Blenheim Orchard

by Tim Pears

  Contents

  Part One

  1 A Family in the Morning

  2 The Dustbin-lid Hunt

  3 Fudge Making

  4 Swimming

  5 A New Water Bottle

  6 Ping-pong

  7 The Best Idea YouEver Heard

  Part Two

  8 The Allotments

  9 An Announcement

  10 The Pitt Rivers Museum

  11 Tennis in Summertown

  12 The Path of Resistance

  13 The Phoenix Cinema

  Part Three

  14 Picnic on Port Meadow

  15 A Visitor to the House

  16 Party

  17 Urban Rain

  18 By the River

  19 Hotel Corridor

  20 The Raj Cuisine

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  For my mother, Jill

  Part One

  1

  A Family in the Morning

  Thursday 19 June 2003

  Children interfere with their parents. Siblings mess with each other’s minds. Wives intrude upon their husbands’ dreams.

  Ezra Pepin realised that he must have moved in his sleep, must have inched across the king-size bed. Sheena had drawn him towards her, that’s what she’d done. Sleep-swollen, warm-blooded limbs brushed and rubbed against his. Was he still asleep? An aquatic detachment, limbs underwater.

  His wife murmured in his ear, tugging him to her. He eased his naked body over the mattress.

  What time was it? Ezra allowed his eyelids droopily to open, then close, enough to expose a grainy impression of the wall beyond. Four connecting lines of light, a rectangular frame in the gloom. The morning was trying to push in, to impose itself through cracks around the monochromatic curtains. No sound of children. How long did they have?

  Sheena’s warm leg between his legs, drawing him to her. Was she awake? Her hot, sleep-filled breath, murmuring non-word sounds – desire, encouragement – in his ear.

  ‘Is it safe?’ Ezra whispered.

  His phallus in her hand. She took it into her. Ezra’s breath caught with gratitude; he relished unmuzzled sensation, the yielding, enveloping welcome.

  ‘Are we safe?’

  She murmured her assurance and pushed against him. He reciprocated. He didn’t need to look to know that Sheena’s eyes were closed, too. He pressed his right thigh against her; wondered whether Sheena wanted to be stimulated any further into wakefulness, even with pleasure, or whether she preferred to remain half-asleep, moving the way they were. Undulating in the dark. Deep underwater creatures, making somnambulistic love.

  When it was over Ezra lay, breathing hard against her. He turned on to his back. Sheena rested on his chest.

  Ezra opened his eyes. The sun had forced a little more light into the room. ‘Tea?’ he whispered.

  Ezra tied the belt of his white towelling robe as he descended the stairs. A mug of good strong tea: the least he could fetch her in return for an unwarranted, first thing in the morning gift. Sheena knew how much her husband loved it then, the way an orgasm flushed the synapses of his brain and sent him out into the waking world with clarified perception and intent. Ezra tried to remember what it was he’d ever done to deserve such a mate; was unable to come up with anything beyond his habit of taking her tea in bed in the mornings. It didn’t seem enough, somehow.

  Judging by its weight, the kettle was sufficiently full. Ezra lowered it back on to its base and switched it on. Instantly there issued from it a low growl. He reached to the cupboard above for mugs, registering as he did so two things – a pair of connected facts – simultaneously: one, the kettle was already hot; two, there was someone in the walk-through sitting-room. He could only see her hand, on top of the back of the white sofa.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Ezra asked.

  There was no reply. Ezra parked the mugs on the kitchen surface. Maybe she’d gone back to sleep. The kettle was boiling. He took teabags from the caddy, poured water.

  ‘Waiting,’ Blaise answered. She pulled herself up, the top half of her head appearing above the back of the sofa, a scowling puppet.

  ‘What for?’

  Blaise gazed at her father. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, then lowered herself back out of sight.

  ‘You want a cup of tea, darling?’ Ezra asked. ‘The kettle boiled. Maybe that’s what you were waiting for.’

  Another long pause. Using one of their fan-shaped sugar spoons that seemed to have been invented for the purpose Ezra squeezed the teabag from Sheena’s china mug, lifted the red lid of the old nappy bucket they used as a compost bin, and dropped it in. He added semi-skimmed milk to the tea.

  ‘No,’ Blaise said.

  Taking a route to the stairs via the sitting-room, Ezra paused beside the sofa. He laid his free hand on the back of Blaise’s. She was wearing floral cotton pyjamas. She looked up at him, noncommittal, her brown-eyed gaze uncannily like her mother’s even though Sheena’s irises were blue.

  ‘Back in a sec,’ he said.

  Sheena was surely asleep. Her lips were slightly open: she looked stunned in that way in which a person awake never does. Ezra didn’t want to say her name, to tell her that her mug of tea was here, in case he woke her. But if she was only dozing then he ought to let her know, otherwise she might not hear him, might carry on lying there longing for that first delicious sip, be severely disappointed to find the mug on her bedside table in ten minutes’ time, cold, a creamy skin on its surface. He whispered her name. She didn’t stir.

  ‘Your tea’s here,’ he said a fraction louder. Nothing. He placed the mug on the table with a measured audible thump, and left the room.

  Sunlight poured into the house through every east-facing window. Entering the living-room Ezra said, ‘It’s crazy you waking so early at your age. You know you’ll …’

  The white sofa cushions held only the impression of Blaise’s sturdy form. Looking around, Ezra discovered her in the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge, one hand on the door handle, staring at whatever was inside. The cool, bright contents. Maybe, Ezra thought, Blaise wasn’t awake either. She was kind of sleepwalking, like her mother. Teenage girls did that, didn’t they? Moved their bodies around the house in their sleep. Or was it objects they moved?

  Blaise closed the fridge door with a sigh, which could have come from the hinge. She turned towards her father. The room was full of light.

  ‘What shall we have for breakfast?’ he asked.

  ‘I was wondering …’ she began.

  ‘Hey!’ Ezra said. ‘How about a fry-up?’

  Blaise winced. ‘Are you kidding, Daddy?’

  ‘A slap-up mixed grill. Sausages and bacon.’ Ezra strode over. ‘Plenty of eggs. Scrambled. Fried. Whatever.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Dad.’

  ‘Black pudding, Admiral. Haggis.’

  ‘Gross.’

  ‘Hash browns. Baked beans.’ Ezra looked in cupboards, checked the fridge, frowning.

  ‘That is so unhealthy, Daddy.’

  Ezra shook his head. ‘We have not a single one of these items in the canteen. Anyway, you’re right.’ He screwed up his face. ‘How did people eat all that meat and grease for breakfast and do anything afterwards? Will we ever know such pleasure again?’

  Blaise shrugged.

  ‘I’ll tell you. Forget breakfast, Admiral. Brunch. Saturday. We’ll go for a family jog, all of us, what do you say? Stagger back sweating, gasping. And starving!’

  Blaise stared at her father. Then a grin broke on her blank face. ‘Permission to speak, Flight Lieutenant?’

  ‘Permission granted, Admiral.’

  ‘It’s a spiffing wheeze.’

&nb
sp; ‘Why, thank you, sir. Of course we’ll have strictly segregated duties, absolutely no blurring of rank. If you do the eggs, Admiral, that’s your job, do you understand me?

  ‘Yes, Flight Lieutenant.’

  ‘No one else touches the eggs. No one! You can overdo them, underdo them, scramble them to a sorry pulp. That is your job, your responsibility, and no one else’s. Are we clear?’

  ‘Clear as mud.’

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  Blaise looked very solemn. She frowned, and nodded. ‘It will, Flight Lieutenant. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Admiral. At ease.’

  Blaise helped herself to a glass of milk. Ezra watched. It was a quarter to seven in the morning and Blaise had forgotten for a moment that she was an adolescent, enmeshed in the disaccord of puberty, had allowed herself to act like a nine-year-old. She even gave him a milky kiss as she left the room. He called to her before she got into the hallway. Blaise turned.

  ‘Don’t go back to sleep now,’ he said.

  Blaise smiled, and departed. Ezra sat at the kitchen table, sipping his tea. It seemed to him, now that he thought about it, that he’d been demoted. Didn’t he use to be a Wing Commander? Or maybe that was the rank they’d allocated Sheena, who didn’t actively participate in the game but would frequently be referred to by the others. He did recall that Hector was the Brigadier; when they first began Hector would say, ‘I’m the Biggie Dear.’ Yes, Ezra admitted, it was some time since they’d last played.

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs. Identifiable at once, each member of the family’s particular weight upon the carpet. The length of the pause between each tread. These footsteps reached the ground, approached the kitchen. They paused outside. A three-year-old boy hid, plotting.

  His father began singing. ‘Everyone is sleeping in my house.’ An improvised ditty. ‘I’m all on my own, quiet as a mouse.’

  Louie jumped into the kitchen doorway. ‘Boo!’

  Ezra acted out a major heart attack, from which he barely recovered. His son was pleased beyond reason; pleased with himself, with his father’s performance, with the tickling, vengeful hug Ezra gave him.

  Scrutinised by his younger son, Ezra Pepin stretched up above the fitted cabinets in the kitchen, clapped cereal packets together, and brought them two at a time to the table. Weetabix and Cheerios. Cornflakes and Shredded Wheat. Extending his long arms, reaping Oaty Bites and Shreddies, Golden Grahams and Bran Flakes.

  On top of the wall cabinets was the only place in their kitchen to store them. Sheena, on tiptoe, would complain, ‘I can’t… reach, damn it. Why do you put them up there, Ez?’

  It was her tall husband to whom the conducting of breakfast customarily fell. Sugar Puffs and Frosties. Special K and All Bran. Louie Pepin didn’t take his eyes off his father for a second. He observed proceedings with a three-year-old tyrant’s beady vigilance: the boy had established as a point of principle that not a single grain of cereal be allowed into his bowl, never mind past his lips, until the entire phalanx of packets had been lined up on the kitchen table in front of him.

  ‘There you go, Peanut, that’s the lot. Louie?’ Ezra looked wildly around the kitchen. ‘Peanut. Where on earth are you? Help.’

  Louie slid a box of Rice Krispies sideways to reveal his grinning face.

  ‘Thank God,’ his father gasped. ‘I thought you’d disappeared. What a relief. Now, which one do you fancy?’

  ‘Wait,’ Louie ordered, suddenly serious again, transferring his attention to his cereal bowl: glazed on the outside with the black and white hexagons of a football, a pitch was marked out on the inside. Louie shifted it around, making minute adjustments, until the pitch was at a precise horizontal to him. When he was satisfied with this geometry, he surveyed the panoply of cereals.

  ‘Take your time,’ his father yawned. ‘No hurry, old bean,’ he said, closing his eyes, snoring.

  ‘Cheerios!’ Louie announced. Ezra woke and poured: airy morsels of sugared wheat tumbled into Louie’s bowl with an insubstantial patter. Milk followed. Louie lifted a heaped spoon, emptied the contents into his mouth and chewed, staring at the wall ahead with the glassy gaze of a ruminant.

  Ezra made two rounds of toast, spread one with raspberry jam and one with acacia honey, and carried the plate and a second cup of tea upstairs. The curtains were still drawn: it took some moments for Ezra’s eyes to adjust to the semi-dark. Pillows stacked up behind her, Sheena was sitting up in bed, with her eyes closed. She opened one of them as Ezra placed the tea and toast on her bedside table, as if studying him through a telescope. He picked up the empty mug, leaned over, and kissed her. She murmured thanks as he did so.

  Life before the invention of mirrors was hard to imagine. It was a relief to Blaise Pepin that her parents had chosen to send her to a school where, within wide and tolerable bounds, she could wear what she wanted. Neither was she sorry not to be a Townie or a Goth, dressed in a uniform of their own every day of their lives. No, not at all. It was just this moment of a morning that was a bore. This moment of revision. Oh, Blaise could decide what to wear. She could take a look at her wardrobe as she had just now, grab knickers and bra, put on these combats, vest, shirt. It wasn’t that. That wasn’t a problem. No, the only problem was that, once attired, she always seemed to change her mind. Looking in this mirror, here in front of her, she realised she appeared too short. Too fat. Too pale. Too spotty. She’d have to start again; this is what took the time.

  Louie swallowed another spoonful of Weetabix Banana Crisp Minis. Beside him, his father listened out for the snap and thud of his newspaper’s arrival on the doormat. Ezra gazed at the wall clock with drowsy eyes. Half-past seven. That lazy paper-boy was late again. As if reading were a habit he needed to feed Ezra perused the cereal boxes surrounding his younger son. There were two identifiably different kinds. The colourful cartons which Ezra bought – and Louie chose to eat from: these contained complex carbohydrates to help kids concentrate, they were great sources of bran fibre, they could kick start your day. They had free gifts inside, masks to cut out, coupons to send off along with a trifling sum of money for exciting monsters, robots, cars.

  Then there were dull, neglected packets of cereal Sheena had bought, which were organic, or biologique. Wheat free, gluten free. Vegetarian, vegan. No sugar, no dairy, no soya, no GM, no hydrogenated fats. No free gifts. Reasons to eat organic: Treat your body like a temple. Create balanced ecological communities. Blossom the planet.

  It was awfully odd. Ezra could imagine the marketing gang at work falling on such a brief. ‘Sell organic to children? A breeze, Ez!’ Or was he missing something? Was there some moral nuance he simply couldn’t see? Some ethical incompatibility between natural product and product marketing? More plausibly: maybe the manufacturers weren’t geared up to cope with great demand. Maybe those companies didn’t want to grow. Awfully strange, really.

  ‘Weetabix!’ Louie requested.

  ‘I don’t know how anyone can eat that,’ mused a quiet voice.

  Startled, Ezra looked up and saw that they’d been joined at the other end of the table by his elder son. All Hector’s life he’d been giving his father these jolts, with his ability to transmigrate from one spot in the house to another without making a sound. Hector was gazing now out of the window.

  ‘Have you had your toast?’ Ezra asked.

  Hector turned his thin head slowly, though when his eyes came to rest on his father it seemed to Ezra to take his son a further few fractions of a second to focus. The boy carried with him his own time delay, his own faint blur, as if eleven years had not been long enough for Hector to quite get used to having a body. He looked back to the window before answering, softly, ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should?’

  ‘Not really, Daddy,’ Hector answered vaguely, his attention apparently focused on some spectacle outside. Then, as if a gaggle of maidens in school uniform were passing through their back garden and made t
he thought occur to him, Hector said, ‘It’s girls who need a big breakfast.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Ezra said, and yawned.

  ‘In performance tests,’ Hector murmured, ‘boys do best when they’re hungry.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘It’s true,’ Hector said, nodding as if to himself. ‘Girls do better when they’re fully fed. Porridge. Toast and honey.’

  ‘You need to eat, Hec.’

  Hector scratched his dry scalp through his thin brown hair. ‘Mood is also a factor.’

  ‘Hector.’

  ‘It says so in the paper. A new study. Go ahead, Daddy. Read it.’

  Hector slid the Independent across the table, towards the log jam of cereals.

  Ezra felt his teeth clench. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that. It’s my paper, for God’s sake.’ It looked as if the boy had taken the newspaper apart to make firelighters, then changed his mind and crumpled the pages more or less back together. ‘This was not in the contract,’ Ezra lamented.

  ‘Blaise reads it too, Daddy.’

  ‘She doesn’t mutilate a newspaper when she reads it,’ Ezra pointed out. ‘I mean, why do you have to destroy it?’

  Hector smiled. ‘You sound like Arthur Conan Doyle, Daddy. If someone else got to the freshly delivered copy of The Times before him, he’d refuse to read it and sulk just like you.’

  ‘I’m not sulking, my boy. I’m reprimanding you.’

  ‘Oaty Bites!’ Louie yelled.

  Ezra shook his head. As he poured Oaty Bites into Louie’s bowl, the cereal packet offered Ezra Pepin helpful wisdom. Try to avoid worry and anger. Thinking positively about life and anticipating good solutions can help your well-being.

  ‘By the way, it’s the first day of summer,’ Hector informed his father and brother.

  ‘Today?’

  Hector frowned. ‘Well, actually tomorrow,’ he said, ‘if you want to split hairs, Daddy.’

  Ezra followed his son’s gaze through glass towards the sheer, unconflicted blue sky. The day lay out there, hours of benevolent light upon this island, a day calling out for human participation. When Ezra looked back, Hector was gone from the table.