Anne Berry - The Hungry Ghosts

‘Mr Esmond,’ she said,‘I appreciate you imparting your concerns to me. But,’ she continued, her diction frighteningly perfect, ‘I’m afraid there is little I can do about it. Alice can be…intractable. She doesn’t listen to anyone. Certainly not to me.’ She fixed me with her unreadable brown eyes.

She left me nowhere to go after that. I recall muttering something about hoping that we could work together from now on. And her response? Mrs Safford bent, lifted her white handbag from the foot of the chair, and delved inside it. She fished out her sunglasses, opened them up and dangled them by one arm. Then she let the other arm rest momentarily on her flame-red lips, the gesture deliberately provocative, before putting them on. Her eyes now concealed, she pursed those lips lightly together, then gave me the kind of supercilious smile that makes a man wither away.

‘I understand your frustration, Mr Esmond. In fact, I empathise with it,’ she said, rising so that I rose too without thinking, and automatically put my hand into her outstretched one. ‘But thank you so much for alerting us to the problem and for giving up your valuable time. Naturally, I will do my best to impress the gravity of the situation upon Alice. And if you could keep us informed, I should be most grateful.’ And with that she bid me good afternoon.

I even remember the feel of her skin. It was very soft and cool. And her nails, they were long and sharp like a cat’s, one of them scratching my hand lightly as she withdrew hers.When she’d gone, I tried to get on with some marking, but my mind just kept skipping back to our meeting.

‘I’m afraid there is little I can do about it. Alice can be intractable. She doesn’t listen to anyone. Certainly not to me.’

Those words of hers played over and over in my mind. I’ve met enough parents now to expect the unexpected. But nothing could have prepared me for that.You see, what struck me so forcibly was that Mrs Safford had spoken about Alice as if she was not her child.

I am sorting through my box of newspaper cuttings, cards and the children’s scraps. There is a write-up about the play, The Crucible ,in the South China Morning Post . I’m holding it in my hands, letting my eyes run down the print, picking out the salient points. There is a photograph of Alice too. She is wearing a floor-length dark dress, long sleeves, a square white collar and a white cap.The colours stand out well in the black and white print. Her eyes are fixed upwards, stretched wide in terror at something they see. It is a good review. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? It’s Martin Bishop’s byline. Ralph’s been friends with Martin more or less since we arrived on the island. They’re drinking buddies too, so it stands to reason that he’d be extravagant with praise when it came to Alice.

‘‘‘Alice Safford’s performance as Abigail Williams was electric. She lit up the stage. She was every inch the part.”’ Hmm…

Actually, I thought she rather overdid it. You can do that you know, overact. They used to love it in Victorian melodramas. Hiss the villain. Great fun. All that screaming and hysteria. I might just as well have stayed at home. At least here it’s free.

I screw up the review and bin it. I can’t hang on to these things forever. I have other children you know. If I kept all these bits of paper I’d have a roomful by now. I glance down at the next snap. It is of Ralph being presented with his OBE at Government House this spring. What a day that was! I beam. He looks splendid, better than Sir David Trench I think. I’ve always thought Ralph would make rather a good Governor. I don’t think I’ll hang on to the one of him and Alice gazing down at the medal. No point really when there are so many others.

Since the play Alice has been worse than ever. Fancy that silly Mr Esmond trying to tell me what Alice has been getting up to. As if I didn’t know.I live with her.Alice’s bad behaviour is part of our daily routine in our flat on The Peak, I’m afraid. Doesn’t he realise that if I could have waved a magic wand and put her right, I would have done it years ago. She’s unmanageable. And he’s out of his depth, though he probably doesn’t realise it. Of course he is. Most people are with Alice. Why Ralph can’t accept there’s a problem I do not know. He’s blind to it, and nothing I do or say or even show him makes any difference. Of course I told him about Alice’s latest debacle, about being summoned to the school, about her playing truant. His rejoinder—she was going through a rough patch. Well, if she is, it has lasted fourteen years.

In any case it’s not just Alice’s scenes I’m concerned about now. She’s infected my son, she’s infected Harry with her spleen. He used to be such a nice boy, so good-natured and malleable. I need a drink. I know it’s early, that the children aren’t even home from school yet, but I need to speak to Ralph tonight. I can’t put it off any longer. One drink won’t do any harm. I’ll fetch it myself. I won’t ask one of the amahs to pour it for me. They’re so mean with the measures. I wish this damn bar door wouldn’t make such a loud noise each time you slide it open. It doesn’t seem to matter how careful I am.

‘It’s all right, Ah Lee. I’m fine thank you. Mrs Safford fine, okay? I don’t need any help. Not just now.You carry on with the ironing.’

Snooping about. She might spend half her life giggling, but I’ve noted those sharp, calculating eyes of hers. I know how these servants gossip.That’s the trouble with having servants. No privacy. Nowhere is sacred. Damn. No ice. I just can’t face going into the kitchen to get some. How many times have I told her to keep the bucket topped up each day? I’ll have another word. Ah! That’s better. Never mind about the ice. I’ll take it into the bedroom. Shut the door. Give myself space to plan what I’m going to say to my husband. In here the sun has been beating down on the bed for most of the day.The purple satin quilt cover is baking hot. I’ve kicked off my shoes and I’m sprawling out, letting my bare feet slide. The glossy fabric is so slippery. Its touch burns.And the whisky—that burns too.The wound has been cauterised, the flow stemmed. Now I can cope.

Alice has rubbed off on Harry. He is following her bad example, mirroring it. And he’s grown, well…fat. Harry has become fat.

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