Family Album (23 page)

“Good idea!” cried Alison.

They moved off into the town. From time to time Charles spoke about Thomas Hardy, or the Iron Age, but nobody paid any attention, except Stefan, who trailed dutifully alongside. He would be no stranger to museums, Roger reckoned; his family probably took in a museum before breakfast. Clare was still bleating about swimming pools. Paul brought up the rear, occasionally swigging lager.

In front of Thomas Hardy’s re-created study Charles fell silent; the desk, the pen, the papers evidently struck a chord. Probably he felt like getting in there, thought Roger. His natural habitat.

“I don’t believe I’ve read any of his books,” said Alison brightly.

Charles sighed. He told Stefan that Thomas Hardy was a novelist who had chronicled the lost way of life of rural England in the late nineteenth century.

“We did him for A level,” said Gina. “A girl who has a baby and gets hanged in the end, heavy going but it had its moments.”

Charles sighed again. “A neat synopsis, I suppose, but short on literary appreciation.” He turned away. “I suggest the archaeological section next, as briefing for Maiden Castle.”

In Iron Age Wessex, Sandra established herself on a bench and began a meticulous reapplication of makeup. Paul sought the reinforcement of the lager can. Clare’s plait had come undone and required some remedial work from Ingrid. The rest drifted from case to case. Roger stared at an array of gangrenous metal weapons and thought that archaeology was mainly about killing people, when you got down to it. Charles was telling Stefan about the Roman invasions.

Alison leaped to her feet. “It’s past twelve. Lunch, everybody! Picnic time!”

They straggled back to the car park, into the cars. “Now for the assault on Everest,” said Paul. He seemed more animated, for some reason. Charles, on the other hand, had become morose. He snapped at Paul to look out for the signs.

“Don’t worry,” said Paul. “You can
see
it.”

You could indeed. This great hill with grassy ramparts and a path snaking up from the car park. Roger eyed it with a flicker of interest; you could roll down those.

The cars were parked, the Volvo unpacked, and its contents distributed by Alison. “You carry this . . . Paul, take the chairs . . . Be
careful
of that, it’s got the bottles in it . . .” The party wound upwards along the path, everyone laden, like refugees in flight from some disaster, or a troop bearing votive offerings. “Keep those bottles the right way
up,
” called Alison. “Has someone got the big rug?” She veered off the path, gesturing: “Along here is best. I remember from when we came years ago. Away from other people and a lovely view.”

Her chosen spot, the ridge of one of the ramparts, turned out to command a fine view of a courting couple busy in the dip below, who broke off to glare indignantly. Katie said, “Mum, I think maybe we should go a bit further along.”

“It’s perfect here, dear. A nice flat bit, and no thistles. Paul, the chairs over there, and whoever’s got the rug
here
.”

A settlement was established, strewn with open baskets and boxes, a phalanx of bottles arranged on a folding table (wine for adults, soft drinks for the rest), an area designated for sitting. The courting couple got up and departed, with resentful glances. “How to spoil someone’s day . . .” murmured Katie.

Alison had excelled herself. There were quiches, sausages on sticks, salads, cold roast chicken, homemade strawberry ice cream, raspberry tarts. Roger perked up further. The group settled—some people sprawled on rugs, the three adults on chairs, and Sandra, who did not want to risk messing up her skirt. Alison distributed food: “Paper napkins over here, plus bowls and spoons for the ice cream. Charles, will you open the wine?”

Charles poured wine for Ingrid, Alison, and himself. He drank some immediately, which seemed to put him in better humor. He raised his glass: “Here’s to the birthday!”

Beakers of lemonade and Coke, and a can of lager, were raised. “Cheers, Mum,” said Sandra. Stefan said, “I wish you a happy birthday,” and then sank into mortified embarrassment.

Ingrid said, “So many birthdays. But perhaps not so many more.”

“Thanks, everyone!” Alison was complacent. “What
do
you mean, Ingrid dear? Oh—people growing up. But they’ll come
back,
won’t you all? Family traditions are sacred”—a merry laugh—“and anyway, that’s ages off. Roger, pass around the sausages and the chicken—I want it all eaten up. Do you have traditions in your family, Stefan? So important. I mean, everyone has Christmas and birthdays, but it’s making them special, isn’t it?”

“Personalized,” said Sandra.

“What, dear? The thing is, in this family I’ve always made sure we had our little ceremonies. When everyone was younger we had the treasure hunts at birthday parties, and we always have a special lunch when anyone has something particular to celebrate. Lots of GCSEs—that sort of thing.”

“Or few, in one case,” said Charles.

Paul hurled an empty lager can down the side of the rampart, with great force.

“Oh, Paul,
don’t
do that,” cried Alison. “
Litter
. Naughty boy. Go and pick it up later. Now, that salad wants finishing and there’s masses of quiche still. The thing about a tradition is that you have all these memories. There was the time we had the treasure hunt in Kew Gardens—Katie’s day, that was. Kew Gardens are famous—well, gardens, Stefan.”

“I remember,” says Katie. “Someone’s dog chased me.”

“But mostly of course at home—the treasure hunts. All over the house, if wet.”

“In the garden was best,” said Ingrid. “Except the time Gina . . . fell.”

Alison was halted. “Well, such a pity, but accidents will happen.”

“And really the scar does not much show,” Ingrid continued.

Gina closed her eyes for a moment, reopened them, and said, “Thanks, Ingrid. Thanks ever so.”

Sandra was lost in examination of her fingernails.

“Ah, such happy times,” said Paul.

Alison beamed at him. “Of course they were. Now
you
had the best birthday of all. The first. All to yourself.”

“Quite. It’s been downhill ever since.”

“I made you a little cake, with your name in blue icing. Talking of which . . .”

Alison got up, bent over an as yet unopened box, and produced, with a flourish, the birthday cake. “Chocolate walnut, with you in mind, Clare—I know you love it. Now, where’s the knife got to?”

“Happy birthday!” sang Paul. “Happy birthday, dear mother . . .”

They all sang. Stefan sang, looking around nervously. Roger sang, and as he did so he seemed to see the others with detachment—this group sitting on the side of a hill, singing: his parents and his brother and his sisters, those infinitely familiar people, who could not be otherwise, and yet, it occurred to him, they could, they had been, they would be once more. They had been younger (a smaller Clare floated suddenly into his head) and would be older. As would he. Grown-ups, eventually.

Except that that was impossible. Unimaginable. Out of the question.

Cake was eaten.

“Ceremonial feasting,” said Charles. “Plenty of that done up here in Celtic times.” He poured himself another glass of wine.

“What did people eat in those days?” asked Stefan, valiantly.

He was told, at some length. “. . . emmer wheat,” Roger heard, with half an ear. “. . . fermented barley . . .” He eyed the slope of the hill, and wondered about rolling down it. “That is most interesting,” Stefan was saying, and Roger felt a twinge of sympathy. It came to him with horror that in due course he would have to converse with Stefan’s father, only it would be all in German so he wouldn’t understand a word.

“Who did the cooking?” said Sandra, looking up suddenly. It had not been apparent that she was listening.

“The women, of course.” Charles smiled benignly. “It was a patriarchal society.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means—men rule, OK,” said Paul.

Ingrid, packing rubbish into one of the boxes, turned her head. “I think it is not so different now.”

“Wow, Ingrid!” said Sandra. “Go on.”

Ingrid shrugged. “Just . . . it is not so different now.” She was disconcertingly emphatic. People looked at her.

Gina weighed in. “Soon it will be. Next generation, gender discrimination will be a thing of the past. It’ll be the postfeminist age. Sexual egalitarianism.”

“I could do with a bit of women rule, first,” said Sandra.

Charles drank, inspected the wine bottle, and poured the last couple of inches into his glass. “Don’t they now?” A sardonic glance around.

Ingrid stood up. She spoke, apparently, to the sky. “I do not think so.”

“I don’t know
what
you’re all talking about,” said Alison. “Ingrid dear, make sure what’s left of the quiche gets wrapped up.”

“Dad does, don’t you, Dad?” Paul, sotto voce, to another lager can.

“I beg your pardon, Paul?” Charles, loudly.

“Nothing, nothing . . .”

“Women are doing rather well in contemporary Western society. One would be ill advised to tangle with them.” Charles chuckled; a private joke, it would seem.

Paul got up. “Who’s talking about contemporary Western society?” He glared at Charles, threw his lager can into an open box, and walked off along the rampart.

There was a silence. Alison stared for a moment at Charles and then became busy packing up. Charles gazed out over Dorset, impassive. Ingrid had sat down once more and was expressionless. Roger wanted to say something, to crash into this silence, but nothing came. He felt as though some dark and alien presence had crept into their midst. As though there were someone else there, whom he did not know.

It was time to go, Alison said. “But where
is
Paul? Tiresome boy—we’ll have to send out a search party.”

Charles was reading the paper. Sandra was stretched out on the rug in the sun. Ingrid sat a little apart. Katie was immersed in a book.

“I’ll go,” said Gina.

Roger leaped to his feet. “I’m coming too.”

They set off along the rampart, Stefan a few paces behind. “The thing is to start at the highest point,” said Gina. “Where we can see most. And work down.”

There were fewer people around now. They circled the hill once, to no avail. “Ho hum,” said Gina. “Easy to miss him, with all these lumps and bumps.” They tried calling. Their voices sank into the hillside, floated off into Dorset. “I feel silly,” said Gina. “ ‘Please, have you seen my brother?’ He’s not exactly a toddler.”

They found him in a hollow, flat on his face, empty lager cans beside him.

“Oh dear,” said Gina.

“He is asleep?” said Stefan helpfully.

“You could say that.” Gina bent down. “Hey! Come on—up!” Paul grunted. “Come on, Paul. On your feet.”

“Fuck off,” said Paul.

“No way. It’s home now, and just shut up, right?” Gina draped Paul’s arm around her neck. “OK—quick march.”

They stumbled along the hill. Stefan followed, wide-eyed. “I think your brother is perhaps . . .”

“Yes,” said Roger glumly. “He is.”

Little was said, back at the encampment. Charles gave Paul one look, folded his newspaper, and got to his feet. Alison too looked, for rather longer, and then said, briskly and artificially, “
There
you are. Let’s get off, then.”

In the car, Paul slept in the back and Roger discovered that he could read a map. It was a heady moment, akin to sudden fluent mastery of a foreign language. Charles said, “Pretty good, Roger. In fact, remarkably good.” Roger sailed into the evening on the riptide of this new skill, and failed to notice that Stefan had asked if he might please telephone his parents. Indeed, he barely took things in when it emerged that actually Stefan was going home tomorrow, and a few days later, following the receipt of a letter from Stefan’s parents, that he himself would not be completing the exchange. He was too busy thinking about how long he would have to save his pocket money before he could buy some Ordnance Survey maps.