Tessa Hadley - The Past

The four siblings and Pilar went out one evening, to eat at a pub in the next village. The Pattens — who had friends staying, down from London — had asked them over to dinner again, and they needed some excuse not to accept. Alice feared that Janice wanted to exhibit them as local colour. Anyway, Roland reminded them, it was time they had their meeting, to decide what to do about the house. Wasn’t that what they were down here for? Before they’d even set out, Alice said desolately that they had better let the old place go. — I suppose it’s all over, isn’t it?

— Wait, Alice, Fran said with real annoyance. — We have to have a discussion first, don’t leap to conclusions. We have to think about it logically, what would be best for all of us.

— But it’s obvious what you all want.

It should have been a melancholy occasion, but they couldn’t quite remember to be sad amongst all the complications of getting in around the table in its little nook, ordering food and drinks — strong drinks, Fran and Alice insisted, to brace them for decision-making. Harriet, squeezed in beside Pilar, surprised them all by asking for a glass of port, and then another one; under its influence they felt her vigilance relax, she told them funny stories about her colleagues at work. Looking from Alice to Harriet, Pilar announced that they were very much alike. — Aren’t we? Alice cheerfully agreed for once. — We’re like our awful father, I’m afraid.

Harriet said that Alice was the pretty one, Alice said it wasn’t true, she was just the fake, with her dyed hair — and in fact Harriet was glowing that evening, dressed again in the nice things Alice had given her. The hollows of her eye sockets and cheeks, which could look haggard, only seemed sculptural and striking; her face was broad and calm like a nun’s, her expression open. In the warm artificial light all of them looked ten years younger. It made a pleasant change to be snug in the crooked low-beamed pub, with its wood-burning stove, after the cold and damp of Kington: hungrily they attacked battered scampi and breaded plaice. Roland was troubled from time to time by the idea of Kasim and Molly alone in the house together — but they weren’t really alone, the children were allowed to stay up until the grown-ups came back, Kasim couldn’t get up to much while those two had him under scrutiny.

It was only Pilar in the end, funnily enough, who sided with Alice in her reluctance to let the house go. Pilar pronounced decisively — almost superstitiously — that there were too many family memories enshrined in the place for them ever to part with it; they were relieved she’d saved them from having to pronounce it for themselves. Then Harriet said simply that she didn’t need two homes. The place was going to start falling down round their ears, they all agreed, and they none of them could easily find the money to spend on repairing its fabric. But hadn’t they had so many happy holidays down here, for free — or almost free? Roland said its charms had rather palled on him, Fran said she’d rather go abroad for a change. Mightn’t one of them want to move down here to live, some day? They looked warily at one another, no one owned up. What emerged to dominate, as the argument went backwards and forwards, was the clinching, immediate problem of the roof. It all came back to the roof, which had needed attention even in their grandparents’ day. No one knew what it would cost to put on a new one: ten thousand pounds, fifteen, twenty? More? And who could find time to be on the spot, supervising repair work on that scale? They couldn’t ask Simon. Alice couldn’t bear the idea, anyway, of replacing those ancient mossy slates with modern ones, even if they were letting water in. — I’d rather even leave the house behind, I think, than change those slates.

— Well there we are then, Fran said. — We’re all agreed, it’s time to go, we can’t bear the idea of the new slates, or actually changing anything. I’m sure Jeff and I can do with the money. There can’t be any harm in just getting a valuation, at least. We’ll contact Wallers, they’re the best people. How much d’you think we’d get for it, Roland?

He hadn’t a clue, no one knew. Three hundred thousand? Or more, or less, because of the condition it was in? — We could hold out, suggested Harriet, — and say we’ll only sell to local families.

— We could, Roland considered doubtfully.

Fran hated that idea. — And then sell to some local builder who sells it on as a second home for twice the price! Of course we’d do better ourselves if we borrowed the money to do it up, then sold it.

Nobody wanted to be bothered with that.

— I know you’re right, Alice said. — It’s time to sell. I do agree with you all, really. I never know what’s good for me. It may release me into a new phase of life, not clinging to the past. I’ll become a new person, even. You won’t recognise me! Happy at last!

— Alice, don’t be silly, Fran said. — You’re happy now, you know you are. Anyway, we can always come back here to visit. There are plenty of places to stay, some lovely B&Bs in the area.

Alice looked horrified. — I never would. I can’t ever come back, not anywhere near here, once we’ve sold the house. That will be the end of it, for me.

THE CHILDREN LOATHED housework if their mother ever asked them to do any, but they threw themselves with enthusiasm into Kasim’s new project of cleaning out the cottage. They escaped from home in any intervals when it wasn’t raining, or wasn’t raining much, smuggling out a plastic bucket and a dustpan and a brush and cloths and bottles of cleaning stuff, returning them later without anyone noticing. If the grown-ups asked where they were off to, so preoccupied and important, they said evasively that they were playing a new game in the woods. Ivy wore her long silk skirt because it conferred extra dignity upon their mission, though it dragged in the mud. Fran wondered where the bucket was, but it didn’t occur to her that the children had it; when she found filthy wet cloths dropped in a corner in the scullery, she thought crossly that Alice must have been cleaning her room in one of her fits of energy. Alice had mostly stayed in bed since they’d made their decision to sell. Fran had felt sorry for her, and taken her cups of tea — then she made that little face of disappointment, if you didn’t bring it in the pretty cup she liked.

Molly was half in on the cottage secret, but Kas made her promise not to tell. He liked having something to hold back from her. — It’s a surprise for you! he said. — Wait until tomorrow. I’ll take you to see it tomorrow evening, I promise.

— But why can’t I come now?

He was smiling down into her face, holding her shoulders, his face close to hers, so that she couldn’t help reflecting back his smile. Between their two faces, each feasting on the looks of the other, even when they weren’t kissing there was a tingling awareness of the sensations of kissing. — It’s not ready for you yet, he assured her. — We’ve got to get rid of all the spiders.

He knew he mustn’t mention the dead fox, or he’d never get her inside.

She shuddered. — Spiders! I hate spiders.

This gallantly tender Kasim was very different to the grim-faced businesslike one, with a dirty smudge on his cheek, who made a fire in the clearing outside the cottage, helping it along with firelighters and a dash of lighter fuel, while the watching children stood serious and impressed. The three of them hardly spoke all the time they were working — sweeping and scrubbing and carrying out armfuls of dead leaves — except in curt practicalities. Arthur hunted around in vain for his pound coins. The fire spat and crackled, threatened to go out, and then regained force: sparks whirled up into the wet grey day, making the children step back smartly. Kasim propped open the cottage door and ran up and down the poky staircase again and again until his tee shirt was wet with sweat, bringing out the piles of magazines on a shovel he’d found in one of the outhouses at Kington, as if he didn’t deign to touch them with his hands. No comment in relation to this mystery of the Women ever passed between the three, while they fed the fire with their naked images and watched them burn, blackening sulkily to nothing, the paper turning to a heavy ash that kept its shape as pages. Only Ivy told Arthur in bed that night that the Women’s power was broken now: they’d taken his money, and were satisfied. At some point she threw away the little trove of sacred things and signs they’d collected, as if they were all suddenly just trash.