Sun Child

by Angela Huth

  ‘How lovely, lovely, lovely,’ Emily was chanting.

  In the confusion of her greeting she didn’t notice a man get out of the other side of the car, a very large man with a white face and startling grey eyes.

  ‘Idle, I’m sorry.’ Uncle Tom extracted himself from Emily’s clasp, went over to his brother-in-law and indicated the stranger. ‘This is Kevin. Kevin McCloud. We were in Oxford for the afternoon. Didn’t think you’d mind if we came over.’

  ‘Of course not, my dear chap,’ said Idle shyly. For some reason, with Tom, he always felt his age. Formality overcame him, and he found himself using phrases he would not normally use. He turned to Kevin. ‘How do you do? Come on in. Fen’ll be delighted.’

  Idle and Tom led the way into the house. Emily lingered behind for a moment to look at Kevin. He was leaning against the car, gazing up at the house.

  ‘You must be Emily,’ he said, his eyes on the upstairs windows. ‘I’ve heard about you from Tom.’

  He had a nice voice, but Emily didn’t answer. She resented his presence. She wanted Uncle Tom to herself. Kevin followed her indoors.

  In the kitchen Tom was being welcomed as happily by his sister as he had been by Emily. Again he introduced Kevin.

  ‘You remember, I brought him round in London.’

  Fen responded with a blank look. She had a streak of chocolate on her chin and shining eyes.

  ‘You must remember,’ Tom went on. ‘You argued for an hour about Cyrano. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.’

  ‘I have a totally immemorable face,’ said Kevin. ‘My mother always said that.’

  Fen suddenly smiled.

  ‘Of course I remember. But you had a beard, didn’t you ? Idle was in Africa.’ Kevin smiled back.

  ‘With or without a beard, just as immemorable.’

  ‘Kevin being modest is only slightly worse than Kevin being arrogant,’ explained Tom. Fen, standing on one leg by the Aga, concentrated on Kevin.

  ‘You were negotiating for a factory in the North,’ she recalled.

  ‘I got it,’ said Kevin. ‘Spare parts. They’re better than the stage, I can tell you. They’re doing all right.”

  ‘Won’t everyone sit down?’ asked Idle, sitting himself in the rocking chair.

  ‘Uncle Tom, please can I have the next bit about the owl?’ Emily had hoisted herself on to the dresser. She was plaiting strands of scarlet, yellow and orange wool, which she had taken from Fen’s basket.

  ‘Later,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll have to think of something.’

  ‘What’s the owl?’ Kevin went over to Emily. He leant against the dresser beside her, and let his huge fingers run through the mound of coloured wools.

  ‘Oh, just an owl who hasn’t got a hoot. It’s a serial Uncle Tom tells me.’

  ‘An owl who hasn’t got a hoot? Well, I don’t know much about that. But would you by any chance care to hear about a hippopotamus who wanted to be a photographer?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ Emily hoped she didn’t sound mean. She was set on the owl.

  ‘I could tell you about him before tea.’

  ‘Where?’ Emily looked at Kevin with suspicion. ‘Not in here. Mama and Tom are making too much noise.’

  ‘Anywhere you like.’

  ‘Why don’t you take Kevin into the garden, Em,’ suggested Fen, ‘and hear the story there? By the time it’s finished I’ll have tea organised.’ She seemed suddenly flustered by all the people round her.

  ‘Well, all right,’ Emily agreed with some reluctance. Kevin followed her outside. ‘I’m always the one who has to take people for walks in the garden,’ she said. ‘I suppose I know it all by heart by now. Those are the sprouts, and that’s the cutting border.’ She pointed to an untidy row of chrysanthemums the colour of autumn fruits, and a few soggy marigolds, their flaming heads bent low over the earth.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Kevin. ‘Do you pick the flowers?’

  ‘Sometimes I help Mama. It’s one of the things she likes doing – sometimes. Other times, it bores her. But actually, this year, do you know what? She says she’s going to make apple jelly. We’re going to pick up apples in a big basket tomorrow.’

  They paused near a heavily laden tree. Emily stooped and picked a fallen apple from the long grass. She cupped it like a ball in her hands, and put its glossy yellow skin next to her cheek.

  ‘It’s quite cold,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t believe,’ Kevin was saying, ‘your mother is the kind of person who likes making jam.’

  ‘What I don’t like,’ answered Emily, not really listening to him, ‘is when apples get all creased up skins like old people. It’ll be awful when Mama gets lines on her, even on her legs.’

  ‘But that won’t be for years,’ said Kevin, very serious. ‘She’s pretty young, your mother.’

  Emily looked up at him, handed him the apple.

  ‘I’ve warmed it a bit for you. Do you want to see the field? It’s not much of a field. Just a scruffy old place, but I’d better show you.’ She turned away from him and began to walk down a path. ‘Last year,’ she said, ‘Mama was a very grand lady.’

  ‘I remember. When I met her in London she had earrings, and her hair all piled up. I hardly recognised her today.’

  ‘That’s right. She had lots of grand clothes. But down here she doesn’t bother and she likes it very much. She tries out all sorts of new things, like the jam. She’s very good at things,’ she added. Kevin caught up with her and walked by her side.

  ‘How about the hippopotamus?’ he asked. Emily was climbing a low grey stone wall into the field. She swung one leg over the top so that she could sit astride. like this she was only a head shorter than Kevin.

  ‘Well, actually, you needn’t bother if you don’t want to,’ she said. ‘I only really like stories by Uncle Tom and Papa. Papa tells me all about Africa, real things that happen to him when he goes there. Uncle Tom does very funny voices for all the different animals and people and everything.’ She paused, taking in the slight look of disappointment on Kevin’s face. ‘Thank you very much all the same,’ she said. ‘Perhaps another time, if you’re going to come again. Will you get over first and jump me down?’

  Kevin obliged. They walked round the field in silence. Emily felt no need to talk. Kevin seemed to be one of those people you didn’t have to try to entertain, he was happy to be quiet. She liked that. Some of her parents’ friends were quite different. They asked boring questions and pretended to be interested, and asked her to show them things, paintings or stories. Then they always said they were good, even if they weren’t. They had funny judgement, sometimes, her parents’ friends. Or else they were being dishonest. Anyhow, she hated ever to be asked to show things: she liked to choose her critics. Mama and Paper were always good and honest, and so was Uncle Tom. Kevin, she suddenly felt, might be good too. One day, perhaps, she would ask his opinion about something she had done.

  He walked beside her and she studied his huge boots, muddy, worn, pressing footprints in the longish grass. She betted he never cleaned his shoes, or washed his shirts very often, or his hair. He didn’t look dirty, exactly: just uncared for, or as if he didn’t bother about himself. Emily glanced up at him. He was taller than Papa, tall as a tree, looking about him as if everything he saw was important. It would be good to marry a man as big as Kevin because he would frighten burglars all right, and even if you had three children he could carry them all at once. She could quite see why Uncle Tom had him for a friend, and hoped her parents would come to like him too: he seemed a nice kind of man.

  At tea he was very complimentary about the chocolate cake, although Emily hadn’t told him the plan, and ate three slices. He made everybody laugh at a story he told about some play he had been in when he was younger. Emily didn’t completely understand the jokes, but she saw it was funny the way he stomped about the kitchen, imitating someone, bashing his cup down on the table and flicking at things, making his big hands look like the spiky delicate
hands of a dancer. She joined in the laughter, though she wasn’t consumed by it like her mother. Fen’s chair was pushed back from the table, she was doubled over, weak, the tears shining on her cheeks. Idle was enjoying it too, head thrown back, throat moving, tired face shifting with delight. Then the telephone rang. Uncle Tom went to answer it.

  ‘A Marcia Burrows for you, Idle,’ he said, when he came back. ‘Sexy voice.’

  Fen smiled.

  ‘I forgot to tell you she rang this morning to ask when you wanted her to come down,’ she said. ‘Idle’s new secretary,’ she explained, as Idle left the room. ‘Wonder how long she’ll last?’

  ‘Why, does he work them too hard?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘Yes, but they also fall in love with him. Quite desperately. The amount of girls I’ve had on the telephone to me …’ Her voice was scathing. ‘He’s tried them all shapes and ages, and never gives them any encouragement. But the more he ignores them the more they tear their hearts out for him. Until I met Idle I never knew there were so many lonely women ready to suffer unrequited love. A time wasting, humiliating experience that is,’ she added. ‘Something I’d never allow myself.’

  Kevin frowned at her.

  ‘You speak with the arrogance of a beautiful woman who’s probably never had to,’ he said sharply. ‘You could afford to be a little more understanding.’

  ‘Oh, I understand.’ All Fen’s laughter was gone. ‘I understand unrequited love to be an indulgence that consumes useful energy. A form of masochism that blurs sensible judgement. And sensible judgement should only be confused by mutual love. That’s what I believe, anyhow.’ She smiled at herself, then her voice rose, lighter. ‘Look at Tom, now. He’s another one with Idle’s problems. All his silly blondes fall in love with him, cling to him like leeches. And you know why? Because he’s too kind to shake them off harshly, and above all because he listens to them. The great way to guard yourself against a woman’s love is never to listen to her. Especially,’ she added, ‘if she’s inclined to reveal some of her most private feelings.’ This time she smiled at Kevin. He smiled back.

  ‘Must remember,’ he said.

  ‘What’s got into you?’ asked Tom. ‘Can’t think why you get so cross about something that hardly concerns you.’

  Fen flushed.

  ‘The general indignity of women concerns me,’ she said. ‘The way they go throwing themselves at men’s feet in the humiliating fashion they do these days. Women’s Lib doesn’t advocate women should make fools of themselves. And heavens, how they do that! For a start they confuse sensitive listening for sensitive understanding. Most of the time, listening has nothing to do with loving.’

  Emily slid herself down from the dresser and went to stand by her mother’s chair. She didn’t precisely understand what was being said, only that Fen seemed to feel strongly about something, and the others seemed not to comprehend her. Frequently, Emily knew, Fen was misunderstood. She was a critical woman (equally of herself as of others) and spared no one her judgement. On the occasions she made her more critical observations of her friends, she did so in a flinty voice and with brittle eyes: she was often funny, speaking with malice but not malevolence, although frequently her audience confused this relish with bitchery. They called her merciless, sometimes, then were confused by the fierce and generous appraisals she would make, the next moment, about the same people. At times, even Idle, her most loyal supporter, would claim she had gone too far, and defend the subject of her attack. When this happened, almost against her will, Fen would become more outrageous, daring people to disagree with her, to attack her. Emily, if she was present, unable to understand the facts of the situation, understood her mother’s mood, her mother’s sense of defiant aloneness in a crowd. Then, as now, she would go to her. Simply stand by her, a silent supporter.

  Idle returned from the telephone.

  ‘Marcia Burrows,’ he announced, ‘is willing to start any time. She’ll come down here, sometimes, to save my going to London.’

  Fen’s previous gaiety, which had only briefly been shadowed by her small outburst, returned at once.

  ‘Oh, darling! When?’ she asked. ‘When can she come? I want to watch the whole thing from the beginning this time. What’s she like? Blonde? How many days will it take her?’

  ‘You’re absurd.’ Idle was smiling. He liked being teased. ‘You exaggerate so. I haven’t seen her myself, but I hear she’s quite presentable. Perhaps, when she isn’t typing for me’ – he twinkled in the direction of Tom – ’she might come in useful to you.’

  Tom smiled.

  ‘She might indeed. I’m on the look out. I lost Gillian – the one the week before last, you remember? – to Proust. My fault for having introduced her.’ He stood up, picked up his mug of tea from the table. ‘The very name, Marcia Burrows, arouses all sorts of possibilities as a matter of fact. Don’t you think so, Kevin? Marcia Burrows. “The very name is like a bell upon mine ears.”’ Fen began to giggle. Tom put on his John Gielgud voice. ‘ “Marcia Burrows? That is the question…” ’

  Kevin, too, rose from his chair.

  ‘Let me be the one to propose the toast to her future.’

  Fen and Idle both held up their mugs of tea.

  ‘The toast,’ said Fen.

  ‘The toast,’ said Idle, near her.

  ‘To Marcia Burrows. To the possibility of her and Tom.’

  All four grown-ups took a gulp at the remains of their tea. Emily looked up at them. They were quite solemn. They had forgotten her, and she wanted to ask what this strange ceremony was about. It seemed to be almost a child’s game, and yet they were all old. And what, then, caused the sudden laughter? For they were all now laughing, sharing some mutual and incomprehensible joke about the absence of Marcia Burrows, a woman none of them knew. Was it simply her name that was so funny?

  Emily said the name over to herself. Marcia Burrows. No smile came to her lips, but the pattern of the words, like the pattern of some poems, or songs, or names of foreign countries or Greek gods or wild flowers, engraved themselves in a special way on her mind, so that in future the very mentioning of the name would, she knew, bring about a feeling of strange familiarity.

  Much later, when she was in bed, Uncle Tom came up to say goodnight. He sat beside her, legs crossed. She appreciated that, in his extraordinarily busy life, he always seemed to have time for her.

  ‘Are you liking it better here than in London?’ he asked. He only asked questions if he really wanted to know the answer. Also, he would never ask any such question in public. Emily liked to answer him as seriously as he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘much more. Much.’

  ‘Why?’

  This time Emily thought for longer. Eventually she said,

  ‘I like the mornings here, and the afternoons and the evenings. And I like it because when I’m at school I can imagine what Mama and Papa are doing. I know Mama’s in the house or garden, cooking or reading or something. And I know even if Papa is in London for the day, when I’m coming home from school, he’ll be getting on a train to come home too. Except of course when he’s abroad, and I wish he didn’t have to go away so much.’ She paused. ‘I like to be able to imagine what they’re doing, where they are, all the time I’m not with them. I could never do that in London. Then I like it all being more untidy than it was in London, and the animals and eating in the kitchen and having the garden and everything. You know, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘I know,’ said Uncle Tom.

  ‘I expect we’ll be in this house for ever and ever, don’t you think? As Mama and Papa seem to love it too.’

  ‘I can see no reason why not,’ said Tom. He went over to the window. ‘There’s a goldcrest in the apple tree. Do you know what a goldcrest looks like?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Emily. Then she added: ‘Uncle Tom, do you think, you and Marcia Burrows?’

  He kept his back to her but she knew he was smiling.

  ‘I dare say,’ he said. �
�I’m apparently vulnerable to almost any pretty woman.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That means I can never say no to a girl who wants me to say yes.’

  Emily giggled.

  ‘You mean love them?’

  ‘Not exactly. More, cheer them up.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll be able to cheer up Marcia Burrows.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Why did you all think it’s such a funny name?’

  ‘Because it is, really, isn’t it? Absurd. Some names are almost entirely responsible for their owners’ characters, I’ve always thought.’ He turned away from the window, faced Emily. The sky was thinly dark behind him. ‘Any moment there’ll be swallows gathering on those telephone wires, you know. Something you never see in London. Doesn’t the church clock keep you awake?’

  ‘Heavens, no. I’m used to it.’ Wriggling down in the bed Emily felt quite proud, used to the clock already. ‘But I expect you all will, tonight. I’ve never heard such a noise.’

  Tom stood listening.

  ‘When grown-ups laugh they make even more noise than children,’ he said.

  ‘Still,’ said Emily, ‘I don’t mind.’ She meant: I like it. I like these sort of days: the sun, the loft, Uncle Tom turning up surprisingly, the warmth of the kitchen, the knowing there’s tomorrow. But her eyes were shut. She couldn’t be bothered to say the words out loud. She watched them merge in her head, bright, peaceful shapes, shimmering in the wake of the downstairs laughter that still reached her, even here beneath the sheets. Drowsily, she realised this was the kind of happiness you could put out your hand and touch, and store away for winter nights, and no one could take it away.

  Two

  One of those nebulous autumn mornings: no sun, mist colours, the shape of trees printed palely on a pale sky : cobwebs, still, on the hips and haws. Emily and Wolf, her new friend, squatted by the banks of a small stream that ran through a watery meadow behind the house. Their thick jerseys, their gumboots, and their hair glistened with a drizzle so fine it only became perceptible when netting something solid. Wolf tested the depth of the stream with a stick.