Past

by Hadley, Tessa

  — It’s not healthy you know, Alice, poking around through all that old stuff. It’s too depressing. There’s no point in looking backward all the time.

  — Why not? I like looking backward. It’s amazing to imagine her when she was just a girl, and her life hadn’t happened to her yet. The sixties and revolution and flared trousers and everything – all that was still to come. Dad was still to come.

  — Don’t start ranting about Dad, Fran said, — blaming him for everything.

  She was the only one of the four siblings who kept up contact with their father; she had taken the children more than once to visit him in France.

  — I stopped ranting about him years ago. Now I hardly think about him. What’s really striking is that Mum knew so much. Apart from just Latin and Greek – an awful lot about history and literature, much more than we do. Perhaps people just knew more in those days. A whole lot more than Molly, that’s for sure.

  — Oh, Molly doesn’t know anything.

  Fran’s phone rang then and she turned away from her sister to walk along the seafront while she spoke into it, hunched intently, lost to the scene around her, the sauntering families eating chips and candyfloss and the supervising glassy-eyed herring gulls on the wall, beaks spotted with ketchup-red. Alice knew it must be Jeff. Mostly Fran’s face was bright with a willed confidence, the blue eyes shallowly recessed, fair eyebrows hardly visible. When she spoke to Jeff her expression contracted to a sharper point.

  — Any news? Alice asked when she came back. — Is he coming down?

  The light seemed particularly insolent at that moment to Fran, flashing from Alice’s sunglasses – she saw that people turned their heads to look, wondering if they knew her striking sister from television somewhere. In London Alice didn’t show up against the general background of striking people.

  — I don’t even want him here, I told you, Fran said. — I’m finished with him. What does he ever give? It’s always me, giving everything.

  — But you love him, you do. He’s the one. Don’t fight him all the time.

  — I’m not going to take any lessons from you, Alice, on how to manage my love life. You don’t seem to have made such a brilliant job of yours. Harriet’s right, you’re such a romantic.

  — I’d rather be romantic than jaded. At least I’ve had a love life. Even if the romance does seem unreal sometimes, in retrospect. All that hard work of falling into love and falling out of it again. None of it leaves any trace, not visibly.

  — Well, you should have had children then, shouldn’t you? Children are real enough. They’re a trace.

  — Fran, how can you? It hasn’t been a choice, not to.

  — Hasn’t it? When did you have time for children, between all your adventures?

  Both sisters managed to be offended. They sulked for five minutes and couldn’t forgive each other, until they forgot about it and went back to their gossip, which circled eternally. All the siblings felt sometimes, as the days of their holiday passed, the sheer irritation and perplexity of family coexistence: how it fretted away at the love and attachment which were nonetheless intense and enduring when they were apart. They knew one another so well, all too well, and yet they were all continually surprised by the forgotten difficult twists and turns of one another’s personalities, so familiar as soon as they appeared.

  When Roland took Pilar for a drive across the moor, Harriet asked if she could come. He would rather have been alone with Pilar, which made him more punctilious in his kindness to his older sister. Just because he felt Harriet’s life was dreary, he mustn’t let her glimpse this. She wasn’t stupid and had read a lot: she turned out, for instance, to be up to date in recent developments in the Argentinian economy. And of course Roland admired what she did at work. But her life seemed so small to Roland, she had no outlet for her thinking in the wider world. She was supposed to have Christopher to talk to, but he was always off cycling. Roland was profoundly unsporting and couldn’t take bony, middle-aged Christopher seriously, flaunting himself in in his skintight Lycra.

  In the sunlight the moor’s distances were harmless, bland lovely tobacco-brown and mauve: they had to explain to Pilar how austere the place could look in winter or bad weather. They got out of the car to see the view, exploring along the bleached dry brush riddled with paths, where the sheep dropped shiny dark pills and left their wool caught in the coconut-scented gorse. Harriet picked a purple sprig of heather, telling Pilar to keep it because it was lucky. Then they drove on to an ancient river crossing, where flat-topped boulders made stepping stones across the water and cream teas were served in a garden. When he set down the laden tea tray on their table, Roland knew that Pilar was drawing glances from the other tourists in her tight trousers and dark glasses.

  Roland had wondered whether Harriet would disapprove of Pilar, because of her class and background: no doubt in the past Harriet had belonged to committees protesting the abuses of the Argentinian military. But Harriet seemed more animated and more tentative these days, less judgemental; she was wearing a scarf knotted around her neck too, and had something shiny on her eyelids. Because of her white hair and the way she held herself so stiffly upright, with her bird-like evasive glances, she probably seemed to Pilar more like an elderly aunt than a sister. Now she was expressing an almost exaggerated interest in life in Argentina, which Pilar was reluctant to talk about.

  — England must seem very parochial to you, after the sheer scale of things over there: the politics and history as well as the landscape.

  — My life is here, Pilar said sharply. — I’ve chosen England, I’ve been here ten years, I’m married to an Englishman. People who’ve chosen to come here don’t always want to be looking back.

  Harriet blushed, desolated. — Of course you don’t. I didn’t mean to say you weren’t at home here. It’s your home as much as it’s ours.

  She touched Pilar on her bare shoulder to reassure her, and her veined, freckled hand, its unpainted nails bitten as short as a little girl’s, was amphibian against Pilar’s even-pored brown skin. Pilar accepted the little gesture of obeisance and lifted the heavy teapot, pouring graciously for Harriet first, forgiving her. — Shall I be mother? she said. Assiduously she had set about acquiring these idiomatic English gestures. Yet it was her difference from the Englishwomen Roland knew which attracted him, just as it interested Harriet. He wondered whether mutual incomprehension might not be the most stimulating arrangement in a marriage.

  He was touched that Harriet seemed genuinely to like his wife – though he had made up his mind that it didn’t matter if his sisters didn’t like her. Pilar didn’t have the slippery ambiguity which was Alice’s specialty. Latin women, he thought, were encouraged to develop more conventionally than English ones – consequently their personalities had firmer and more resilient outlines and they appeared more certain of what they wanted. Of course, his sisters were odd partly because of the oddity of what had happened to them in their teens, when their mother died and they had all managed on their own in the house. Harriet had been in charge when she was only seventeen.

  After tea they strolled along the path beside the river. Pilar kicked off her sandals and waded in from a little pebbled strand, squealing and gasping at the cold, trousers rolled up to her knees, sunglasses pushed up onto her hair. — It’s nice, she said. — Come on in! Harriet hesitated on the brink, then joined her. When Pilar staggered in the force of the current, which was strong even though the water hardly came halfway up their calves, she had to grab hold of Harriet’s arm and hang onto her, laughing; Harriet stood steadily, braced to support her. In the rushing noise of the river, they were cut off from Roland. — My life in Argentina is full of complications right now, Pilar said swiftly to Harriet. — Things are going on with my family, horrible things. I’m happy to be far away from it all.

  — Have you talked to Roland about it?

  — It’s so ugly. He doesn’t need to know. He’s got more important things to think about
. Please, don’t say anything to him.

  Harriet was stirred by this unexpected confession. In her work with refugees her sympathetic responsiveness was strained continually to the point of pain, and she was ashamed when she thought how she’d come through her own life more or less unscathed. Her own sufferings she counted as nothing. She reassured Pilar: no, of course she wouldn’t say anything. Gruffly, not wanting to seem greedy for more, she added that if ever Pilar wanted to talk, she’d be pleased to listen. Under the surface of this decency, though, she was dazzled by Pilar’s choosing her to confide in; a breath of drama rose from the fast-flowing water swirling past them.

  Watching from the bank, Roland thought he could imagine what Pilar had been like as a domineering, flirting teenager, with a gang of girlfriends. He took a photograph of the two women embracing in the changeable light reflected up from the river. He wouldn’t go in himself, he hated putting his feet in cold water and didn’t mind presenting a comical target, the Englishman in his linen summer suit, socks and shoes, flinching and smiling benignly on the bank while they flicked water at him.

  Kasim sat cross-legged in the garden, smoking and watching Molly in the distance. Ivy and Arthur were nearby, also cross-legged and watching Molly. Silhouetted, slender, far off against the sky, perched on the gate at the top of the field, she was lost to them, intent upon her conversations, rocking forwards around her phone or throwing her head back in laughter, her body twisting in delighted appreciation. She was frustrated occasionally if her signal failed. They could just about hear her voice, but not her words. The thin trail of her laughter was somehow entrancing and soporific, creating a rapt silence around the three of them who were shut out: she was as mysterious as if she was talking to herself, hallucinating. In the garden the afternoon was still and hot. Arthur was sorting out the contents of his money box, which Kasim had showed him how to open, though Ivy had protested that he wasn’t supposed to open it.

  — It’s mine, anyway, said Arthur, frowning over his calculations, tucking his long hair out of the way behind his ears. Apparently he was adept with the plastic pennies in the play-shop at school.

  — But he’s not supposed to have it yet. It’s for later when he needs things.

  — I need them now.

  Ivy, knowing he was only counting to seven then starting over again, had kicked at her brother with the point of her shoe, whose patent shine was scuffed almost to greyness. She was dressed in an old cream nylon petticoat with a lace hem, full-length on her; Alice had found it in a cupboard and tied one of her scarves around the bodice, flattening the stiff breast-shapes. For a while Ivy had walked around with a gliding motion, gazing far away, imagining being watched; the silky fabric against her bare legs had made her feel ethereal. Now the petticoat was stained green from where she had been rolling on the grass, and her jack-knifed knees were sharp points straining its fabric.

  They felt as if Molly condescended, returning to their world, when she made her way at last down the field towards them: her contact with what was beyond had left its traces in her expression, skeins of amusement and connection that did not connect her to them. She hummed to herself, some tune they didn’t recognise. Dropping to sit beside them on the grass, in her shorts and red bikini top she was all long limbs, awkwardly graceful; her arms and legs were dusted with fine gold hairs, glinting in the sunlight.

  — You’re addicted to that phone, Kasim accused her disdainfully.

  Cheerfully Molly confessed it.

  — Doesn’t it worry you that you’re being fobbed off with second-hand substitutes for actually living? You might be missing out on something. Like reality.

  — You’re addicted to horrible cigarettes. At least my addiction won’t kill me.

  Hollowly he laughed. — That’s what you think. Wait until they prove the links between phones and brain cancer.

  Molly, set-faced, was learning how to negotiate with his intransigence. — What links? If there were any, they’d have told us by now. Everyone uses phones.

  Kasim marvelled at her. — I’ve never met anyone so trusting before. They? Who d’you think they are? Your kindly uncle? And as it happens I could give up smoking tomorrow.

  — I bet you couldn’t.

  — Only I can’t be bothered.

  — Like I said, you’re addicted.

  Superbly, hardly stirring from where he lounged back on his elbows, Kasim picked up the half-full packet of his cigarettes and lobbed it into the stream. It scarcely splashed, bobbed vaguely in a circle, then washed up against a stone where it suddenly just looked like litter, polluting the scene. Looking up from his money, with a small smile to himself, Arthur admired the largesse of the gesture. Ivy, shrieking, jumped up and wanted to wade in and rescue the precious packet, but Kasim held her back by the stretchy skirt of her petticoat.

  — I’d have given that fag a bit more thought, he said regretfully, if I’d known it was the last one I’d ever smoke.

  — I don’t believe you, Molly said, impressed despite herself. — I’ll bet you buy more, next time you’re in town.

  He scowled at her, all his handsomeness in play. — In my country, he said, — a man’s promise is a point of honour. I’d rather die than break my word.

  — All right, she said. — That’s good then.

  — It really does give you cancer, Ivy assured him earnestly. — So this is a good thing.

  Then in one fluid movement Kasim sprang to his feet. — And now, Miss Molly, I think you ought to give up your phone, if I’ve given up smoking. My tit for your tat, so to speak.

  Before Molly even understood what he was saying, he had snatched her iPhone up from where she had put it down on the grass. Holding it high, he teased her, dancing backwards when she came after him, protesting, across the garden. The children stood up too, thrilling to the anarchy in the others’ excitement; Kasim threw the phone to Arthur, calling his name sharply. Exceptionally, Arthur succeeded in catching it, snatching it with both hands to his chest.

  Molly pleaded, running towards him. — Please, darling, give it to me.

  — To me, to me! Kasim called, urgently.

  Carried away by the game and his own treachery, Arthur threw wildly askew, but Kasim dived and saved the phone, scrambled back upright. — Ivy, Ivy! Catch!

  The phone sailed through the air in a perfect easy arc that ought to have ended between Ivy’s proffered hands – but, tripping over her petticoat, she fumbled it. The phone went past her and fell with an undramatic small wet noise into the water.

  — Fuck, Kasim said.

  — You shouldn’t swear, Ivy shouted at him.

  Wailing with real grief, Molly waded into the water in her sandals to snatch out the phone, then stood drying it off desperately on her shorts while the stream parted in tiny wavelets around her ankles.

  — It will still work, Arthur said firmly.

  — It won’t! Molly was despairing. — My friend dropped hers in a pub toilet and it was only in there for one second and it never ever worked again. No, see! It’s not working! It won’t come on.

  When she stepped out on the bank they were all four united around the phone, staring at the black screen, willing it to give them any sign of life.

  — I’m going to be in such big trouble for this. It was my birthday present. And it’s all your fault. Why did you ever do such a stupid thing?

  — Ivy dropped it, Kasim said.

  Ivy bawled, rubbing grubby fists in her eyes like a child in a book. Molly’s outrage was mature and even stately. — It wasn’t Ivy’s fault. How can you blame your own stupidity on a child? You should be ashamed of yourself.

  — At least I didn’t drop it, Arthur said.

  Arthur worked his hand into Molly’s and she didn’t shake him off. She said they ought to go inside and try to dry the phone, though she didn’t think it would help. Arthur was still hopeful that it might. They all four trooped inside the house and up to Molly’s room, huddled in solemn procession as if one of th
em had been taken ill. Kasim had not been inside her bedroom before – it was surprisingly untidy. He had imagined that everything in here would be as neat and orderly as Molly was in her physical person, but it looked as if she simply took her clothes off at night and dropped them on the floor and left them, then dropped wet towels from the bathroom on top of them. Plates smeared with egg and mugs half-full with cold tea or coffee were on the windowsill and the floor and the bedside table. On the bed, the duvet was kicked to a mound and the bottom sheet was untucked, twisted into a rope across the naked mattress. Molly didn’t seem to feel any need to apologise for the mess as she hunted through it for her hair dryer.

  — Do you think this might work? Or is it too hot?

  Cautiously they turned the iPhone in the warm air from the dryer – but it refused to come to life. Then Molly sat in despondent silence on the edge of the bed, Kasim beside her, the children crouched at her feet on the floor. Her silence was more awful than if she’d cried. Arthur began to stroke Molly’s knee, making soothing noises – then Ivy joined in, stroking the other leg. The glossy wing of Molly’s hair, scented with shampoo, hung down very close to Kasim, hiding her face from him – he seemed to feel her trembling behind it. Cautiously he put an arm around her bare shoulders. Then, as if he was simply joining in with the children, he began to stroke her head; under the silky, slippery hair he could feel the small, exact shape of her skull. Molly said she would wait until the next day before she told her father what had happened, in case the phone recovered after all.

  — Are you really so afraid of him? Kasim asked. — He seems like a teddy bear. I should have thought he was pretty easy to handle.

  — I’m not afraid of him. My dad’s really good to me, he never gets mad. But I didn’t want to let him down. I promised I’d look after it.

  Kasim was pierced with remorse and tried to deflect Molly’s attention, exaggerating how awful his own father was. — He does drugs, he’s an egomaniac, he goes off his head if he thinks you’re taking the piss or wasting his time. He’s always taking up with different women, he used to bring women back to the house when I was a kid and I had to put my headphones on, so I couldn’t hear them.