The Hand-Reared Boy. Brian Aldiss

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      ‘War’s a terrible thing,’ Mother said, causing a plate of cake to circulate.

      ‘We’ll soon beat the Germans,’ I said. ‘Their tanks are made of cardboard. The Head said so.’

      There was a pause for silent patriotism and fruit cake.

      ‘But your father’s alive and well still, I hear,’ Mother said.

      Sister nodded. ‘He’s a rear-admiral. Retired, of course. Now he talks about closing down Traven House and getting back into harness, if the Admiralty will have him.’

      We all smiled. Mother said, ‘Rear-admiral … A pity the way our grand old homes have to close.’

      Father had looked up Sister’s home in an old Baedeker the previous evening, and found: ‘3 m. farther NE, Traven House, Georgian, fine Vict. orangery, once the home of Sir Francis Traven, Gov. of Massachusetts Bay, 1771–9.’ We were all delighted, and wondered if Sir Francis’s descendants still grew oranges there.

      ‘Have you got any ghosts?’ Ann asked. ‘I’d be quite terrified! Do you have battlements, with phantom men in armour clanking about?’

      Sister laughed, a very charming little display. ‘No, no ghosts, no battlements.’

      ‘But Horry told me …’

      ‘Eat your cake,’ I said. ‘You’d be terrified of the mere thought of a ghost.’

      ‘Don’t bully her, Horatio, and do just brush your hair out of your eyes. That’s better!’

      ‘Mummy and I would love to come and see you at Traven House,’ Ann said.

      Our visitor looked askance. ‘I’m afraid I shan’t be at home much longer, Ann, otherwise I’d love to show you both round.’

      The words sank deep into my heart. Although I continued to munch gloomily at the cake, I ached inside. She couldn’t leave! I needed her. I loved her. She could not realize what she was doing to me or she would never go.

      There were four females in the room with me. Excluding my mother, I had had sexual relations with all the others. But the need was now for Sister, entirely for Sister, only for Sister, among all the women in the world.

      Should I stand up and declare my feelings? Would they laugh? What would Mother say? But Mother at this point, having poured herself a last cup of tea, was doing her party stunt and declaiming some poetry learnt as a girl:

      ‘Old Holyrood rang merrily

      That night, with wassail, and glee.

      King James within his princely bower

      Fêted the chiefs of Scotland’s power,

      Summoned to spend a passing hour.

      For he had vowed that his array

      Should southwards march by break of day.

      Well loved that daring monarch aye

      A banquet and a song.

      By day a banquet and at night

      A merry dance, made fast and light,

      With dancers fair and costumes bright,

      And something loud and long

      This feast outshone his revels past.

      It was his biggest and his last.

      ‘And so it goes on – I forget what comes next. It’s the court bit from Sir Walter Scott’s “Marmion”. I learnt it at school. Oh, I could spout it for hours! I tell Ann and Horatio they ought to read more poetry. Are you a great poetry-reader, Sister?’

      Sister made some suitable reply.

      After tea Ann slipped away to play in her bedroom. I hung around while Mother entertained my guest.

      ‘Well, darling,’ she said at last, turning to me. ‘Fetch Sister Traven your latest paintings. He really does show promise.’

      ‘I haven’t done any more since I saw her last.’

      Smiling, shaking of head. ‘He’s done several, Sister. He’s far too modest about them. I’m a great admirer of the British artists, Gainsborough and Hogarth, and others.’ For some reason she pronounced Hogarth as if it had two “g”s: Hoggarth.

      ‘It’s “Hogarth”, Mother. One “g”.’

      ‘I can spell Hogarth, darling. And pronounce it. A fine artist. We used to have a butcher called Hogarth at home, in the old days. Anyhow, Sister, it’s been very good of you to take such an interest in Horatio, and to take him out as you have done. …’

      Truer than she thought, I said to myself. I watched Sister as she rose to leave; not, if you were strictly honest, a great deal of figure. But I could discern her breasts under the jumper, and I knew how sweet they were, how pink the nipples, when you disengaged them gently from the brassière … Steady, you sod, or you’ll be getting a hard on …

      We all stood up. Mother lightly patted down a curl of hair on the back of my head, and then squeezed me affectionately.

      ‘I tell him, if he were a girl, I’d get a slide to that piece of hair. How it infuriates me! But he’s a good boy. I sometimes reproach myself that I neglect him, bless him. Yes, I’ve been very lucky with my children.’

      ‘Oh, not that again, Mother! She says that to everyone, Sister. She forgets what little horrors we were.’

      ‘I’m sure you were,’ Sister said, smiling. It amazed me at the time that she was not at all put off after seeing me treated as such a kid.

      ‘When this one cried as a child, his father got so mad at him, he used to take him to the window and threaten to throw him out! But he was a good boy, on the whole. Well, Sister, it’s been so pleasant … Horatio, go and get Sister Traven’s coat, where are your manners? Yes, I do hope we’ll see you again soon …’

      As they moved to the door, I got there first, opened it, and edged myself half out before saying, ‘Mother, I’ll just drive down the road with Sister. There’s something I want to tell her.’

      ‘Tell her now – you’ve been quiet enough up to now!’

      ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll tell her on the way, Mum. Then I can drop off to see William. I shan’t be long.’

      ‘Yes, all right, dear. Don’t be long. Your father will be home soon.’

      As Sister and I made our way down our five whitened steps and along the front path, I took her arm and led her to the car. Mother stood waving as we drove away; I hoped she had noticed my gesture.

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