. Emily could not hear what he said: from where she sat he seemed to be conducting them in silence. And they responded beautifully. Beatific expressions illuminating their faces, they leapt about the grass like young rabbits. With some kind of natural order they skipped and wrestled, somersaulted, and twirled each other about. Uncle Tom clapped his hands and they paused to rest.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ he said.

  They nodded. Behind them was a willow tree, a clear sky, three Oxford spires. The mysterious process began again. This time the actors shut their eyes and tiptoed about: on bumping into a fellow member of the group they stopped and, eyes still shut, let their hands rove over each other’s body.

  ‘Super,’ said Tom, waking them from their trance.

  Emily shifted on the grass, puzzled, amused. If this was life in the theatre, she would definitely be an actress. She longed to join in but dared not say so.

  The actors were now bending, stooping to touch the grass, eyes shut again, fingers stretched out like antennae. Soon as they touched earth their hands sprang back, as if scorched by the daisies: then began the gentle bending towards the grass once more. They seemed to like this exercise particularly, and repeated it several times, till Tom called a halt.

  ‘Really exciting,’ he shouted, and stretched out his arms to them.

  Emily reflected upon her Uncle Tom’s world. If the subtleties of this afternoon’s performance had evaded her, the mood at least had inspired its lone audience. Whatever it was the actors had been trying to do, their silent gestures had conveyed to her a recognisable spirit. like a fan waved in hope, they had fluttered for a moment the common air, making it tremble with a myriad of reflections. When Uncle Tom gave a small, rather heavy leap himself, Emily knew why, and she loved him. In a way, she hoped the plan for him to marry Marcia Burrows would fail. She didn’t want the magic he could induce all to be taken up by her.

  The rehearsal over, they walked back through the gardens. Uncle Tom asked if she had enjoyed herself. Emily nodded, unable to say why.

  ‘That was just a beginning,’ he explained, ‘but worth it, I think. One day, perhaps, I’ll direct you in something.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Unimaginable distances stretched before Emily, a stage with rising curtains at the end, her parents in the front row. She took Uncle Tom’s hand.

  He drove her to an ice-cream parlour and ordered strawberry ice-cream sodas. They sat at a counter on high stools, sucking the cold pink froth through straws. It was altogether a good afternoon.

  ‘Do you take your girlfriends out for ice-creams?’ asked Emily.

  ‘Not many of them.’ Tom smiled. ‘They’re not really icecream girls. And I’ll tell you something else, there’s not a single one of them I would have taken to that rehearsal this afternoon, either.’ The compliment made Emily splutter through her straw. ‘Kevin, now,’ Tom went on, ‘he’s a different matter. I would have liked him to have been there. He would have been interested. In the old days he used to do the same sort of thing himself. He should never have given up, you know, Kevin. He’s a marvellous actor.’

  ‘We don’t see him any more,’ said Emily.

  ‘Well, he’s like that. He’s inclined to disappear.’ Tom put some money on the counter and swung himself off the seat.

  ‘Do you mean once he’s disappeared he doesnt’ come back again?’

  ‘You can never really tell with Kevin. Now, come on. Fen and Idle must have finished their talk by now. We must go back.’

  ‘Do you think it really was about money?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘They looked quite worried, didn’t they? Hang on-wait for me. And thank you for all my treats.’

  They drove home fast in the open car.

  The brilliant spring turned into a hot and rainless summer, a time of increasing work, apparently, for Idle. Although not abroad, he seemed to have to be in London almost constantly, even weekends. Emily returned to school, and an anonymous present of a camera was sent to Fen. She instantly took up photography and, encouraged by early results, decided to study the subject with some seriousness. This meant that she, too, was away frequently. Going to classes, she said, in London. She explained that the absences wouldn’t last long, and it was all worth it if in the end she could do something to earn a little money – something she enjoyed. Emily saw the reasonableness of her argument, and felt it would be churlish to object. But she did wish less of her own evenings were spent in the unstimulating company of Mrs Charles.

  Whenever Fen and Idle were at home together for the weekend it seemed that always, this summer, other people were there too. Uncle Tom and different girls; Fen’s mother, who none of them had seen for years; a middle-aged married couple from the Foreign Office; students from Oxford introduced by Tom. They were never alone. Emily complained to her mother.

  ‘Oh, darling, with a house and garden like this it’s so lovely to be able to have people down, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but not all the time.’

  Idle said nothing. But in his silence, Emily felt, he perhaps agreed with her.

  Then several mysterious events took place. One week in early June Fen announced she was off to Wales for a few days to photograph the mountains. She maintained that the trip was absolutely essential – ‘before high summer’, as she put it - but she promised to be back by the weekend, when Idle and Tom were coming down. The night she left for Wales Idle telephoned and asked Emily if he could speak to Fen. Emily explained she was away. Idle sounded surprised for a moment. He paused, collected himself, and went on to say how silly he was to have forgotten her plans. Emily did not repeat the conversation to Mrs Charles who, in her fury at having to spend two nights in the house, had retired to a deck chair in the sun.

  Idle arrived home late Friday night. An hour earlier Fen had rung to say she wouldn’t be able to get back till the following morning. A shadow passed over Idle’s face at the news, but the moment passed in a flurry of broken eggs-Uncle Tom, transporting them to the frying pan, let them crash to the floor.

  When Fen did arrive, just before lunch, there was no disguising the fact that she had been crying. She hardly stopped to kiss Emily, then dashed upstairs. Idle followed her, looking concerned. They shut their bedroom door. Downstairs, Tom and Emily played a
desultory game of cards. The time went very slowly.

  Eventually Idle returned, saying the plan was to lunch in Oxford, to save anyone cooking. Emily went upstairs to find her mother. She was making up the bed in Marcia Burrows’ room.

  ‘What are you doing, Mama? Who else is coming?’

  ‘No one. But Papa and I sleep so badly in one bed, this very hot weather, we’ve decided we’ll get more sleep apart.’ Her face was calmer, but her eyes, without make-up and still swollen, were dim reflections of their normal selves.

  ‘But it’s not that hot at night.’

  ‘Oh, it is in our room. We toss about.’ Fen dropped a blanket on the floor and came over to Emily. She put her arms about her and rested her chin on Emily’s head. Instant, stephanotis smell. Emily sighed.

  ‘Are you all right, Mama?’

  ‘Um, It’s nice being back with you.’

  ‘Didn’t you like Wales?’

  Fen returned to the bed. She smiled.

  ‘The photography didn’t go very well,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’m not a very good photographer after all.’

  ‘I should give it up,’ said Emily.

  Later, they lunched in a pub garden on the banks of the Thames. Tom did his best to amuse and divert, but it was impossible to disguise the fact that something was wrong, and a thought so horrible occurred to Emily that the food stuck in her throat: she could eat no more. It suddenly seemed very likely that both her parents would have good reasons for not turning up at Sports Day.

  In the school calendar the importance of Sports Day, to the children at least, was second only to the Nativity Play. The tireless practising of team races, the endless striving for yet greater records in the high and long jumps, all became worth it when a bank of cheering parents lined the lawns, dressed in all their frippery, and bellowing for their own child to win. Last year, the Harrises had had a family triumph. Emily had won the egg-and-spoon race, Fen and Idle had won the Parents’ Wheelbarrow race. As a new girl, this feat had stood Emily in good stead. She was thumped on the back with cries of ‘Good old Harris’, and even a snooty prefect, whose wiry parents had won the race for years, managed to give her a smile.