Family Album (39 page)
Authors: Penelope Lively
Tags: #Literary, #Psychological, #General, #Family Life, #Fiction
Ingrid acquired a computer a few years ago, having explained e-mail to Alison, who at once saw its potential: this was the way to keep track of everyone. Ingrid has to be the conduit; Alison’s desultory attempt to acquire IT skills rapidly foundered, Charles took one look and turned away. The computer sits in the television room, thus converting this into the Allersmead twenty-first-century heartland. Ingrid checks the e-mails daily, and sends those drafted by Alison. No one is out of reach now; Allersmead tentacles embrace the globe. Furthermore, Ingrid has set up the Allersmead Cookery Courses website, which has brought in more customers than Alison can cope with. The waiting list is gratifyingly long, and those who at last rise to the top of it are all the more anxious to profit from this sought-after experience. Ingrid says that Alison should put the price up.
Back when the children were still there Alison somehow never envisaged a time when they would not be. Oh, she knew it would come—but she never considered the implications, tried out the idea of an emptied house, listened for silence. They went gradually, of course, so silence came gradually, and there were returns, and now there is Paul again so the silence is tempered, and ever was. She has got used to it. You can get used to much—she has known that for a long while.
She is rather pleased at the way in which Allersmead has been reinvented, become useful in a different way—Ingrid’s produce, the cookery classes. Once, it spawned children; now, it is differently creative. But it is still a shrine to the thing that matters—homemaking. Alison regrets that her views on this were rather stonily received by the Mothercraft group; she would have liked to develop the theme by telling them—in the most abstract way, of course—how you can overcome those inevitable glitches in family life, by way of determination and common sense. But they were only interested in things like nappy rash and projectile vomiting. She will definitely pull the plug on Mothercraft, but plans a new course on confectionery, jam-making, and preserves.
The house does indeed have empty rooms these days. The drawing room is seldom used; the television room is altogether more convenient. Ingrid has turned one of the attic rooms into a dedicated space for her sewing machine. Below, there are empty bedrooms, though Paul is where he ever was, and Charles long ago moved into Roger’s old room. That four-poster matrimonial bed has come to seem something of a mockery. After Clare’s arrival, Alison became rather resistant to sex; there had better not be any more children, on the whole.
And I always disliked the idea of the pill, so best to play safe. Charles often used to go off into the spare room anyway, when he wanted to read and I wanted the light off, so it didn’t make much difference.
They always startle me now when they come back—I’ve forgotten what they’ll be like and there’s this
adult
. Gina with a different man, and of course Charles had to have an argument with him but I suppose he doesn’t much get the chance these days. One didn’t like to ask what had happened with that David—Gina never did go in for confidences. Roger’s wife is perfectly sweet, of course—I’ve tried her waffle recipe and she’s going to e-mail me more things she does. One gets absolutely used to that Chinese look, though it seemed odd at first, you didn’t expect her to speak English like that, with a Canadian accent. Katie we haven’t seen for ages, but she says maybe next year they’ll get over. Clare seemed very kind of
foreign
last time she came, I almost thought she’d start talking French or something. And of course Sandra is so elegant, but then she always was, even in school uniform—and the
presents
she brings, lovely food and silk scarves I can’t wear, but Ingrid sometimes does.
adult
. Gina with a different man, and of course Charles had to have an argument with him but I suppose he doesn’t much get the chance these days. One didn’t like to ask what had happened with that David—Gina never did go in for confidences. Roger’s wife is perfectly sweet, of course—I’ve tried her waffle recipe and she’s going to e-mail me more things she does. One gets absolutely used to that Chinese look, though it seemed odd at first, you didn’t expect her to speak English like that, with a Canadian accent. Katie we haven’t seen for ages, but she says maybe next year they’ll get over. Clare seemed very kind of
foreign
last time she came, I almost thought she’d start talking French or something. And of course Sandra is so elegant, but then she always was, even in school uniform—and the
presents
she brings, lovely food and silk scarves I can’t wear, but Ingrid sometimes does.
Charles is difficult these days, but then he never was an easy man, you walked on eggshells half the time. It’s a different kind of difficult now, not so much irritable and shutting himself off—he’s more edgy, jumpy, he can’t stand it when the dog barks, and he seems so
elderly
sometimes. He’s taken to stopping halfway up the stairs, sitting on the windowseat, and he’s got this habit of putting his hand on his chest. There’s nothing wrong, of course—Charles has always had excellent health, it’s just some mood he’s in. Plus, he’s drinking again in his study, which he hasn’t done for years.
elderly
sometimes. He’s taken to stopping halfway up the stairs, sitting on the windowseat, and he’s got this habit of putting his hand on his chest. There’s nothing wrong, of course—Charles has always had excellent health, it’s just some mood he’s in. Plus, he’s drinking again in his study, which he hasn’t done for years.
VOICES
C
harles is writing. He doesn’t feel too bad today—so thoughts come, words. He is having a mild attack of concurrence, as his glance roams along the books on his shelves and falls upon names: Carlyle, Freud, Browne, Shelley, Stendhal, Malinowski . . . all these disparate dead people who rub shoulders with one another and are present still because he notices them. Everything—everybody—carrying on concurrently. This notion has always interested him. Long ago he thought it might be the subject of his magnum opus, but he has never been able to get a sufficient grip on it, to garner enough material, so the magnum opus has never come about, in that or any other form.
harles is writing. He doesn’t feel too bad today—so thoughts come, words. He is having a mild attack of concurrence, as his glance roams along the books on his shelves and falls upon names: Carlyle, Freud, Browne, Shelley, Stendhal, Malinowski . . . all these disparate dead people who rub shoulders with one another and are present still because he notices them. Everything—everybody—carrying on concurrently. This notion has always interested him. Long ago he thought it might be the subject of his magnum opus, but he has never been able to get a sufficient grip on it, to garner enough material, so the magnum opus has never come about, in that or any other form.
He doubts that it ever will. In fact, he knows it won’t. But there is no reason not to get down a few thoughts, on one of the better days when these still occur.
Accordingly he writes.
“Thomas Carlyle died in (check date); (check sp. first name) Malinowski died in (check date). These men lived far apart, at different times, their intellectual concerns were in no way related, but their posthumous existence is concurrent—they are a part of the furnishings of my mind. Looking out of my window I can see a tree that I know to be an ilex (check botanical name), a tree of Mediterranean origin mentioned by Virgil (check reference), who also now joins this disembodied throng in a room in an English house in 2008. But the house is not of 2008—its bricks and mortar, its stained glass, the marble floor of its hall, date from the 1890s, thus introducing a further element of displacement, of concurrence.”
Charles stops writing, distracted; there is a more immediate concern.
E-mail—Gina to Roger
Coronary. Apparently he must have had a heart problem for some time, but never saw anyone about it. Well—sudden is the best way to go, I suppose. I went down this morning. Mum a bit off the rails, Ingrid and Paul coping. Funeral on Tuesday. Look, I know it’s not easy for you to get away—we’ll understand entirely.
E-mail—Sandra to Gina
Of course I’m coming.
E-mail—Clare to Gina
Performance that evening but a dep will go on—which is only for life or death circs but I’ve said this is, isn’t it? xxx
E-mail—Katie to Gina
Arrive Heathrow Monday evening. With you Tuesday a.m. I think we should all do
individual
flowers. Can you get me white lilies? xxx
individual
flowers. Can you get me white lilies? xxx
E-mail—Roger to Gina
Sorted. See you.
E-mail—Sandra to Gina
Thanks for offer but don’t care for anemone idea. I’ll organize in London and bring my own.
E-mail—Clare to Gina
White roses fine. Masses, please.
E-mail—Roger to Gina
Sorry don’t know what ranunculus is but sounds good. Thanks.
E-mail—Corinna to Gina
Unfortunately Martin has a Senate meeting so impossible—sends apologies. I am canceling seminars and a lecture and shall come. I’ll be driving and need directions to crematorium, please. Is it flowers or charity donations? If latter, which?
E-mail—Gina to Sandra, Katie, Roger, Clare
Right—here’s the agenda.
Congregation/audience (??) takes up seats. Cellist friend of mine will provide music.
Paul reads Matthew Arnold’s
Dover Beach
. (This is because he doesn’t want to do what I shall have to do.)
Dover Beach
. (This is because he doesn’t want to do what I shall have to do.)
Gina gives short address about Dad and his life (and no, I don’t know what I’m going to say).
Cellist plays.
Sandra reads from Sir Thomas Browne’s
Urne-Burial
(yes, I realize you haven’t got a copy to hand—I’m e-mailing you the relevant text).
Urne-Burial
(yes, I realize you haven’t got a copy to hand—I’m e-mailing you the relevant text).
More cello.
Katie reads poem of her own choice (I know it’s short notice but you’re the only one of us who read Eng. lit. at uni, so come on).
More cello.
Roger reads from Nabokov’s
Speak, Memory
(this was on Dad’s desk that day so he must have been reading/thinking about it. Don’t panic, Rog—e-mail text follows).
Speak, Memory
(this was on Dad’s desk that day so he must have been reading/thinking about it. Don’t panic, Rog—e-mail text follows).
Possibly cello, or not. At some point there is pause while coffin disappears—don’t know exactly when yet, there will be sheets giving order of proceedings for everyone on the day.
Clare reads from Tolstoy’s
Childhood, Boyhood, Youth
—also in book pile on Dad’s desk (yes, yes—text follows. I hope you all realize I shall be typing texts till the small hours tonight).
Childhood, Boyhood, Youth
—also in book pile on Dad’s desk (yes, yes—text follows. I hope you all realize I shall be typing texts till the small hours tonight).
Anyone objecting must kindly come up with alternative viable suggestions.
Paul says: She’s insisting. Three-course sit-down lunch, the works, all stops out, the Limoges china—Christ, the Limoges china! What he would have wanted, she says. As if. Yes, yes—I know she said buffet would be fine, just some sandwiches, now she says she never did or if she did it was because she didn’t know what she was saying. What? I know, I know, I’ve said all that. Gina,
you
talk to her.
you
talk to her.
Corinna thinks: It
would
have to be one of my Swinburne lecture days. Trust Charles. Oh, don’t be so snide, the poor man didn’t plan it. All the same, it is sort of typical. God, one’s brother—
dead
. He’s always been there. I mean, not that we were that close, but . . . Does one wear black? No, not nowadays. Flowers, not a wreath, that’s naff. Peonies maybe—no, too pink. Chrysanthemums are boring. The French go for purple pansies. I suppose all the children will come. I’d better go to the house after, Alison would never forgive otherwise. Will she stay in that vast house? What about Ingrid? That weird setup. What
does
one wear? The dark green suit, maybe, with a pale shirt. Gladioli perhaps—except they’re so stiff. I still can’t quite believe it. Charles—just not there anymore.
would
have to be one of my Swinburne lecture days. Trust Charles. Oh, don’t be so snide, the poor man didn’t plan it. All the same, it is sort of typical. God, one’s brother—
dead
. He’s always been there. I mean, not that we were that close, but . . . Does one wear black? No, not nowadays. Flowers, not a wreath, that’s naff. Peonies maybe—no, too pink. Chrysanthemums are boring. The French go for purple pansies. I suppose all the children will come. I’d better go to the house after, Alison would never forgive otherwise. Will she stay in that vast house? What about Ingrid? That weird setup. What
does
one wear? The dark green suit, maybe, with a pale shirt. Gladioli perhaps—except they’re so stiff. I still can’t quite believe it. Charles—just not there anymore.
Gina says: It’s all right, I’ve talked her out of it. I think. Fingers crossed. Compromise. It’ll be sandwiches and other stuff and a dessert but not around the table. Ambulant—people sit anywhere—kitchen, sitting room. That avoids any holding forth to everyone, which otherwise . . . She’s fairly hyper, isn’t she? I know—and you’re being great. Brownie points to last for years. Just keep it up a bit longer, OK? I’ll be with you Monday evening. Oh, and ask Ingrid could she please make up a bed for me.
E-mail—Katie to Roger
Hope you got your flight all right. I did—but a scamper. Whew! What a day. But it wasn’t
too
bad, was it? I felt all weepy at the crematorium, and Mum was bright pink, like when she was about to erupt—remember? Oh, isn’t it all a bit unreal—no Dad. Damn, I’m weepy again. And when I was looking at us all after it was over, standing around there, I thought—how has this happened, these
grown-ups
? Gina someone I hardly recognize, and Clare so thin and blond and dancerish, and I don’t think I’ve ever realized before that Sandra’s beautiful. And you and Paul—men, huge great men. But this bunch of
adults
. . . Sort of all right, wasn’t it, back at the house?
too
bad, was it? I felt all weepy at the crematorium, and Mum was bright pink, like when she was about to erupt—remember? Oh, isn’t it all a bit unreal—no Dad. Damn, I’m weepy again. And when I was looking at us all after it was over, standing around there, I thought—how has this happened, these
grown-ups
? Gina someone I hardly recognize, and Clare so thin and blond and dancerish, and I don’t think I’ve ever realized before that Sandra’s beautiful. And you and Paul—men, huge great men. But this bunch of
adults
. . . Sort of all right, wasn’t it, back at the house?
You were brilliant with Corinna—goodness, she’s
old,
I couldn’t get over that either, gray hair and that hunched look. And she seemed defused somehow—I wasn’t much scared of her. The cake moment was a bit dire—Mum suddenly producing it with a flourish, and the one candle. What
was
she thinking of? Always a cake, she said, for an occasion. For an awful moment I thought she was going to want us to sing. Remembering all those birthdays, dozens and dozens of them, and this wasn’t. And Ingrid saying perhaps the last time everyone is here like this—she could always rather put her foot in it, Ingrid. Goodness, a married Gina, who’d have thought it. And oh, Rog, I kept expecting Dad to walk in, wearing his Christmas face—that let’s-just-get-through-this-somehow face. Damn—weepy again—I’m not used to it yet. Where
is
he? Where’s he
gone
? But you’re used to people dying, you’re up against it all the time. I haven’t met it much, and it’s rather thrown me. Feel I must get over there more, see more of Mum. She was awfully wound up, wasn’t she? Fizzing. And then at other moments completely vague, out of it—like when Gina tried to talk to her about money, was everything OK, was there enough. Didn’t want to know, changed the subject. Ingrid was pretty good, wasn’t she, apart from the trademark heavy foot—she’s obviously keeping things going while Mum’s a bit astray. But them on their own together now . . . Sorry, I’m nattering on, just wanted to check in, now it’s all over. Love to Susan.
old,
I couldn’t get over that either, gray hair and that hunched look. And she seemed defused somehow—I wasn’t much scared of her. The cake moment was a bit dire—Mum suddenly producing it with a flourish, and the one candle. What
was
she thinking of? Always a cake, she said, for an occasion. For an awful moment I thought she was going to want us to sing. Remembering all those birthdays, dozens and dozens of them, and this wasn’t. And Ingrid saying perhaps the last time everyone is here like this—she could always rather put her foot in it, Ingrid. Goodness, a married Gina, who’d have thought it. And oh, Rog, I kept expecting Dad to walk in, wearing his Christmas face—that let’s-just-get-through-this-somehow face. Damn—weepy again—I’m not used to it yet. Where
is
he? Where’s he
gone
? But you’re used to people dying, you’re up against it all the time. I haven’t met it much, and it’s rather thrown me. Feel I must get over there more, see more of Mum. She was awfully wound up, wasn’t she? Fizzing. And then at other moments completely vague, out of it—like when Gina tried to talk to her about money, was everything OK, was there enough. Didn’t want to know, changed the subject. Ingrid was pretty good, wasn’t she, apart from the trademark heavy foot—she’s obviously keeping things going while Mum’s a bit astray. But them on their own together now . . . Sorry, I’m nattering on, just wanted to check in, now it’s all over. Love to Susan.
Paul says: Yeah—she’s a lot calmer, back to normal, really. But listen—I got the job. Yeah—Wisley. The Royal Horticultural Society, no less. General duties in the gardens. What a turn-up for the books! They must be really pushed for labor. No—don’t be daft, of course I sent them a proper CV, sober as you like. Live? Oh, I’ll find somewhere to doss down, I always have, haven’t I? So I’m off next week. Maybe this is the breakthrough. Paul Harper, horticulturalist.
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