Family Album (31 page)

“Mum,” says Clare, lifting an elegant eyebrow. Smiling. “I know. But what else would I say?”

Gina is taken aback. That of which we do not speak. She is silenced, for a moment. Then: “Should we all have sat down and talked about it, years ago? Sat
them
down—made them confront it?”

Clare shakes her head. “No. Muddle was better, to my mind.”

“You must have felt . . .” Gina trails into further silence. She has not much idea how Clare must have felt, she realizes.

“Muddled? Oh yes, indeed. I remember asking you if our father was my father. After a carol service. You assured me that he was.”

“Did I? I remember . . . sort of realizing . . . way back. Then putting it aside, not knowing where else to put it.”

“Exactly,” says Clare. “As we all did. Them too. All three of them.”

“Ah, them. And there they still are. What’s left of the family. Ironic, or what?”

They stare at each other. “Whew!” says Gina. “We should have done this before. But you . . . are you
all right
?”

Clare smiles. “I’m probably more all right than one would expect.”

“And . . . Ingrid? Do you . . . ?”

“No. Never. She doesn’t do emotion. You may have noticed.”

Gina nods. And then, before more can be said, the waiter arrives, there is discussion of who wants coffee, and what kind, Clare remembers that she is meeting Pierre in half an hour, she starts to talk about her company’s new production, they are off on another tack.

“This new dance sounds intriguing,” says Gina. “A geometrical theme . . . And what are you? Definitely not a square.”

“I have been reading one of your father’s books,” says Philip.

“They’re out of print, I’d have thought.”

“What is the Internet for? Three-fifty, slightly scuffed, minus the wrapper.”

“Which one?”

“The study of youth. Adolescent rites in Namibia, and all that. I can see that you would have been horrified, peeking at his typescript that time.”

“I wonder why my father intrigues you so?”

“Probably because he’s so unlike mine.”

Philip’s father is a retired accountant, a man whose inoffensive days are marked out by dog walking and the crossword. He and his wife do the washing-up together in a silence so companionable that speech would seem superfluous. Gina has been struck by this; it was silence of a special quality.

“Do you feel that you know your parents?” she says.

“Of course not. I assume you ask this because you are thinking of your own?”

“I suppose so.”

“People from different planets. My parents would be astonished by yours.”

“Aghast, I should think.”

“Oh, come on,” says Philip. “They can be seen as a trifle eccentric perhaps. Hardly outrageous.”

“I believe they’ve given me a distorted view of marriage.”

“Ah,” he says.

On the flight to Johannesburg Gina works. She goes through the briefing papers that she has been given; she discusses a schedule with the camera crew. They are doing a series of reports on the incidence of AIDS in the townships. When she has finished all that she needs to do, she settles down to sleep, but, unusually, sleep does not come. Gina is adept at snatching a kip whenever and wherever, so what is the problem?

Somewhere, subliminally, Philip is the problem, but she is not allowing herself to think about this. Why has he been so quiet, this last day or two? Distracted, in some way, offhand, almost. Is he . . . ? Are they . . . ? No, no.

So she is not thinking about Philip, she mustn’t. It is association that is the problem; she can’t sleep because while flicking through the duty-free magazine her eye fell upon a perfume advertisement—a full-page, free-floating bottle of Miss Dior—and at once she is at Allersmead, that Christmas. Which is of course absurd—the juxtaposition of Allersmead and a bottle of perfume. But there you go—that’s how memory works.

Alison unwraps the bottle and stares at it. “Oh, goodness,” she cries. “
Scent
. But I never really . . . How lovely—scent. Who . . . ? Where’s the label? Oh, it’s you, Sandra. But I don’t know, dear, really, that I’d ever ...”

“If you don’t want it,” says Sandra, “I’ll take it back and change it for a five-year supply of washing-up liquid.”

“Can I smell?” says Clare. “Ooh—
gorgeous
. I’ll have it.”

The Allersmead sitting room is awash with people, with crumpled wrapping paper, with each person’s stash of unopened presents. The Christmas tree presides over the depleted pile of parcels; it drips tinsel, its branches glint with balls and bells, the angel leans from the top, as she has done for years and years. The dog has keeled over in front of the fire, its fur all but scorching. The family is complete. Fission has taken place, all are gone, even Clare, now at dance school, but the departures are not finalized; everyone still comes back for Christmas. Through the open door, from across the hall, comes a blast of roasting turkey.

Gina eyes the bottle of Miss Dior, which Alison is now gingerly sniffing. A loaded present, suggesting what Mum might be instead of what Mum is. But then many presents are loaded, are they not? Alison has given Charles a Black & Decker drill (“I just thought, you never know, he might find it
fun
to put up shelves or something”); Charles has given Alison a nineteenth-century edition of Mrs. Beeton, at which Alison has gazed in bewilderment: “Oh, old-fashioned cooking, isn’t that interesting?”

This is the only present that Charles has acquired and wrapped for himself. The rest of his giving is subsumed into Alison’s—a swathe of gifts chosen by her: “Happy Christmas from Mum and Dad.” And “. . . from Alison and Charles”: a Shetland sweater for Ingrid.

The Shetland sweater does not seem particularly loaded. Ingrid puts it on immediately.

“Lovely,” says Alison. “The color’s just right for you—I thought it would be. I havered a bit—there was a green as well, but no, the blue is right. Roger dear, if those socks are too small . . . I still can’t believe you’re
man
size. Gina, have you opened yours yet?”

Gina’s present is a tea set: pretty pink patterned china, cups and saucers, teapot, milk jug. “I thought, for your flat. I know you’re sharing with another girl so keep it for yourself, it can be the beginning of your bottom drawer.” A merry laugh.

I see, thinks Gina. My trousseau, which people no longer have—Mum is a trifle out of touch. Definitely a loaded present; one that says, settle down and get married, attend to the essentials.

Sandra has a fluffy white angora cardigan. “I couldn’t resist it.” Alison beams. “It’s the sort of thing I longed for at your age, but no such luck.” Sandra and Gina exchange glances, momentarily at one.

The sheepskin slippers allocated to Katie and Clare seem unexceptional, but Paul stares in perplexity at his tennis racket. “You were really rather good when you were at school, dear, and I thought—he should take it up again, join a local club or something, so good for you and you’d meet nice people.”

Paul is not much heard from these days. There is concern and complaint from Allersmead, from Alison.

“Thanks,” says Paul. “That’s great. Thanks.” He gets up and tries a forehand drive.

Alison glows. “I knew you’d like it. And you know you could always come home at weekends and go to the country club—we’d pay for membership, wouldn’t we?” She turns to Charles.

Charles inclines his head. “I’m sure Paul would be an asset to the country club. Just the kind of member they’re after.”

Paul studies his father. “That wouldn’t be sarcasm, would it, Dad?”

Some rogue element has tiptoed into the room, bringing silence. Alison laughs: “Don’t be silly, dear. Dad’s just joking.”

“He does not make jokes,” says Ingrid. “Not so much.” Everyone looks at her. She rises: “Shall I bring coffee?”

Alison’s voice is a notch higher, always a bad sign. “Yes, please do, dear. And could you have a look at the turkey? I must take it out soon.” She reaches for a parcel. “Now who’s this from? Oh—Corinna and Martin. I sent them a nice little garlic press. I thought Corinna would find it handy. Roger and Katie, I don’t know why that’s so funny.”

“Sorry, Mum,” says Katie. “It’s just the thought of . . .”

“Corinna savaging garlic cloves,” says Roger. “Pull yourself together, Katie.”

Gina dives into the pile of parcels. “Here’s yours from me, Dad.”

Charles unwraps an ivory-handled Victorian paper knife. “Ah. To stab my enemies with, is that?”

“It’s for opening letters,” says Gina.

“As he well knows. I believe that really was a joke,” says Paul.

“
Stop
it!” cries Alison. “Paul, go and help Ingrid with the coffee. She can’t carry everything.”

Gina watches Alison. She knows the signs. Alison is revved up, primed. Christmas is the very peak of family life, after all, the signature day, the moment of ultimate cohesion; it is Alison’s greatest challenge—the food, the decor, the presents, the ceremonies. Fridge and freezer are stuffed; the house is rampant with holly and ivy; they sang carols last night, even though Paul hadn’t yet arrived, Sandra was busy washing her hair, and Charles had gone out, for some reason. Alison is at pitch point, tight-wound, this is the culmination of her year, of the family year, everyone is here, this should be her moment, instead of which she is on edge, at risk, volatile.

Ingrid and Paul return, and hand out mugs of coffee.

“Actually, I’d thought the good cups and saucers, for Christmas,” says Alison. “But never mind. Do you all remember that Christmas when Roger claimed he’d swallowed the sixpence from the pudding but of course he hadn’t really, wretched boy. And that time that Sandra fell off the stepladder, putting up paper chains, such a bruise on her leg. And when I forgot to take the bird out of the freezer and we had to thaw it in the bath. Oh, you know I can remember all the Christmases, right back to when everyone was small and some of you weren’t even here, back to when there was just Paul, just Dad and me.” She appeals to Charles. “Doesn’t that seem a funny time now?”

“Indeed,” says Charles. “An age of innocence. Prelapsarian. Eden, I suppose.”

Sandra looks up from a parcel she is opening. “So who’s the snake, Dad?”

“Me, presumably,” says Paul. “The shape of things to come.”

Clare laughs. “All of us. One snake after another. Maybe he never wanted children.” She has put the sheepskin slippers onto her narrow feet and inspects them with a tiny frown; perhaps they are not quite her.

“I think in the Bible there is only one snake,” says Ingrid. “Also Adam and Eve have just boys, no girls, I think.”

“Dead right, Ingrid,” says Paul. “And one bumps off the other—isn’t that right? So watch it, Roger.”

Alison bangs her coffee mug down on the table. “Stop being so silly, all of you. I don’t know what you’re all talking about but it’s just too stupid. And of course Dad wanted children, Clare, that’s a silly thing to say, everyone does, I mean, I suppose a few funny people don’t but it’s not something I can imagine, I always, ever since I can remember, and thank goodness . . . we’ve been so lucky and Dad feels that way too . . .”