Tessa Hadley - The Past

He was touched that Harriet seemed genuinely to like his wife — though he had made up his mind that it didn’t matter if his sisters didn’t like her. Pilar didn’t have the slippery ambiguity which was Alice’s specialty. Latin women, he thought, were encouraged to develop more conventionally than English ones — consequently their personalities had firmer and more resilient outlines and they appeared more certain of what they wanted. Of course, his sisters were odd partly because of the oddity of what had happened to them in their teens, when their mother died and they had all managed on their own in the house. Harriet had been in charge when she was only seventeen.

After tea they strolled along the path beside the river. Pilar kicked off her sandals and waded in from a little pebbled strand, squealing and gasping at the cold, trousers rolled up to her knees, sunglasses pushed up onto her hair. — It’s nice, she said. — Come on in! Harriet hesitated on the brink, then joined her. When Pilar staggered in the force of the current, which was strong even though the water hardly came halfway up their calves, she had to grab hold of Harriet’s arm and hang onto her, laughing; Harriet stood steadily, braced to support her. In the rushing noise of the river, they were cut off from Roland. — My life in Argentina is full of complications right now, Pilar said swiftly to Harriet. — Things are going on with my family, horrible things. I’m happy to be far away from it all.

— Have you talked to Roland about it?

— It’s so ugly. He doesn’t need to know. He’s got more important things to think about. Please, don’t say anything to him.

Harriet was stirred by this unexpected confession. In her work with refugees her sympathetic responsiveness was strained continually to the point of pain, and she was ashamed when she thought how she’d come through her own life more or less unscathed. Her own sufferings she counted as nothing. She reassured Pilar: no, of course she wouldn’t say anything. Gruffly, not wanting to seem greedy for more, she added that if ever Pilar wanted to talk, she’d be pleased to listen. Under the surface of this decency, though, she was dazzled by Pilar’s choosing her to confide in; a breath of drama rose from the fast-flowing water swirling past them.

Watching from the bank, Roland thought he could imagine what Pilar had been like as a domineering, flirting teenager, with a gang of girlfriends. He took a photograph of the two women embracing in the changeable light reflected up from the river. He wouldn’t go in himself, he hated putting his feet in cold water and didn’t mind presenting a comical target, the Englishman in his linen summer suit, socks and shoes, flinching and smiling benignly on the bank while they flicked water at him.

Kasim sat cross-legged in the garden, smoking and watching Molly in the distance. Ivy and Arthur were nearby, also cross-legged and watching Molly. Silhouetted, slender, far off against the sky, perched on the gate at the top of the field, she was lost to them, intent upon her conversations, rocking forwards around her phone or throwing her head back in laughter, her body twisting in delighted appreciation. She was frustrated occasionally if her signal failed. They could just about hear her voice, but not her words. The thin trail of her laughter was somehow entrancing and soporific, creating a rapt silence around the three of them who were shut out: she was as mysterious as if she was talking to herself, hallucinating. In the garden the afternoon was still and hot. Arthur was sorting out the contents of his money box, which Kasim had showed him how to open, though Ivy had protested that he wasn’t supposed to open it.

— It’s mine, anyway, said Arthur, frowning over his calculations, tucking his long hair out of the way behind his ears. Apparently he was adept with the plastic pennies in the play-shop at school.

— But he’s not supposed to have it yet. It’s for later when he needs things.

— I need them now.

Ivy, knowing he was only counting to seven then starting over again, had kicked at her brother with the point of her shoe, whose patent shine was scuffed almost to greyness. She was dressed in an old cream nylon petticoat with a lace hem, full-length on her; Alice had found it in a cupboard and tied one of her scarves around the bodice, flattening the stiff breast-shapes. For a while Ivy had walked around with a gliding motion, gazing far away, imagining being watched; the silky fabric against her bare legs had made her feel ethereal. Now the petticoat was stained green from where she had been rolling on the grass, and her jack-knifed knees were sharp points straining its fabric.

They felt as if Molly condescended, returning to their world, when she made her way at last down the field towards them: her contact with what was beyond had left its traces in her expression, skeins of amusement and connection that did not connect her to them. She hummed to herself, some tune they didn’t recognise. Dropping to sit beside them on the grass, in her shorts and red bikini top she was all long limbs, awkwardly graceful; her arms and legs were dusted with fine gold hairs, glinting in the sunlight.

— You’re addicted to that phone, Kasim accused her disdainfully.

Cheerfully Molly confessed it.

— Doesn’t it worry you that you’re being fobbed off with second-hand substitutes for actually living? You might be missing out on something. Like reality.

— You’re addicted to horrible cigarettes. At least my addiction won’t kill me.

Hollowly he laughed. — That’s what you think. Wait until they prove the links between phones and brain cancer.

Molly, set-faced, was learning how to negotiate with his intransigence. — What links? If there were any, they’d have told us by now. Everyone uses phones.

Kasim marvelled at her. — I’ve never met anyone so trusting before. They? Who d’you think they are? Your kindly uncle? And as it happens I could give up smoking tomorrow.

— I bet you couldn’t.

— Only I can’t be bothered.

— Like I said, you’re addicted.

Superbly, hardly stirring from where he lounged back on his elbows, Kasim picked up the half-full packet of his cigarettes and lobbed it into the stream. It scarcely splashed, bobbed vaguely in a circle, then washed up against a stone where it suddenly just looked like litter, polluting the scene. Looking up from his money, with a small smile to himself, Arthur admired the largesse of the gesture. Ivy, shrieking, jumped up and wanted to wade in and rescue the precious packet, but Kasim held her back by the stretchy skirt of her petticoat.

— I’d have given that fag a bit more thought, he said regretfully, if I’d known it was the last one I’d ever smoke.

— I don’t believe you, Molly said, impressed despite herself. — I’ll bet you buy more, next time you’re in town.

He scowled at her, all his handsomeness in play. — In my country, he said, — a man’s promise is a point of honour. I’d rather die than break my word.

— All right, she said. — That’s good then.

— It really does give you cancer, Ivy assured him earnestly. — So this is a good thing.

Then in one fluid movement Kasim sprang to his feet. — And now, Miss Molly, I think you ought to give up your phone, if I’ve given up smoking. My tit for your tat, so to speak.

Before Molly even understood what he was saying, he had snatched her iPhone up from where she had put it down on the grass. Holding it high, he teased her, dancing backwards when she came after him, protesting, across the garden. The children stood up too, thrilling to the anarchy in the others’ excitement; Kasim threw the phone to Arthur, calling his name sharply. Exceptionally, Arthur succeeded in catching it, snatching it with both hands to his chest.