The Great Godden

by Meg Rosoff

  ‘Like Mal.’

  Mum shushes Alex.

  ‘No white dress?’ Mattie looks distraught.

  ‘Mal can wear whatever he likes,’ answers Hope. And at last they kiss, a sweet comedy kiss.

  We cheer.

  Hope holds up one hand. ‘One last thing. Given that pretty much all the family I have left in the world is sitting here tonight, I’d like to take this moment to thank you for being nicer and less maddening than you might be. That is all.’

  In an example of his lifelong ability to steal a scene, Alex throws up in the long grass. Mum grabs him by the collar and drags him indoors. We hear muffled shouting, and when he finally emerges we can see that he’s greenish. Mum follows with a bucket of water looking cross.

  ‘Can I be maid of honour?’ Mattie has already chosen her dress and the flowers she’ll carry.

  ‘What about me?’ says Tamsin.

  ‘Two flower girls …’ Hope says. ‘Unless you … or Alex?’ Hope peers at me, anxious all of a sudden.

  ‘No, thank you,’ I say. ‘Unless you particularly want us.’

  Hope smiles and shakes her head. ‘Two is plenty.’

  Alex perks up. ‘What about me?’ His eyes point in completely different directions.

  ‘What about you, my darling? I’d love to have you as a flower girl.’

  Alex is overjoyed. He lurches sideways.

  ‘Enough about the wedding,’ says Dad. ‘What’s the second surprise?’

  The rest of us have forgotten the second surprise.

  ‘Ah,’ says Mal. ‘Well. Not all of you will be aware that Hope’s godmother is Florence Godden.’

  ‘Not the Florence Godden?’ Dad and Mal are like a worn-out old vaudeville act. Being Florence Godden’s god-daughter is one of the most significant facts about Hope.

  Alex lists sideways again.

  ‘Florence is shooting a film in Hungary and the date has been moved up on short notice. So her boys are coming from LA to stay with us for the summer.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Mattie looks as if she’s going to faint. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.’

  ‘She’s telling us now, Mattie.’ Even Tamsin talks down to Mattie.

  ‘I haven’t seen them for years,’ Hope says. ‘I suspect they’ve changed. Kit must be nineteen or thereabouts and Hugo a year or two younger. You kids aren’t to swamp them all at once. Remember the poor cormorant.’

  We’re all silent for a second remembering the poor cormorant. We’d been nursing him back to health under Mal’s guidance when he succumbed to a heart attack, from ‘too much bloody attention’, Mal said. That was the suspected cause of death anyway; we never knew for sure as Dad refused to authorise a post-mortem. I drew the bird after he died, laid out with his ragged wings stretched to their full breadth, as wide as Alex was tall. His snaky neck and cold eye made a haunting corpse.

  Something about the timing of Hope’s reminder welded Kit Godden to the cormorant in my brain forever, the golden boy and the ragged black bird. My grandfather’s 1954 edition of British Birds called the cormorant ‘a sinister, reptilian bird, often confused with a shag’.

  Hmm.

  Hope sat down. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘So that’s it. Shall we drink a toast to summer?’

  Everyone picked up a glass except Alex, whom Mum fixed with such an icy glare that he slipped into the grass under the table and stayed there.

  Eight voices chorus as one. ‘To summer.’

  5

  It was three days before Kit and Hugo Godden arrived at the beach. No one over thirty seemed alarmed by the coming apocalypse, but Mattie spent every spare hour on a crazed programme of self-improvement. The rest of us drifted in as she applied an oatmeal mask and messed with her hair in the mirror.

  ‘How disgusting,’ said Alex. ‘I’m downloading some bats to show the new boys.’ He considered this fantastically generous. Who, after all, didn’t like bats?

  ‘They won’t like bats,’ Mattie said.

  ‘I bet they will. I bet they’re starved for bats out where they’re from.’

  ‘What about Batman?’ Tamsin giggled.

  Alex ignored her. ‘If they like bats, they’re OK. If they don’t, they can just leave.’

  I shrugged. ‘Seems fair.’

  ‘Batman!’ said Tam, louder this time in case we didn’t get it.

  ‘Would you all shut up and get out of here?’ Mattie’s nerves were frayed. She had her mask to remove and her pout to perfect, and time was running out.

  ‘We can take a hint,’ Alex said, and slammed his laptop shut.

  ‘She’s insane,’ Tam said once we were out.

  To Alex this went without saying. ‘God, I hope they’re not the kind of drooling morons who like boobs.’

  ‘Boobs, Alex?’ Mal emerged from the shed carrying a toolbox. The gate needed fixing.

  ‘The California dudes. I bet it’s going to be all boobs and tongues this summer. Revolting.’ Alex gagged.

  ‘Don’t jump immediately to tongues and boobs, young sir.’ Mal found Alex fantastically amusing, as did we all. ‘No need to anticipate the worst.’

  ‘There better not be.’ Alex stomped off.

  ‘Can I have a ride to the barn?’ Tam gave Mal her most winning smile.

  He waggled a screwdriver at her. ‘Some of us have jobs to do.’

  Tam sighed and followed Alex into the house.

  ‘Just you and me, I guess,’ Mal said, draping one arm over my shoulder. ‘Fancy a bit of hard manual graft?’

  ‘Nah. Think I’ll go for a swim.’

  ‘You go,’ he said. ‘Be free. Enjoy youth’s bright dream.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Before you know it, you’re old and decrepit and hardly anyone wants to marry you.’

  ‘I’m telling Hope you’re desperate.’

  ‘You do that, my love.’

  I walked down to the water’s edge and waded in. It would make a change having strangers around for the whole summer. Good change? Bad change? Alex was right: weeks of flirting and drooling over Mattie in tank tops was more than I could bear. Maybe at least one of them would be sane.

  I plunged in and let the icy sea close over my head. Too many thoughts swirled around in air. At least here was silence.

  When next I ran into Mattie, she looked retouched: burnished and buffed, her skin tone even, her brows shaped into a clear arch, her legs (and Lord knows what else) hairless with a slight sheen of oil. She smelled of geranium and roses, which we all recognised as Mum’s perfume. ‘I’m just borrowing it,’ she said, but how can you borrow perfume? It’s not like you can return it.

  She lay on the big old sofa in the living room, her legs over the back, staring at her phone as if a genie might emerge if she rubbed it.

  Mattie and I generally ignored each other, having little in common. It was simpler than jousting over which of life’s choices were worthwhile, as none of hers were (in my opinion), and vice versa.

  The hours passed as they did the rest of the year, until whatever it was we were waiting for commenced.

  6

  The morning Kit and Hugo Godden arrived at the beach, Mal was playing cards with Mum, Tamsin was off at the barn with her pony, Mattie was painting her nails, and Dad, Hope and I were swimming. Gomez was lying in the shade of the back garden, panting and dreaming.

  We all saw the car: a long black Mercedes with smoked windows. Not exactly usual around here, so we knew.

  I mean, we didn’t know the details. What we did know was that they were coming to spend the summer with Mal and Hope, and frankly, what could cause more unadulterated ecstasy than that.

  Mattie was as excited as she’s ever been. Action at last.

  I was suspicious as ever. Why us? Why here? Weren’t they old enough to spend the summer on their own? Didn’t they have friends in LA?

  Tamsin was genuinely in love with her pony and not as susceptible to the possibility of romantic adventure as the rest of us.
But even she threw a couple of squares of hay into Duke’s box and headed home when Mum texted her.

  We converged all at once, Tam on her bicycle, Mattie (nails still wet), Mal from our house.

  Hope, Mum, Dad and I were already there.

  Summers were spent in swimsuits under T-shirts and shorts so we looked like a downmarket presidential reception committee: scrappy, sunburnt and utterly outclassed. The driver of the Mercedes wore a dark suit and tie, and Florence Godden emerged from the front passenger seat as if stepping on to a red carpet, the white silk panels of her tunic floating round her like pennons. Gomez raced up, ears flapping, but to give Florence credit, she just removed one long crocheted glove, crouched down and patted him until he lost interest and went back to whatever nothing he was doing.

  She was fiftyish, slight, and slightly gaunt in the way of fading Hollywood beauties, dark hair perfectly styled, skin a glistening bronze, huge white sunglasses, features arranged on a grid. The expensive layers of silk flowed over long crease-free white trousers that pooled atop white platform sandals. The sandals appeared to weigh more than she did.

  Mattie gazed at Florence Godden in wonder. A genuine movie star, albeit one whose career had peaked long before Mattie was born.

  ‘My darling,’ sighed Florence at the sight of Hope, ‘how long has it been?’

  ‘Too long,’ Hope said, smiling, and embraced her godmother.

  ‘How wonderful to meet you all.’ Florence spoke with what sounded like a native English accent buried in a faux Texas drawl. ‘I see at once that my boys will be happy here.’

  The attention of the receiving line shifted suddenly, as if following the ball in a game of tennis. Kit climbed out of the back seat and Mattie’s expression shot into focus, something we hadn’t seen in ages. For one thing, she almost never found herself the second-best-looking person in a crowd, so meeting Kit must have been a shock. Mattie was accustomed to admiration, having just the right amount of curve, length of leg, largeness of eye and generosity of mouth to cause men and women of all persuasions to stop, look once, look again.

  But Kit Godden was something else – golden skin, thick auburn hair streaked with gold, hazel eyes flecked with gold – a kind of golden Greek statue of a youth. He wore an ancient white polo shirt with an alligator on the left breast, baggy khaki shorts and flip-flops. His longish hair sprang from his head like Medusa’s snakes; occasionally he raked it backwards with his fingers.

  In my memory he seems to glow. I can shut my eyes and see how he looked to us then, skin lit from within as if he’d spent hours absorbing sunlight only to slow-release it back into the world. His voice was golden, too: low and intimate, not squabbly and peevish like ours.

  Kit Godden turned his gaze on each of us in turn, smiling a smile full of light. There was self-assurance in his voice, in the requirement that everyone lean in a little to hear him.

  Mattie was introduced first, and Kit solemnly offered her his hand. I expected a flash of lightning from the collision of hot and cool, or an earthquake at the very least. Within four seconds he had charmed her practically to death.

  The excitement at the centre of the group fizzed over.

  ‘Hugo, my darling, where are you?’ Florence bent over the Mercedes and removed her sunglasses to search for her second son in its furthest dark corner, finding him and grasping his wrist so he emerged at last, brown and rather plain-looking. He unfolded himself from the back of the car, slightly hunched over, taller and thinner, not athletic-looking like his brother. He wore a plain blue T-shirt and jeans with white sneakers. Nothing else: no fancy cardigan or jacket or baseball cap, no sweatshirt with a logo. His face seemed slightly out of focus, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his head turned away from the world so it was hard to get a proper bead on him. He looked bony and awkward, with big elbows and knees, like a young greyhound.

  You could see his relation to Kit, minus the charm, minus the glow, clearly the runt of the litter, undistinguished except for the scowl and the impression he gave of wanting to be somewhere else.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Malcolm said. He led everyone inside and offered drinks while Hope locked arms with Kit and Florence, looking uncharacteristically smug.

  ‘A lot of names to remember,’ she said in a low voice to Kit. ‘But you’ll get it.’

  Kit went back over the names, pinning each of us with a knowing smile as if fabricating some not-quite-proper mnemonic.

  Malcolm and Mum disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Mattie to gaze at Kit, and Hope to set the table for lunch. Dad and Florence chatted like old cronies; Florence had her hand on Dad’s arm, her tinkly film-star voice pitched in the upper registers like a Frenchwoman’s. Mal fetched wine glasses and poured an Italian white that hit everyone smack on an empty stomach and made Mattie start to sway, requiring a quick steadying hand from glorious Kit, and a sympathetic smile, and a look on Mattie’s face as if her eyeballs might actually melt.

  Over her shoulder, Kit glanced back, catching my eye. Poker was more my game, but I could see at once that he could see at once that I …

  Let’s just say that in that moment he slipped between my ribs like a flick knife.

  He held my eye slightly too long, then dipped his head and gazed at each of us in turn.

  Oooh. The room holds its breath.

  Exhales.

  ‘My beautiful boys,’ said Florence, taking Kit’s arm, gazing at him lovingly and looking around for Hugo, who’d installed himself in the darkest corner of the room, glowering.

  We disliked Hugo at once, descending as one into a chorus of judgement on the Godden family – Kit, with every exquisite quality, and Hugo, well.

  Hope poured more wine and Mattie separated Kit out from the crowd, working like a sheepdog, nudging him gently down the beach towards ours.

  ‘It’s nicer than it looks,’ I heard her say, and he murmured something appreciative in return.

  Nicer than it looks? It looks amazing.

  ‘There’s tennis and swimming and sailing, and horses up the road, and fishing, and town’s just a few miles away, though I don’t suppose you drive.’ She trailed off, a bit stuck for where to go next.

  ‘If I don’t like it I won’t blame you,’ Kit said. ‘And I’ve got monologues to learn for my RADA audition. So I won’t be bored.’

  ‘It’s not usually boring,’ Mattie said. She sounded ridiculous – though it was perfectly possible that Godden primo might find his life here insufferably dull. ‘I suppose it depends what you’re used to.’ And then, ‘RADA? That’s so cool.’

  They sat on the edge of the deck in front of our house and I got a good look at Mattie’s betrothed. He had a touch of the ambisexual about him, but you can never be sure with actors. Something about the way he posed with his chin slightly tilted up for the camera gave the game away, as if he’d carefully studied the most advantageous angle for sitting.

  ‘Your house is amazing,’ Kit said.

  ‘It’s been in the family forever,’ said Mattie, swinging her legs. ‘We hardly notice it.’

  Alex stuck his head out from under the porch. ‘You must be Kit.’

  ‘Yes, I must be. Who must you be?’

  ‘Alex.’ Hauling himself free of the crawl space, he straightened up, blinking in the sun and brushing the leaf mould and cobwebs off his arms and legs. ‘Ow,’ he said, stretching his arms up and back. ‘Cramp.’

  ‘What are you doing under there?’

  ‘Checking out the wildlife.’ He held up a pen-sized torch and shone it directly into Kit’s eyes. ‘Toads, newts, bugs. All sorts.’

  ‘I’m not very good at biology.’

  ‘It’s not biology,’ Alex said with contempt. ‘It’s the world.’

  Kit blinked.

  Mattie now: ‘Do you sail?’

  ‘A bit.’ Kit followed her eyes up the beach to where a small collection of masts swayed in the lagoon.

  ‘It’s tricky getting into the estuary but you get used to it,’ she s
aid. ‘You’ve got to come in much closer than you’d think was safe.’ Mattie swung her legs in circles.

  Kit looked interested. ‘You’ll have to take me. I’ve only sailed on the Pacific. It’s different.’

  ‘A whole lot bigger, for one thing,’ said Alex, and disappeared again.

  ‘We’ve been coming here for, like, generations,’ Mattie said. ‘There’s lots of stuff that happens every summer. Near the end of August, Dad and Mal go on The Big Sail, around the point. We’re not allowed to go cos it’s all about male bonding, but one year they nearly got cut in half by a ferry and another time the wind was so bad the mast broke.’ She paused. ‘And there’s a tennis tournament, which is really fun. It’s all highly traditional.’

  ‘I like tennis,’ Kit said.

  ‘Mal’s the best player, but I’m pretty good too.’

  Mattie was pretty good. Not fabulous, but not too bad. We all played a version of kamikaze tennis that avoided rules and took into account the fact that the net sagged and there was no referee. Whoever argued best usually won the point.

  Down the beach, Hope rang a bell. Lunch was ready.

  ‘We’d better go back,’ Mattie said.

  ‘Be prepared for lunch with Florence,’ Kit said. ‘She gets highly emotional at partings. Crying makes her feel like a good mother.’

  ‘Isn’t she?’ Mattie asked.

  Kit laughed.

  7

  I studied Florence Godden the way a wildlife photographer might study ring-tailed lemurs. She had a way of drawing attention that couldn’t entirely be explained by fame; if she hadn’t been Hope’s godmother, us kids wouldn’t have had a clue who she was. What impressed me was the way she used her brilliant surface to attract and hold scrutiny, then seconds later to deflect it.

  ‘What are you filming?’ was answered with the vague description of a young Serbian director who would soon be a household name, a male lead with multiple appearances at past Oscars, and a screenwriter so famous the entire cast had been sworn to secrecy. Given that no one at the table (with the possible exception of Mal or Hope) could name a single living screenwriter, the mystery seemed pointless. But the result was that you didn’t realise till much later that nothing about the project had been revealed. Little as I knew about the film business, I had an inkling it wasn’t going to open at Cannes.