Sun Child

by Angela Huth

  Parental failure to turn up at Sports Day, from the participants’ point of view, was total betrayal. There were always some girls who could only count on one parent turning up: they were considered unlucky. A very few knew that no one would come. For them, the greatest pity was extended. Until this year Emily had never really considered their plight. She had always been one of the lucky ones. Apart from the Nativity Play-not Papa’s fault, after all-both her parents had always made a point of turning up for all school functions. Now, doubt had gripped her mind, and as the weeks went by the picture of Sports Day without them became a torment.

  Since lunch in Oxford Emily’s appetite had never returned, and sleep was difficult. Eventually Fen questioned her. What was wrong? Emily, uncomfortable in the hot garden, answered in a monotone.

  ‘I just thought perhaps you and Papa with all your work wouldn’t be able to come to Sports Day.’

  Fen paused. Then laughed.

  ‘Is that all that’s troubling you? I thought you must be sickening for something. Of course I’ll come, definitely. And we’ll try to persuade Papa to take a day off work. All right? I’m sure he’ll do his best.’

  Emily nodded. She was consoled, but not entirely convinced.

  It thundered the night before, but Sports Day itself was glassy bright. Fen had finally promised Emily that both she and Idle would be there. In her clean shorts and Aertex shirt, along with the rest of her excited friends, Emily crowded the window of her classroom to watch the parents arrive. Fen came in good time, dressed as a magnificent tomboy, lithe and dazzling. Several of the children wolf-whistled at the sight of her. She was indeed different from the general run of mothers. Emily was proud: but there was no sign of Idle.

  She left the window and went to the back of the class. Sat at her desk and screwed her hands into her eyes to stop herself crying. How could he be so mean as to let her down ? Papa! He’d promised. Now he wasn’t here, and she had no energy to run, to jump, or to enjoy the day.

  ‘Emily Harris! There’s a man who looks like your father looking for you.’

  Emily’s heart soared, confused. She ran to the window, pushing past her classmates. There, indeed, was her father, in a cream linen suit and silk tie and brown-and-white shoes. He smiled and waved at her. And then she understood. He had come in a separate car, direct from London. She leapt in the air, shouting with delight.

  Later, from the children’s side of the lawn, while others ran races, Emily kept an eye on her parents. Even from a distance they were beautiful, outstanding in the crowd of dumpy mothers in stiff dresses, and lumpish fathers with balding heads and short-sleeved shirts. They stood quietly side by side, not speaking, watching the races intently, and when Emily ran she could hear their cheering.

  The children’s races over, the Parents’ Race was announced. This year it was to be three-legged. Emily ran through the crowd to find Fen and Idle. She wanted to make sure they would enter. They hugged her in turn.

  ‘You did very well.’

  ‘Only third.’

  ‘But you were against a pretty fast lot. They all seemed bigger than you.’ Idle smiled down at her, his skin remarkably brown for someone who had apparently spent so many weekends in London.

  ‘Come on, now. They’re all lining up over there. You’ve got to win again this year.’

  Neither of them moved. Both looked at her.

  ‘Oh, Em,’ said Fen at last, ‘do we absolutely have to go in for it this year? I mean, winning last year, aren’t we entitled to retire?’

  ‘Of course you’ve got to! Hurry up or you won’t get a good place.’

  Idle gave in.

  ‘Oh, all right. Tie us up, then. But I warn you, I’m not in a running mood, and I’m hardly dressed for the occasion.’

  ‘You certainly aren’t,’ Fen snapped. Her brittle eyes ran up and down his body.

  ‘But you used to like these clothes …’ His voice was hesitant, bewildered. ‘You chose this suit.’

  Fen snatched the scarf from Emily’s hand, thrust her ankle against Idle’s, and bent down.

  ‘That was a long time ago. And not for Sports Day.’

  She pulled the scarf into a severe knot round their ankles and Emily felt a chill over her flesh. She watched them put their arms round one another’s waists, leaning a little away from each other, awkward.

  ‘Hurry up,’ she said, ‘please.’

  They walked away from her to the starting post, stiff wooden figures, all their ease of last year gone. Emily knew they wouldn’t win. It didn’t look as if they would even enjoy it.

  She cheered them on, of course. She shouted till her throat was sore and blue spots gathered before her eyes. But their coordination was never any good: they stumbled, almost fell, leant away from each other, shouted at each other. They weren’t in the first three, or even last: merely in the insignificant middle of clumsy runners. But Emily was determined to hide from them her disappointment.

  ‘You did very well.’ Their ankles were unbound at last. They walked a few yards apart. The stuff of Idle’s coat was creased where Fen had clung to it round his waist. ‘Most of them were cheating, pushing like that,’ Emily went on. ‘The wheelbarrow race was much better.’

  They collected glasses of iced coffee and plates of gingerbread, the school cook’s speciality, and sat in a small triangle under the willow tree. Near to them sat other groups who, last year, had caused them much laughter: the conventional middle-class parents with their braying voices and expensive cars. This year, it all seemed much less funny, and to ease the silence Emily kept up a mild chatter about the hopelessness of the gym display they were about to see.

  The sky by now was mulberry, and the grass an alarming yellow.

  ‘I think we’d better be off, really,’ said Fen, ‘and not wait for the gym. You’d better drive home with Papa, darling, as he’s going straight on to London.’ Emily could see by their faces there was no use in trying to persuade them to stay for the gym, and anyhow, she didn’t really mind.

  She went with Idle to his car. They drove the short way home in silence, watching the sky grow darker. The house, the garden, the drive were alert with that mushy quietness before a storm. They sat in the car, in mutual silent assent not to get out, waiting for Fen. They watched the first drop of rain-a single drop that spread on the windscreen, then shimmered down it in long threads.

  ‘Wish you could stay here,’ said Emily. ‘There’s no one coming this weekend.’

  ‘Wish I could, too, my Em.’

  Emily’s throat was tight.

  ‘Papa, I think you looked by far the best.’

  Thank you, darling.’ Fen’s small car chivvied into the drive. Idle put his hand on the ignition key, then bent over to kiss Emily. ‘Bye, fat one. Be good.’

  ‘Bye, Papa.’

  Ten

  The summer, which had begun with several weeks of untrammelled sun, became temperamental. Although there was no rain, storm clouds edged the days. Gathering their bright darkness each evening, they thickened the night sky when it came to cover them. In the orchard, trees scarcely flickered. Their shadows had a winter stillness, and the ground they fretted was patched with burnt grass.

  It was very hot. It was as if some natural form of central heating had been turned too high, and in the closed walls of the earth the air was stifling. Only a storm could open a window. But there was no storm, in spite of the repetitive pleadings for one from Mrs Charles, whose overalls were stained with pungent sweat-and at night Emily, too, lay awake hoping for thunder. Every day the back of her neck, under her long hair, was wet and sticky, and all movement was an effort. After school she watered parts of the garden, spraying the parched flower beds with an arc of silvery drops that she would then trail over her own bare feet and hands and face, and find comfort for a moment. Fen alone, it seemed, was unaffected by the heat. Her long skirts changed to thin cottons, shadowy legs beneath them, and she tied wispy shirts in a knot under her breasts, leaving an expanse of brown
ribs. Her hair, like Emily’s, clung in tendrils to her face, which gleamed a little damply. But she was not enervated by the heat. Rather, in contrast to the lethargy all round her, she seemed to move more dartingly than usual, and set herself to endless tasks of preparing fruit, whisking cream for syllabubs, or polishing the copper pans. Idle, during this thundery time, remained in London.

  But one Friday evening he arrived unexpectedly – Emily, at least, hadn’t known of his coming. When she heard him she was lying on her bed, without thought, without energy, in that smudged world between consciousness and sleep, where the shapes of a room are doubly exposed upon the abstract patterns of the mind. She did not move, but waited for his voice in the garden. She heard it: low, enquiring, solemn. She listened to the tone of Fen’s answers – brisk, cold. Then there was silence and Emily, without meaning to, slept.

  It must have been two hours later when she woke – shivery, in spite of the heat, a little dazed. She went to the window. There was a dun sky, as on many previous evenings. Though no sun was visible, the grass and trees were a troubled yellow. In these still, violent colours, Fen and Idle paced the lawn, side by side, not touching. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, a distance of not more than ten yards. It would seem from their rhythmic steps they had repeated their journey many times. They were talking quietly, but from Emily’s room their voices were now impossible to hear.

  She watched them. The chill she had felt on waking had left her. She was too hot again. Shifting restlessly, she wanted to shout down to them, but resisted. At that moment Fen paused, looked up at Idle, shrugged, and laughed. Emily could just hear her laughter, and observed Idle’s silent surprise. Then Fen turned and tripped towards the house, smiling to herself. Idle remained where he was, his eyes on her. Both their forms were outlined now with the yellow of the grass. The colour blasted the edges of their clothes, their hair, their arms, making them illusory figures. Fen stopped at the wall of the house beneath Emily’s room, half-hidden by a climbing rose. Emily leaned a little further over the window ledge. She could see her mother, arms raised, plucking at the odd dead head among the great moony faced roses, the white petals falling apart in her hands and spilling over her shoulders. Then Fen cracked the stem of a live rose and turned away from the house, offering it to Idle. But when he made no movement, just stayed watching her, she held it to her cheek, symbolising for a moment the aestival creature that she was, glowing in the stormy light, passive, still.

  ‘So many dead heads.’ Her voice like flags in the silence. Idle began to walk towards her.

  ‘Mama! Papa!’ Emily called down to them at last.

  They both looked up. In spite of the threatening air, they appeared unaffected – there was a strange relief in their look, some lightness about them that defied the electric garden.

  ‘Em! Come on down. We’ve something to tell you.’ Fen stuck the rose in her hair, a gesture of triumph, and turned into the house.

  ‘Been asleep? I’ve been waiting for you.’ Idle was under her window now, crinkly face smiling up at her, arms folded over his dark silk tie.

  ‘Are you staying, Papa?’

  ‘For the weekend.’

  ‘Good.’

  Emily ran to the stairs.’

  In fact they had two things to tell her. The first was that there was to be a treat tomorrow night : they were all to see Uncle Tom’s production of Twelfth Night. The second was that the first week of the summer holidays Emily was to go with her father to France, while Fen went off on some photographic exhibition of the greatest importance. Wolf, it had been arranged, was to be included in both plans.

  Emily, curled up in an armchair picking at her toenails, was torn by the combination of pleasure and disappointment in the news.

  ‘But why do you have to photograph just in my holidays, Mama?’

  ‘It can’t be helped, darling. Really. Something’s come up that’s a chance for me to try out being a professional photographer. I’m to be paid-imagine that!’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Edinburgh. That part won’t be much fun, in August. I’ve got to photograph a play there. It’s only for a week, Em. Don’t look like that. You and Wolf will have a lovely time looking after Papa.’

  ‘I think it’s unfair. It’d be much better if you came too.’

  ‘Well, things don’t always work out right, do they? Timings. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s a good chance for Mama,’ added Idle. ‘You wouldn’t want her to miss a chance like that, would you?’

  If they had once been apart, Emily thought, they were together now-against her. They both seemed to think the arrangement was quite reasonable, and were therefore not inclined to understand. She said no more.

  Emily watched her parents laughing at Malvolio. And indeed, dressed as an old-fashioned butler, an inspiration on Uncle Tom’s part, he was being very funny. So were Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch, tumbling about with their huge stomachs and striped socks. This Twelfth Night was a pantomime, with much rolling about on the grass (as practised in those early days) and winsome music and witty songs. Wolf, whose reluctant study of Shakespeare had produced nothing but scorn for the boringness of the old bard, was laughing so loud that tears rolled hard upon each other down his freckled cheeks.

  By some lucky chance the heaviness of so many previous evenings had evaporated. The air was light and clear, leaves stirred in a warm breeze. The actors frolicked about the lawn, the lake flecked with swans behind them; the audience was mounted on raised seats under a striped canopy. Fen was her most beautiful. She wore a dress of long white pleats, a lilac gauze scarf plaited through emerald beads at her throat : her hair, half piled up, was escaping its ribbons. Her face was restless with laughter, her brown hands flew constantly in delight to her cheeks. Idle, too, appeared happy, his eyes flicking from the lawn to Fen, imitating her laughter. If it hadn’t been for the thought of France, it would have been a perfect evening.

  In the interval, when the audience gathered under the chestnut trees, Tom brought them plates of strawberries and cream, and goblets of mead. Emily and Wolf tried it : liked it. They drank a whole goblet between them.

  Tom was surrounded by admirers. One particular girl, tall with a dull pretty face, stuck relentlessly to his side. Wolf noticed her at once. He urged Emily to walk a few yards away with him so that his speculation would not be heard.

  ‘Reckon Marcia Burrows has had it as far as your uncle’s concerned.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nobody, especially Miss Burrows, would get past her.’

  ‘Perhaps not.’ Warm and melancholy from the mead, Emily felt within her the dying fall of a plan that is struck with little future.

  ‘As for your parents’ – Wolf nodded his head towards them – ‘I’ve never seen two people less divorcified. I don’t know what you were talking about.’

  Emily looked over at them too. They were listening to Tom, faces intent, smiling.

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Emily. ‘I think that’s all over. They seem to be all right now.’ The gold and green leaves on the lower branches of the trees confused her with their dancing. Her knees felt weak. She wondered if she was going to be sick. Concentrating hard, she noticed Wolf put on his most philosophical face.

  ‘Oh, well, it’s difficult to tell sometimes. Grown-ups decide on divorce like we decide on a game of marbles. Heads we do it, tails we don’t. That sort of thing.’

  ‘You’re right, Wolf,’ said Emily. She put her hand on his arm because she felt unsteady. He let her leave it there until they reached their seats.

  The sky darkened during the second half of the play. Stars appeared, the first for weeks, and lanterns were lit in the trees. When the lovers finally sailed away in a creaky punt across the lake, the band played a wild haunting tune, and fireworks showered down through the sky till they met and drowned with their own reflections in the water. Emily felt better. She took her father’s warm hand, leant against him. Althoug
h so much was going on before them, they both turned to look at Fen. She was shining in her whiteness, her laughing face against the moon.

  ‘I don’t like treats being over,’ whispered Emily.

  ‘There’ll be others, from time to time. France could be fun, you know.’

  France. Without Mama. Papa a bit lost sometimes, like he was without her.

  Emily joined in clapping with the audience. She clapped till her hands were stinging, and the fireworks and the stars and the swans and the leaves shimmered like the last act of a dream. She felt reluctant to leave this luminous night place. It was easier, here, not to think about France.

  There was one further piece of news kept from Emily till the day they left. Marcia Burrows was to come with them. She met them at the airport.

  Emily, already dulled by a disloyal reluctance about going on the holiday at all, was hardly surprised, hardly interested. She assumed her father would explain how much Miss Burrows needed a holiday, how she could keep him company while she and Wolf played, and how, with her there, they might even do some essential work. Emily judged his explanations accurately: he said precisely those things.

  At the airport Marcia Burrows seemed a little flustered. Dressed like an eager novice traveller, in white linen coat and matching hat, she kept tapping her small new suitcase as if to check she still carried it. Idle, superb in dark glasses, led his small dazed herd of travellers with great authority. Instinctively he understood the ways of the world’s airports, and Miss Burrows’ eyes glittered with admiration.

  Brittany was their destination. A small, unpretentious town on the coast full, it seemed, of children with middle-aged French parents in espadrilles and sailcloth trousers, but who nonetheless eyed the sea with some suspicion and lay in firm rows on the sand. The shops, cluttered with Brittany china, found an avid buyer in Marcia Burrows. As one who had never adventured beyond a landlady cousin in Bognor for her holidays, she was enchanted by everything she saw, and spent most recklessly on postcards and ashtrays. The sun shone, local gulls screamed furiously at the annual disruption of their quiet habitat, and fumes of fresh fish rose in the narrow streets. Down at the harbour, nets were strewn along the quay to dry, and there was a dried-sea smell of sunbaked sails, faded rusts and cobalt blues, that lay rolled in the fishing boats. Emily, who always expected anywhere new to be disappointing, was nicely surprised by the place, and Wolf, who had once had the misfortune to spend a day at Nice airport with Coral, admitted it wasn’t bad compared with the South of France. They did little to resist the temptations of the local patisserie, and Marcia Burrows’ attempts at French – nothing could stop her-kept them giggling like old sophisticates.