Эндрю Миллер - Oxygen

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘It’s nice for her feet,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Supper in fifteen minutes. Let’s get your shoes on, Mum.’

She had a pair of trainers, large white cushioned shoes with Velcro straps in place of laces. These had been Una’s suggestion, and though they looked cartoonish on the end of Alice’s skinny legs, they were gentle to her skin, and after the first time she wore them she no longer complained of their ugliness. The thought that they were in some way fashionable had even made her smile.

‘You want some gas?’ asked Kirsty. The bottle, industrial black, was at hand’s reach on the covers.

‘Just the inhaler, dear.’ Larry passed it to her, watched her spray it twice into her mouth; the inadequate in-breath followed by the inevitable, miserable coughing. He slid his arms beneath her shoulders and righted her. She stood, leaning her head against his chest, then they shuffled on to the landing.

‘I’ll go get Ella to wash her hands,’ said Kirsty.

Larry asked: ‘How do you want to do this?’

‘Slowly,’ said Alice. ‘Very slowly.’

The stairs were too narrow for them to descend side by side, so Larry went in front of her, and by keeping two steps below her she could hold on to his shoulders. Her arms were trembling, a feeble electricity that Larry felt through the whole length of his body. When they reached the dining room the others were standing by their chairs, waiting.

‘Here I am,’ she whispered.

Larry guided her to her chair at the head of the table. Alec had found the candles and set them in their silver stems, but the flames, paler than the light that came through the windows, barely showed.

It took another five minutes to get her settled, a cushion wedged behind her back, a linen napkin tucked into the collar of her dress. Sometimes, as she moved, she let out a low, involuntary moan.

‘Hey,’ said Kirsty, ‘don’t you think Alice’s hair looks great? I wish I had someone like Toni at home. Doesn’t her hair look great, Alec?’

‘Yes,’ said Alec. ‘Toni’s very good.’

‘Oh, he doesn’t know,’ said Alice. ‘Everything’s a mystery to him, poor soul…’

She looked at Alec, who had the place on her left. Larry, serving out the risotto, noted it: another of those exchanges he had seen three or four times during the last week, part of some on-going wordless discussion between them. Something he was outside of. He didn’t like it.

‘I hope you’re going to eat this, El.’ He put a spoonful of the sticky rice on to her plate, passed it to her and sat opposite. ‘Bon appétit, everyone! You see, Mum, I learned that much.’

‘Ella’s been learning some cute French songs at school,’ said Kirsty. ‘What’s the name of your teacher, honey? They start the kids real early.’

‘Is this a mushroom?’ asked Ella, holding up a grey comma on the tines of her fork.

‘Yes,’ said Larry. ‘A special kind of delicious mushroom. Try it.’

Ella scraped the mushroom on to the rim of her plate and started picking out the others.

‘Ella!’ He turned to Kirsty. ‘Make her eat something, will you.’

‘You mean force her?’

‘I mean she’s old enough not to play with her food like that.’

‘So she doesn’t like mushrooms. It’s not a major failure, Larry.’

‘Look at him,’ said Alice. She nodded to the photograph on the sideboard of Grandpa Wilcox in uniform. ‘Look at him watching us all.’

‘We’re going to the house, right?’ asked Kirsty.

The visit had been arranged the previous week. Larry had managed to contact the couple who lived there now, Rupert and Stephanie Gadd. When Larry had explained things they were understanding, Rupert Gadd promising to be ‘on stand-by’ the following Sunday. Apparently they were just back from Italy.

‘I remember Granny Wilcox showing me Grandpa’s medal,’ said Larry. ‘You remember it, Alec?’

‘The DSO.’

‘Is that like a Purple Heart or something?’

‘The Distinguished Service Order,’ said Alec.

‘Wow.’

‘Where is it now?’ asked Larry.

‘Arnhem,’ said Alice. She had put some rice on to her fork but hadn’t actually eaten anything. ‘Saved his sergeant. Saved him completely.’

‘I guess he was the real thing,’ said Kirsty.

Larry drew the cork on a bottle of Montepulciano. He was the only one drinking.

‘Go easy today,’ said Kirsty in a low voice.

Larry smiled at her. ‘Do you know what side your Grandfather was on? Old man Friebergs?’

‘Je-sus,’ said Kirsty, rolling her eyes.

‘Latvians fought with the Nazis,’ explained Larry.

‘They had more reason to hate Russians than Germans,’ said Alec.

‘How’s your guy?’ asked Kirsty.

‘Lázár? He might have shot a few Russians, I suppose.’

‘I think it was called the Condor legion,’ said Larry. ‘Is that right? Or the White Eagles. A kind of Latvian SS.’

Kirsty glared across the table. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. And my father fought in Korea, so don’t you dare say my family are some kind of Nazis.’

Ella, who had shown no interest in her risotto, asked if she could have a banana. Larry said no, but Kirsty took one from the fruit bowl and peeled it for her.

‘I hate this kind of talk,’ she said. ‘I don’t want Ella to even have to think about it.’

‘A great American tradition,’ said Larry. He pushed away his plate and reached for his glass, but the wine was too light. He needed a real drink. He needed to get out.

‘Granny’s crying,’ said Ella.

It was true. Head bowed over her uneaten supper, one sticky tear had made it to the end of Alice’s nose.

‘Hey, hey… what is it?’ Kirsty went to her and put her arm around her shoulders. She sounded close to tears herself. ‘Are you tired? Huh?’

Larry crouched on the other side of the chair. Alice was saying something but he couldn’t understand her.

‘You want to rest a little?’ asked Kirsty. ‘You want to go back upstairs?’

‘She’s just come down,’ said Larry.

‘For Chrissakes! If she wants to go back up. You want to go back up, Alice?’

Alice sniffed. ‘So sorry,’ she said. ‘What a mess.’

‘OK,’ said Larry, ‘we can do this another night.’ He took his mother’s arms, drawing her from the chair. Over her shoulder he hissed: ‘Where’s Alec?’

Kirsty looked round, shrugged. Ella, her mouth crammed with banana, pointed to the open door.

After this, the evening failed at its own pace. Ella was sat in front of the television set, as if, in any emergency, this was the natural thing to do with a child. Kirsty stayed upstairs with Alice, coming down half an hour later to make fruit tea for her. Alec, lurking in the kitchen, knew that he should go up and check the pillbox. It was his job – the only one of any consequence that he had – but to go into that room now and take the risk of catching Alice’s eye, of not being able to defend himself from what he saw there, of her seeing how utterly split he was between pity and disgust, this was too much. And really, what did it matter if she took her medication? Her fucking medication. It was rare for Alec to speak an obscenity, unusual for him even to think one, but he found himself alone with the supper dishes, muttering to the soapsuds like a derelict. Fucking Larry with his fucking wife. Their idiotic fucking behaviour. His own behaviour. His own fucking stupidity. His fucking cowardice.

‘Not the hugest success,’ said Larry, breezing in with a tray from the dining room.

‘Are you surprised?’ asked Alec. ‘When you go on like that?’ He didn’t look at Larry but he heard the sharp offended intake of air.