Sun Child

by Angela Huth

  A few days later Emily remembered the restaurant plan. Before reminding Wolf she would, she decided, make one positive move and buy the candles. She would act upon his advice and get the night-light type of candle, so that there should be no risk of the barn catching fire. The idea of the restaurant was something to look forward to-it would be arranged for one of the weekends when Idle was home. Marcia Burrows might be there, too : it wouldn’t matter one way or the other, and Wolf’s father. Coral was the only problem.

  Emily bought four night-light candles in the village shop and, carrying them in a paper bag, walked home. It was midday, very hot. Everything bright with high summer. Soon, it would be early autumn, the best time, when she would feel more energetic. Now, she felt enervated. Walking was an effort. She was glad to be on her own because she could not have bothered to talk to anyone. Not even Wolf. Though she would ring him as soon as she got home, and make a plan for this afternoon.

  But halfway down the drive the shade of the barn tempted her. Anything to shelter from the hard sun for a moment. Wolf could wait.

  Emily walked through the wide, doorless opening to the barn. Its cool shade flung over her like water : the familiar smell of warm musty hay bristled round her and the pigeons, chiming on their high rafters, fluttered a little, ghostly fans in the half-light. Emily leaned against the old dog-cart, panting. Its high iron wheel dug into her back. She turned, and read the carved message once again : Ada loves Charlie. Tracing the words with her finger, she wondered if the cart had belonged to Ada or Charlie. Ada, most probably. She was a girl with old-fashioned hats tied on with veils, and a small waist and a secret smile. She owned a glossy pony and a tall whip, and she drove through the country lanes hoping to run into Charlie. But Charlie had a huge black hunter: he galloped across ploughed fields and jumped the hedges. Ada, racing along the lanes, could never hope to catch him. Perhaps they only met at church, Sundays, where, after the service, Charlie would hold the pony’s head while Ada climbed into the cart. She would give him a smile, and drive away filled with a love she could never mention. Perhaps it was only years later she had sold the cart, a poor grand mother by then, married to some man who said why don’t you get rid of that junk? And so she had inscribed the message in loving memory before letting it go to a local auction.

  Emily climbed into the cart. One of its hard seats, split, frothed with white stuffing. Part of an old rein was looped over the side of the cart, the cracked black leather quite stiff. Emily held it, bending it gently, wondering if she could ever make it pliant again, as it must have been in Ada’s hands.

  From the darkness of the barn the scene outside was a huge, oblong picture, very bright: part of the house, its mossy roof dazzling green, on the left : an apple tree on the right. Fen walked by, a whicker basket over her arm. Looking for more roses, perhaps. She couldn’t want more roses. Emily called to her. Fen stopped, peered into the barn. The folds of her long corn-coloured skirt shifted gently about her ankles. Perhaps Ada had stood just like that, once, looking for Charlie.

  ‘I’m here! In the cart.’

  Fen came towards her. She crossed from the brilliant light outside to the barn shadows, and as she did so the summery essence of her figure seemed to evaporate. Suddenly, though still warm and gold, she was a harbinger of autumn : summer had quite fled from her shape, leaving her beautiful but melancholy.

  ‘What are you doing here? I was wondering where you were.’

  ‘Why don’t you come up in the cart?’ Emily swung open the small door and Fen climbed in. The cart rocked for a moment, till Fen sat on the split seat opposite Emily. ‘I was thinking of Ada and Charlie.’

  ‘It’s sad they had to sell this. They’d probably had it for years,’ Fen said.

  ‘Do you think they married, then?’

  ‘Oh yes. They’re grandparents. Living in a little cottage in a wood somewhere. They’ve got sepia photographs of themselves in this cart, don’t you think?’

  ‘I thought Ada lost Charlie. I mean, never got him.’

  ‘No. You are an unromantic one. They sit by the fire, remembering.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Emily watched her mother shifting on her seat. Her smell of stephanotis fused with the greyer smell of hay. Emily wanted to touch her, but she kept her hands on her paper bag. ‘I bought the candles for the restaurant,’ she said. ‘You know, Wolf and I are going to make a restaurant one night in the loft. For you and Papa and Wolf’s father and perhaps Marcia Burrows. We wondered if we could borrow a tablecloth and if you could help us a bit with the food, secretly … We’re going to make the menus this afternoon. When do you think it should be? Mama?’ She paused. ‘What’s the matter, Mama?’

  Fens’ eyes met Emily’s. They were bleak in the shadows. And fear, like a shawl, seemed to have wrapped round her, making her cower down on the seat. Her long silence was alarming.

  ‘Em,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t think you had better make plans for a restaurant. You see, Papa and I aren’t going to be here together, any more.’

  Miles above them, in the dark, a pigeon twirled and tumbled. Its friends cooed their appreciation.

  ‘Why not?’ The sides of the barn lurched like a ship in a storm. Emily held on to the frail sides of the cart.

  ‘Well … Oh God, I didn’t want to tell you any of this till the end of the holidays, Em. Then we wanted to tell you together. But with all your plans …’ Her voice wavered away.

  ‘But I bought the candles. What shall I tell Wolf?’

  ‘You’ll have to tell Wolf the truth. We’re not going to be married any more, darling.’

  ‘But I bought the candles, Mama.’

  ‘I know. But it’s all over, really. Papa and I can’t live together any more. We’ve tried, but we can’t.’

  ‘Why not? Don’t you love each other any more?’

  ‘Oh yes. I expect we’ll always love each other. For ever and ever and ever, like we’ll always love you.’

  ‘I don’t understand. If you love each other … and except for that time Papa was cross with Kevin, you’ve never had rows and things.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So I don’t understand.’

  ‘I wish I did. I wish we did. I wish I understood why things go wrong, and then they can’t be mended again, no matter how hard you try. It’s hard to explain. But something dies, and you can’t bring it to life again. So if you stay together, it’s a kind of – living death.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘And you find yourselves loving other people in the old, alive way.’

  ‘So you mean you’re going to get divorced ?’

  ‘Divorced?’ Fen sat upright at the harshness of the word. ‘I suppose we shall get round to that. There’s no particular hurry.’

  ‘And what else will happen? What will happen to here? To me ?’

  ‘Oh, darling. We haven’t thought out the details. We’ve just agreed to part. We’ve got to discuss everything.’

  ‘But what will happen to you?’

  ‘To me? I’ll be all right. The plan is that I shall leave at the end of the holidays … and go and live with Kevin, follow him wherever he goes in the theatre. I’ll see you a lot, of course. As many weekends as you want. Wherever I am, I’ll come for you.’

  ‘And Papa?’

  ‘Papa hasn’t been very well, as you probably know. He’s been working too hard for too many years. He’s given himself ulcers. So he’s not allowed to work so much any more. He’s going to be here most of the time, looking after you, and you don’t need to move school. One day, perhaps, you’ll move to a smaller house.’

  ‘But who will look after Papa and me?’

  ‘Who will look after Papa and you?’ There was a long silence. ‘I believe Papa said something about Marcia Burrows…’

  ‘Marcia Burrows?’ The pigeons made dizzying arcs of white in the barn dusk. ‘Will Papa marry her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But he can’t love her.’ Marci
a with her toes pointed to the sky on picnics, her fear of the cold, her grey neatness, her sad willingness to please. ‘Papa can’t love Marcia Burrows, he can’t, he can’t…’

  ‘I daresay he doesn’t,’ said Fen. ‘But people often substitute the habit of loving for just plain habit.’

  As birds and barn, lightness and dark encircled her in their spinning, Emily was supported by the warn familiar place of her mother. They slipped, arms about each other, into the corner of the cart, their hearts pounding at the horror of all prospects. And even as the first nightmare blazed through Emily, the second began to formulate.

  ‘Mama, you and Kevin – you wouldn’t get married, would you? You don’t love Kevin, do you? You couldn’t!’

  Emily felt the huge movement of Fen’s sigh.

  ‘I don’t know about marriage, Em. Honestly. We haven’t discussed it. We’ll see what happens. For the moment all we know is that we’re happy when we’re together … and we want to make you happy as possible in the circumstances.’

  Emily listened to herself laughing, or it may have been a pigeon noise.

  ‘Why did it have to happen to you and Papa, after all these years?’ She must have asked out loud, because she heard Fen’s answer.

  ‘I don’t know. Sadly, it happens to a lot of people.’

  ‘Couldn’t it ever be all right again, if you tried?’

  ‘No.’

  Emily released herself from her mother’s hold. Somewhere in all the turmoil was á small flicker of hope.

  ‘I think it could be. If you really tried.’

  ‘No, darling. There’s no point in thinking that. Really.’ Fen’s wan voice fluttered down, chilling. Emily took her hand.

  ‘Then please tell me why it happened.’ Emily glanced at her mother: Fen’s head was high, her eyes bright as she looked out at the garden.

  ‘What can I say to you, Em? Sometimes you do things without meaning to, not guessing at the risk you’re taking. Strong as you may think you are, you’re not strong enough to stop what happens. You stand, looking at the whole disaster from a long way off, terrified by your own actions, but unable to stop.’

  ‘You mean, like when I threw the ink at school.’

  ‘Like when you threw the ink at school.’

  ‘But everyone forgave me for that.’

  ‘It isn’t just a question of forgiveness. We all forgive each other. Papa and I …’

  ‘Don’t cry, Mama.’

  ‘Of course I shan’t cry. I never cry, do I ?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’re not to worry. I promise we’ll see to it you’ll have the best life possible, given this has happened. We’ll see you a lot together, Papa and I – we’ll never fight, or be difficult, like some separated parents. In a way, it might be quite fun, having two lots of families …’ Her ridiculous voice, almost breaking, strained on. ‘Mightn’t it? Don’t lets think about it any more today … I couldn’t bear it. Em, Em. It’ll be all right, honestly. You’ll get used to it. It’ll just be different.’

  Already the speckled dusk in the barn had changed its tone. The garden outside was no longer merely brilliant, but cruel. The pigeons mocked-had their cooing ever been a comfort? Fen, with her shrill voice, remained the only familiar figure in the landscape. But soon she would be gone. It was different already. Quite, quite different. Emily flung her bag of candles on to the floor. Perhaps, if she had never got into the cart – perhaps if Ada and Charlie had kept their stupid old cart …

  ‘Help me get some more roses, Em,’ Fen was saying, climbing down the small step. ‘They’re almost the last.’

  She crossed the floor of the barn, came to the glitter of the sun outside. It tore at her silhouette like flames. She turned back to Emily, beckoning, not noticing the flames. Not noticing she was on fire.

  Mama!

  Emily followed her.

  Coral had made an effort with the tea. She had arranged small plates of different kinds of sandwiches and coloured biscuits, and had bought an iced cake. But Emily hadn’t the energy even to pretend she was hungry. She sat in silence, tearing a piece of bread into smaller and smaller bits. Coral chattered on in a cheerful voice, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing was wrong. But she received no answers to her silly questions. Wolf, in deference to Emily, kept silent too.

  Tea over, the children went out into the garden. They just stood there, a few feet apart, not talking. Toys were strewn over the lawn, but Wolf knew it was useless to ask Emily what she wanted to play.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked, at last.

  ‘Go home.’

  ‘But you’re meant to stay here till … till your father comes to fetch you later.’

  ‘I know. But I’m going now. You can’t stop me. Do you want to come?’

  Wolf looked at her, worried by the sharpness of her voice. She stood very stiff, arms by her side. When a breeze blew a strand of long hair across her face she tossed back her head. Suddenly she looked much older than he felt. He nodded. Of course he would go with her, no matter how cross it would make Coral.

  It was nearly six weeks since Emily and Fen had sat in the cart in the barn. Six warm, busy weeks. They had done so many things, mostly with Wolf, spinning out the days, not wanting them to end, going to bed late and getting up early. Idle had been down once, just for lunch. And for those few hours the madness to come had seemed unbelievable : they had been happy, hadn’t they? Talking, laughing, just like so many other times. But when Idle said goodbye, Fen had turned her head away, quickly, not waving, and ran towards the house. Emily, left between the two of them, had remembered, then. It was like waking up to bad reality after a good dream. All her life, till now, she had been used to it the other way round.

  It wasn’t till two days ago that Fen began her packing, and then she did it at night after Emily was in bed. She stored the packed suitcases in the spare room, but Emily saw them. She also noticed, although Fen was careful about what she removed, the disappearance of small things: the necklaces that seemed to hang from every mirror, the quill pen that lived on the dresser, a Victorian mug, some of the bright wools, some of the battered cookery books. Irreplaceable things, peculiar to Fen.

  The curve of the summer had begun its downward slope, and the heat had gone out of the days. There were early mists again that dulled the apples, morning and evening : the roses browned and died, and the sunflowers, much taller this year, stood like childish paintings of the real sun, their primiitve faces dazzling in the sky. Inside, Emily’s new gumboots and new mackintosh, ready for the new term, were in the hall. Fen, unused to sewing, had sat by the fire one night struggling with a name tape, and Emily had prayed that the cotton would never run out, the task would never end. But it was soon over, like every precious action these days, and Fen returned to her cooking. In the last few days she had cooked wildly, extravagantly, fast filling the deep-freeze with things Emily felt there was no hope of ever wanting to eat. Sometimes, making pastry or sieving gooseberries, she would talk vaguely of future plans: what fun it would be when Emily joined Kevin and her on their trips round the country … But then she would break off, distracted, and write a note about the milk or the forwarding of letters, and pin it to the dresser. Sometimes she looked sad, and fell silent. But Emily discovered that talking about Kevin’s new play soon cheered her.

  Fen had said goodbye to Emily this morning, and sent her over to Wolf for the day. She herself was to leave later, collected by Kevin. Then Idle and Miss Burrows would arrive in the evening, for the weekend. The following week Idle would take Emily back to school, and he and Miss Burrows would stay at home. He had, it seemed, almost retired. He planned, he had told them that day at lunch, to write a book. Anyhow, he’d be there. Nearly always.

  So the plans for the parting, now it had come, were simple and easy. So unbelievably simple, quite possibly they were not true. It was to check this that Emily now walked back home, contrary to all orders to stay at Wolf’s house : she wanted to make sure
, finally.

  Kevin’s car was in the drive, one door open, a stack of things on the back seat. Emily and Wolf slipped into the orchard and climbed an apple tree. From the protection of its thick leaves they watched Kevin emerge from the house, a suitcase in each hand. Emily, who hadn’t seen him for some time, was shocked at his height. Also at the ugliness of his face and the blackness of his hair. She watched while he wedged the suitcases into the boot of the car, then stretch himself, scratching his ribs. He called out impatiently to Fen.

  Fen came out of the front door, slamming it behind her. She seemed to be all in orange – something new, a dress Emily didn’t know – scarves flying from her neck, her face pale. Unsmiling, she checked the door, then let her hand run over the stone wall of the house. She tweaked at a curl of honeysuckle as if to break it off, but then left it. Slowly she walked to the car, looking at the ground. When she reached him, Kevin put his arm round her. Still she didn’t smile, just brushed the hair out of her eyes. She got into the car, not looking at anything. Banged the door.

  Kevin started the engine. Turned. They drove out of the gate. If Emily leapt from the tree, ran very fast across the lawn, climbed the wall, jumped down into the road in front of the car …

  ‘Mama!’ She heard her own cry as she scrambled down through the branches.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ said Wolf.

  ‘I know.’ On the grass, Emily didn’t try to move.

  ‘You’d better come back to us.’

  ‘I’ll stay here.’

  ‘You’ll get into trouble.’

  Emily shrugged.

  ‘You go, though.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want me to stay with you ?’

  ‘No.’

  Wolf glanced at her face. It seemed smaller than usual, the eyes bigger. Not surprising, really, all this divorce business. Perhaps they should have tried out his plan after all, the plan that day on the church tower. But Emily had seemed so certain it was all right, then.

  ‘Come up any time, won’t you?’ Wolf said. He’d have to go : he couldn’t bear to stay with her, looking like that.