Walcot. Brian Aldiss

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      Elizabeth said, ‘Oh dear, here is my dreadful Bella,’ referring to her younger daughter. You thought she wished to change the subject, but she added, ‘Violet brings a little family. I mean life. Into the family.’

      There were pauses between her sentences. She would have said more, had not Joy Frost come to speak to her. You were squatting on your heels to bring your face on a level with your grandmother’s. Putting a hand on your shoulder, Joy conveyed her condolences to Elizabeth. Joy had had her hair done for the occasion and had asked you earlier if you did not think she looked sizzling. You agreed she did look sizzling.

      But Elizabeth was pursuing an earlier trail of thought. ‘She has two children. At least two – Violet, I mean to say. A girl, Joyce. And a boy … I’ve forgotten –’

      ‘Douglas,’ you reminded her. ‘Dougie – the funny boy.’

      ‘I had every wish, every wish. What? To be fond of them, you silly woman!’

      Tears swam to Elizabeth’s eyes. She turned her head away to conceal them, affecting to look out of the window.

      ‘How they do pass, the years,’ she said abstractedly to thin air. ‘Yes,’ you said – many years before you were able to respond to the statement with a genuine affirmative.

      ‘Intellect … unfortunately. Unfortunately intellect is no shield. Not against regret. I hope you two grand … two grandchildren,’ she gave you a swift glance, ‘Will properly revere the … What was it? Yes, what I just said. Intellect. My children, my children have proved lacking. Somewhat lacking in that … that region. Department. Mm, yes, department.’

      She essayed a smile. Being of an age when it was agreeable to hear adverse comments on your parents, you produced murmurs of reassurance.

      Light filtering through your bay window made your grandmother’s face, with its now prominent cheekbones, look as if it were made entirely of bone. In her clear, remote voice, she said, ‘My grandfather had a small orchard. An orchard. An orchard of Laxton’s Superb. Laxton’s Superb. A delicious apple eating. Laxton’s Superb. You don’t see it now. Not now. No longer. Laxton’s Superb, yes.’

      She lingered over the name of the apple, apparently luxuriating in it. Reaching out her arm, stiffly, she stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette. ‘I wonder who Mr Laxton was.’

      While she had been speaking, her daughter, Belle, characterized by the old lady as the ‘dreadful Bella’, came across the room and sat down on the sofa beside her mother. She folded her hands in her lap and remained there with a vague smile on her face, as if expecting everyone to be content with her presence without her having to make further effort.

      You wished to learn more of the family dislike of your favourite aunt. ‘Granny, you were saying about Violet –’

      Elizabeth had taken out a tiny lace handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes. ‘Bertie drinks too much. Far too much. From flying. A leg … a legacy from his flying days. It makes Violet – Oh!’

      Her exclamation was long and cool, much like a sigh. You stood up. Mary shrieked in a refined way. On the other side of the room, Claude had told a lewd joke. Ada, stepping back in disapproval, had bumped into Emma. Emma had been bringing in a tray loaded with champagne glasses and a magnum of Moet & Chandon. She made a gallant effort to stave off disaster, but the tray was thrown into flight, crashing to the floor. The poor maid fell to her knees and covered her face with her hands. Joy Frost helped her to her feet, trying to console her, but Emma fled the room. Claude, Ada and Mary all rushed after her.

      Elizabeth said, quietly addressing you and ignoring her daughter Belle, ‘Many of the members of this family. Many members are half-mad. Mary, your mother, of course. Jeremy. Bertie. Possibly Violet. And of course … of course my husband … That was.’

      She tried to hide her face in the small square of her handkerchief.

      ‘I’m going to Venice,’ she said, with a brighter tone. ‘I’ve mind … made up my mind. My cats will. Someone will have to. Look afterwards … have to look after my … You know, I just said it. Cats. I’m going to Venice to stay with my friend. My Dorothy friend. You and your hunchbacked sister are welcome to visit. Welcome if you can stand.’ She gave a curt little laugh. ‘Stand the company of old people.’ She looked searchingly at you. Her eyes were red. ‘I plan to be away. For some while. Four or five months away.’

      But in five months’ time, Hitler’s Wehrmacht had invaded Poland, and Britain and France had declared war on Germany.

       8

       Kendal, of All Places

      It was the morning of Sunday, 3rd of September, 1939, and your mother was having a weeping fit. She had a mixture of complaints, including the accusation that Elizabeth was cool towards her, that Sonia’s hunchback was ‘beyond a joke’, that your room was always untidy, that Ribbentrop was a nice, handsome man, and that she missed Valerie.

      Valerie. Your father groaned at the mention of Valerie’s name.

      Your mother had given birth to Sonia, as predicted when you were holidaying in Omega – though not predicted to you. You had been astonished when a little heavy nurse, wearing a starched uniform and a winged and starched head dress, arrived at your house.

      ‘Is mum ill?’ you asked, looking up past her massive starched battlements to her face.

      ‘Not unless parturition is an illness,’ she told you sternly, looking down.

      You thought that parturition sounded like an illness.

      Her name was Nurse Gill. She appeared to regard small boys much as she regarded other epidemics. Later she told you, as she stomped past, ‘This time the child has survived. You have a living sister. Last time – dead, I’m sorry to say. Defunct – from something congenital.’

      Here was revealed the reason for your mother having never acquired a great liking for you. There had been an earlier child of your parents’ marriage, a girl, born in the year after their wedding. Had your father been carrying some unacknowledged disease, acquired when he was soldiering in the Great War, from the prostitutes of Cairo? In any event, for whatever malevolent cause, this baby was stillborn, cast up on the desolate shores of non-existence.

      At a later date, when superstition had largely fallen away with the advance of medicine, to deliver a stillborn baby was no disgrace. But then – in that dreadful Then of the nineteen-twenties – Nurse Gill would have whisked the little body away immediately after delivery, hiding the corpse under a cloth – you visualized a tea cloth – possibly without letting the poor, suffering mother see it, or touch it; its fatal limbs, its unformed face with the eyes tightly squeezed closed, never to open.

      No great wonder your mother developed a poisonous fantasy – as all fantasies are, at base, poisonous. Perhaps Mary could never convince herself her child was dead, since she never set eyes on it. In later years, mothers would have been permitted, encouraged, to hold this outcast from their fallible bodies, flesh of their flesh, their dead child, and so to offer it, if only for a minute, the recognition and love it could never return.

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