Tessa Hadley - The Past

Roland’s academic position was as a philosopher, but he had also published a couple of popularising books, which didn’t popularise too far, on philosophy and film, and now he wrote and reviewed for the national papers. The surprising white suit must be the new wife’s influence, Harriet thought, and made him appear worldly and gilded. He was saying that British film had always been limited by its lack of pastoral. — Unlike Italian films, say, or Iranian, we can only do the pastoral as pastiche. We only know how to be nostalgic about landscape, we don’t know how to imagine ourselves inside it.

Pilar said that the countryside didn’t make her in the least nostalgic. — I love cities. I love London. All the people, all the conveniences.

Her accent was not heavy but pervasive, exotic, tawny.

— She grew up on a ranch, Roland told them. — Twelve thousand acres.

— I’m hopeless at numbers, Alice said. — Is that enormous or tiny?

Pilar was dressed in white too, the shape of her dress seemed stamped against the shadows under the overhanging clematis. Her slim long legs were crossed, a white shoe dangled from the toe of one long foot, her long brown hair was caught up smoothly behind in a clip. When Arthur led Harriet forwards to the table, they were startled as if they’d hardly registered that she was missing — there wasn’t a place set for her. Roland over-compensated, kissing her although they didn’t usually kiss, then escorting her almost ceremonially to meet Pilar. Harriet put out her hand at arm’s length to forestall more embraces, Pilar unwound from her chair and stood up to shake it. She was very handsome, and taller than anyone in their family; in fact, she seemed to be made of a different material to them, less fussy and more polished, simplified to a few strong statements — the dark strokes of her eyebrows, straight long nose, heavy jaw. Harriet was suffused for a moment in the pungent perfume the other woman was wearing, and could smell it on her fingers for hours afterwards.

They were all affected by Pilar’s new presence among them — it had the effect of making their talk at the table seem false, as if they were performing their family life for her scrutiny. Alice and Fran were noisy, showing off; Fran exaggerated the drama of Jeff’s selfishness, his dereliction. Ivy spilled her drink, Arthur picked out all the cheese from his sandwich, then left the crusts; Kasim when he appeared wouldn’t sit down for lunch — he said he wasn’t hungry and then carved himself huge hunks of bread, ate them sitting on the grass at the bottom of the garden. Pilar didn’t contribute much to the conversation, her remarks were rapid and forceful like her concentrated, liquid glances, as if she closed discussion instead of opening it up. But this might just be cultural difference, the sisters generously thought. Perhaps it was difficult to be tentative in Spanish. When they asked about the situation in Argentina, Pilar said she loathed politics. — Over there everything’s political. That’s why I couldn’t wait to get away.

— She won’t let me meet her family, Roland said.

— You will meet them, Pilar promised him. — You will. Just give me time.

— At fourteen she had to fight off her cousin with a riding whip.

— He was just a little over-excited.

The newly-weds were at that stage where every exchange between them had a private reference, tender but cloying to observers. Alice’s quick glance found Fran’s, across the table. — The trouble is you’ll love them, Pilar said. — They’ll love you. They’ll butcher an animal for a barbecue for you, take you out riding, sleep under the stars, all that. But you don’t know the place, you can’t really know it. It’s so crazy.

— Philosophers love crazy places, Alice said. — More work for them. Roland’s got this Latin American thing anyway, it all appeals to him because he’s so buttoned-up in his own life, he’s such a puritan. That’s why he writes about it.

But clearly Pilar didn’t want to talk about Roland’s character with his sisters. She was only really forthcoming when she was outlining how, since she’d been made a partner in her law firm, she had led a very effective reorganisation, including getting rid of a couple of staff. — I don’t mind working hard, she said, — but I can’t bear inefficiency. When Harriet asked what area of law she worked in and Pilar said commercial contracts, there was an awkward silence which was not disapproval — what did they know about it, to disapprove of? — they simply could not think of anything to say, could not bring themselves to say, that must be interesting . Roland went on cutting cheese steadfastly and cheerfully, as if he refused to help them out. Commercial contracts, he seemed to imply, were as good a topic for discussion as any other.

Kasim said he was going for a walk. Cobwebby from too much sleep, he wasn’t ready yet to take on Alice’s brother, and he didn’t want this girl to think he was hanging around because of her. He and Molly had not yet spoken. Ivy sprang into supplicant position at her mother’s elbow, holding up her hands together in prayer. — Can we go with him? Please, please, Mummy? We can show him the way to the waterfall. He can look after us.

Fran pretended to make a fuss — they were forbidden to climb trees, Arthur mustn’t go near the edge of any steep slopes — but of course, Kasim thought, she must be relieved to be rid of them for a couple of hours. Then he had to be laden with the whole apparatus the children might need: bottles of water, wet wipes, biscuits, apples, Elastoplasts, Savlon. They had to pee, they had to change their shoes. Eventually they set out along the road in the opposite direction to the way the taxi had brought him and Alice the day before; he strode with a scowl, hoping the children wouldn’t be able to keep up. They were indefatigable though, running up and down like puppies, yapping and chattering. Ivy in a spangled waistcoat, with a scarf knotted under her chin, was disconcerting, a miniature old crone.

The road became more or less impassable for cars not far beyond the little cluster of houses; grass growing through its tarmacked surface was breaking it up and branches had fallen, blocking it, from ancient oaks growing out of the banks on either side. Ivy led the way across a stile then up a steep field to a tree at the top; they followed the left-hand hedge through several more fields before descending through another gate into woods. Yellow waymarkers were painted on posts and trees. They couldn’t get lost, everything in this countryside was tamed and known, nothing was dangerous.

They had it all to themselves — only a farmer on a tractor, toiling up and down, his noise no louder than a persistent buzzing insect, did something in a field far off on the opposite hill-flank. Ploughed? But didn’t they plough in the spring? In the woods, as if he’d arrived far enough away from the world in which he was on his dignity, Kasim unbent and began to play with the children: he picked up pine cones where the path ran through a plantation of conifers, pelting Ivy with them. She was dumbfounded at first but soon they were pelting him back and having screaming fun — feet thudding as they ran, breath stopping in their chests with delicious fear, some ancient pent-up violence released in the rage of throwing. Ivy called Arthur a spoilsport when he cried because Kasim hit him too hard. Then for a while Kasim carried Arthur on his shoulders.

They arrived at the ruined cottage at the head of a valley, where the path turned tightly round above a steep drop through trees to the stream below, the cottage hanging precipitously on to the edge. After the wood-shadows this clearing seemed a bright simplification; water gurgled in a rocky cleft below them and the treetops stirred. The windows of the cottage were all on its other side, for the view; a wooden porch on their side was collapsing away from the front door. The roof was made of the same slabs as Kington House, thickly mossed, and from one end of the cottage bulged a semicircular bread oven, built of grey stones slotted mysteriously into their curve. A grassy bank opposite the front door was improbably pretty with wild flowers.