by Brian Aldiss
‘But I didn’t respect him. He gave me a rotten childhood.’ However, Jeremy had lowered his voice to make this pronouncement. ‘Poor old bugger, all the same.’
Claude was interested in another kind of respect. He grabbed his two sons and addressed them confidentially. ‘You two better behave respectfully to your grandmother. I happen to know that all of Granddad’s money is left to her, so be nice to the old girl.’
‘Will she be rich, dad?’ Joey asked.
‘Stinking rich, my boy. Stinking rich. So watch it!’
‘Will we be rich, dad?’ Terry asked.
Claude closed one eye. ‘You go to work on it, old lad.’
All round the room and into the nearby breakfast room, muttered family conversations went on, the family being semi-glad to be called together.
‘I don’t know Hunstanton,’ Jack Wilberforce proclaimed, as if bestowing a signal honour on the town he named.
Jeremy said, before holding out his glass for a refill as Emma came round with the bottle, ‘I always felt a bit sorry for mum.’
‘He gave Liz a hard time,’ Flo agreed. ‘She had more intelligence than Sidney, that was the problem.’
The lady referred to as Liz was the newly widowed Elizabeth, sitting alone in a corner of the room. Mary and Martin had escorted Elizabeth to a sofa, donkey brown and genuine leather, where she sat poised and elegant in her sweeping black dress. She wore a wide-brimmed black hat with a white rose attached to the brim. Elizabeth was in her late forties; her face, with its sharp features, was utterly pale, utterly composed, as she looked about the room.
Since her stroke, the old lady kept her ebony walking stick to hand; but the sofa suited her well enough because it had a high seat, from which it was easy to rise without assistance.
You went over to speak to her. ‘I’m so sorry, Granny dear. Granddad will be greatly missed.’ You added, ‘By you, most of all.’
‘It is character … istic of your mother,’ she began, ‘to wear a dress which fits – which does not fit, I should say – her. Properly.’
‘Yes, Granny, but –’
She reached out and clutched your hand. ‘Yes, it’s about your granddad sad. But the over war … the Civil War Spanish is over. We must be small mercies. Grateful for –’
She paused, gazing upwards, searching for a word.
‘Small mercies?’ you suggested.
Later in life, you would come greatly to respect your grandmother. Moreover, it grew to be your opinion that Elizabeth was the one scholarly member of the family, apart from Jeremy’s wife, Flo. Your grandmother, in your view and that of others, had not been well treated by her husband Sidney. Sidney had been too busy making money to care properly for his grand wife – or for her intellect.
Elizabeth had suffered her stroke three years earlier. Her intellect had carried her through. Sonia affected to be scared of the speech impediment. As Sonia happened to be passing, you grabbed her arm and made her say hello to her grandmother.
‘Oh, I thought you didn’t want to talk to me, Granny,’ said Sonia, grinning and rocking her body back and forth in an idiotic way.
‘Why should I … why not wish … to talk to you, child?’ asked Elizabeth, scrutinizing Sonia with some interest.
‘I thought perhaps you did not like hunchbacked children, Granny.’ Sonia made an awful grimace as she said this.
‘On the cont … on the contrary. I adore hunchbacks, child. Remind me of your name.’
‘Oh,’ Sonia gazed at the floor. ‘I am sister to the adorable Valerie, who was perfect and not hunchbacked. Little Valerie-Wallerie was the world’s most perfect child.’
You reassured your grandmother, pointing a finger to your temple, working it back and forth as if to drill into your brain. ‘Sonia is a bit touched, Grandma. It runs in the family.’
Elizabeth made no direct reply to this remark, although she flashed at you something that could have been a smile of understanding. She fished in her handbag, took out a cigarette case and extracted a cigarette. When she had lit it and blown a plume of smoke from her nostrils, she said, not looking at you, but gazing rather into the room, where her relations were milling about, ‘Why are your Uncle Bertie and Auntie Violet not here? Why did they not attend Sidney’s funeral?’
‘I’m afraid Mother doesn’t approve of them. Well, at least she doesn’t approve of Auntie Violet. She told Auntie she was not welcome.’
You did not add that you had asked your mother why she did not want Auntie Violet in the house. To which she had replied, loftily, that she was a good judge of character.
‘Violet wears good clothes. Wears well. Them well,’ said Elizabeth, now.
‘Yes, but Mum says they are too expensive.’
The old lady inspected your face. ‘Violet, I recall … Violet criticized your Uncle Jeremy. Jeremy’s of his son, deplorable treatment. Poor Sid. Rightly so, to my mind. It’s as well to speak. Brave to speak, um, out. A necessary adjunct. I say, adjunct of civiliz … our civilization.’
Lamely, you said, ‘We were all upset about Sad Sid.’
‘Suicide. Suicide is … sorry, suicide is always a family … A criticism, I mean to say, of the family.’
‘We are a funny family, I must agree,’ said Sonia. ‘Look at their faces! But our sausage rolls are good. May I get you one, Granny?’
‘No, thank you. Valerie.’
‘No, sorry Granny.’ Sonia vigorously shook her head. ‘I’m Sonia, thanks very much. And I’m alive. Valerie is the one who is not alive.’
‘I see.’ Elizabeth spoke gravely, looking into Sonia’s face. ‘And was not Valerie also hunchbacked?’
‘Oh, heavens no! Valerie was perfect, Granny. Everyone knows that. That was why she died, so they say. Died of perfection, like Jesus on the Cross. In fact, I believe I saw her at your husband’s graveside.’ She pressed her fingers to her lips. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have mentioned gravesides.’
Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully, but she could not restrain a smile. ‘Well then, Sonia, you should go far in life, and get into a lot of trouble on the way.’
She dismissed the subject. Again the inspection of your face. You liked your grandmother’s intelligence, while finding it alarming at times. Her face still bore traces of a smile.
‘I hope you learnt something. Stephen. From Sad Sid’s death. Unlike your cheeky little sister.’
‘Valerie?’
‘Sonia.’
‘I still feel bad about it, Gran.’
‘Feeling bad is the same. Is not the same as something. Learning something.’ She changed the subject abruptly. She tapped the end of her cigarette on the rim of a brass ashtray, which was secured in the middle of a weighted leather strap so that it hung comfortably over the arm of the sofa on which she was sitting. ‘But that you know.’
She murmured the sentence to herself again, perhaps checking to see that she had got it right. ‘But that you know.’
‘Why should your mother have a say? Have a say over whether or not one attended? Attended.’ She seemed momentarily to be stuck on the word. ‘If her brothers and his wife attended … attended his father’s funeral? Particularly when Sidney had a special. Special affection for Bertie. If you remember, dear, Bertie in his youth. In his youth, he flew … where?’
‘Kabul,’ you said.
‘Oh dear, I must go,’ said Sonia. ‘I’ve just remembered something.’ She slipped away, saying, ‘I just want to see if Gyp has died in the greenhouse.’
‘Yes. Kabul,’ Elizabeth echoed. She watched Sonia’s retreat with a slight smile. ‘It’s in Africa, I believe.’
‘Afghanistan, Granny.’
‘Of course. Quite right.’
You had no answer to her larger question. You knew only that, in the days preceding the funeral, terrible arguments had broken out between your parents. Some weeks earlier, Mary had ventured a few critical remarks regarding Violet to Violet’s husband, Bertie. She told him that Violet was ‘spendthrift’, and had add
ed the damning word ‘gallivanting’. Bertie had become furious, vowing he would not speak to his sister again. Nothing had been said on that occasion about Violet’s criticisms regarding the causes of Sad Sid’s suicide; indeed, the word ‘suicide’ had proved too terrible to utter. In an endeavour to settle the quarrel, Martin had phoned Jack, Mary’s other brother, asking him to intervene. Jack had accused Martin of going behind his sister’s back. So a thunderous family row had developed, about which you knew nothing, walking into frosty silences as into a brick wall. Mary had said, ‘I don’t care who’s died, I won’t have that Violet here, flaunting her new clothes about the place! Neglecting her children! Making eyes at all the men!’ And that ended the matter.
You felt for your grandmother, that calm and elegant lady. Anxious to detach yourself from your parents’ quarrels, you said to her now, ‘I really like Auntie Violet, Gran. She’s ever so kind, you know.’
The remark appeared to make no impression on the new widow. In her halting way of speaking, she replied, ‘People should not be small. Not small-minded. When there’s a war. Particularly. A war. Now Mussolini. After all, on. Coming.’
You expressed agreement.
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 falli
ble 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.
How greatly your mother desired another daughter as substitute for the dead one you could not imagine. Indeed, she poisoned her mind, and the minds of her children, by indulging in a fantasy, the fantasy that this first daughter had lived for six months and been the very image of perfection. The fantasy daughter even had a name. It was called Valerie. This consoling fantasy settled on Mary’s blood like a vampire. No living child could possibly rival, in Mary’s eyes, the virtues of the dead Valerie.
When you emerged into the world, four years after this still-born girl, you entered a stifling imagined scenario of tragedy. Your mother could find no place for a boy amid the interstices of her dream. As for your father – unable to enter into this suffocating pretence – he was destroyed in a different way; estranged from your mother in a separation which further increased a propensity for loneliness in his nature.
‘Valerie never did that,’ she said when you broke a cup. ‘Valerie would never make such a horrid noise,’ she would say if you shouted. ‘Valerie ate her food properly,’ she said when you splashed your soup. At every turn, you were condemned by this unliving, but overwhelming, figment of your mother’s imagination.
Later in life, you found that your mother had been visiting a psychotherapist in Norwich for some years during the period of your growing up.
Do you remember weeping?
I never wept.
Oh, indeed you did.
Your parents were at home on that momentous day early in September, and in a bad mood. Your mother was saying she felt cross with Neville Chamberlain. A gloomy silence ensued.
Martin said, meditatively, that September was the traditional season in which to go to war. In olden times, the peasants had got in the harvest and were free to be sent to fight for the lord of the manor.
‘Never mind all that,’ said Mary, irritably.
