Walcot. Brian Aldiss

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       2

       An Adult Breath

      Your mother liked being in Omega. She decorated it according to her own tastes. The living room was fairly dark; it had only one small window which looked towards the cornfields. It had hip-high wooden panelling painted a deep brown, thus adding to the darkness of the room. To offset this, your mother had scattered orange cushions about on the chairs and settee. She also had, stationed at strategic points, a number of gleaming copper jugs which she polished regularly. And there was a fine brass lamp with a frosted white shade and a clear glass chimney which she lit at dusk. The lamp shed its cosy light over part of the room. There was no electricity available within several miles of Omega.

      The walls above the wooden panelling were painted white, and here your mother had hung a number of reproductions of paintings of flowers in bowls and vases. The paintings were glazed and bound in passe-partout. They most typically showed pink and white roses in a deep blue bowl, standing on a well-polished table. A petal had fallen and reflected its colour on table and bowl. Always a fallen petal, its hint of imperfection emphasizing the perfection of the picture.

      Your mother was more than usually torpid and framed no flower pictures that night. She was a tall woman, heavy of body, heavy of face. She did her pale hair in a bun, bound tightly to the back of her head, like a supplementary brain. She was given to long skirts of woven material. She had within her the seed of a future child who was destined to take your place; but of this impending event you were not told. It was, as yet, your mother’s secret.

      She kept news of her early pregnancy, too, from her visitor. She was a secretive woman and did not entirely trust her visitor, whom she considered superficial. This visitor was younger and more vivacious than your mother. You knew her as your Auntie Violet. ‘No shrinking violet, she!’ your mother was apt to exclaim. ‘Comes from Grantham, of all places,’ she said, appalled.

      Auntie Violet was sharp and pale of face, with beautiful arched eyebrows and a permanent wave in her hair which, despite its permanence, was frequently renewed. She had a neat upturned little nose, which you mentally labelled pert. She generally wore strings of beads which rattled across a generous bosom. Her flesh was pale and clear. She smelled delicious. Her clothes were bright, worn with belts which drooped over the upper reaches of her behind. Her shoes, at least at this moment, were bright red. You were fascinated by this flitting figure who drove to Omega in her own open-top tourer. Auntie Violet was married to your mother’s younger brother, Bertie Wilberforce.

      Auntie Violet smoked cigarettes in a long amber holder. Her lips were red. She had another endearing trait: she liked small boys and, in particular, she liked giving you treats. She had brought you a wooden glider. You ran outside to fly it; it flew well and meant many excursions between the crisp stalks of the cornfield to retrieve it.

      While you were flying your glider, your mother and your aunt had a quarrel. Somehow you perceived this as you returned to Omega. Auntie Violet stood smoking on the verandah, looking statuesque. She made a decision and said to you, ‘I do not neglect my children. I love my children. And I love you, Stevie dear.’ She bent and kissed you on the forehead. You were puzzled by this sudden display. You entered the bungalow to see your mother standing with her arms akimbo – always a bad sign.

      While you were accustomed to your mother’s moods, there was another worry on your mind. Auntie Violet was staying overnight. Omega contained only two bedrooms and the spare bed was in your room. You would have Auntie Violet sleeping in the bedroom with you. You were unsure how you should behave in this situation. You knelt and said your prayers by your bedside every night, as your mother had taught you; somehow, instinct told you now that Auntie Violet did not kneel by her bedside to say her prayers. It might be advisable to skip prayers this evening. And you hoped that God would be understanding, although he did not seem to have been particularly understanding in the past. He seemed, like your mother, to be a bit moody.

      Several years later, when your auntie was thinking of committing suicide, she told you a remarkable story, which was to haunt much of your life. She said that for an hour or two she and your mother were not talking to each other. She looked hard at you and said that she was in your bedroom until the storm blew over, when the phone rang in the main room. Your mother had picked up the phone. Auntie Violet had listened to the conversation, and concluded that it was your father, your cold and distant father, who was on the other end of the line.

      According to Violet, your mother said, ‘Yes, high tide was at about a quarter-to-four today … no, no, he came back as usual … we hope for better things tomorrow … it is likely to be windier, so the sea should be choppier … I can’t do anything more, sorry … No, he doesn’t mind being alone there … no, no one … if he was you know, it would of course be a regrettable accident … Don’t worry. As you say, hope for the best. I don’t want to discuss it … Good-bye.’

      That is what your Auntie Violet told you she overheard your mother saying.

      Your Auntie Violet was alarmed by the deductions she drew from this one-sided conversation. She believed it meant you were in grave danger. She did not know what to do and so she did nothing.

      You were called for supper. Your mother instructed you to behave as Valerie would have behaved. You sat quietly at the table and ate your mackerel, mashed potato and mange touts. Your mother and Auntie Violet drank white wine from South Africa. They made polite conversation. The brass lamp with the frosted white shade shed a comfortable glow over the woven tablecloth.

      You had been taught not to hum with pleasure as you ate.

      The dessert was pineapple slices and cream. You luxuriated in the taste of pineapple, although it sometimes made your lips rough. You lingered over it. The meal being finished, your mother made Violet and herself some tea. She unfortunately brought up the case of the golden thing she said you pretended to have seen on the beach.

      ‘I didn’t pretend. I did see it,’ you said.

      ‘There’s no such creature as this golden thing,’ your mother responded.

      ‘Perhaps he really did see something if he says so,’ remarked Auntie Violet, casting a smile in your direction.

      ‘You’ll just have to go back tomorrow and perhaps you’ll see it again,’ your mother said, rather snappishly. After a short while she suggested you go to bed.

      As you lay in bed, you could hear the murmur of their voices in the next room. At last, the bedroom door quietly opened. You closed your eyes and pretended to sleep. Your Auntie Violet entered, carrying a candle in a blue metal holder with a broad rim, with which you were familiar. The candle flame СКАЧАТЬ