Harriet Evans - Love Always

‘Wel , it’s good to be here, even if no one seems prepared for our arrival,’ Pamela said, putting her gloves down on the table and looking around, while Archie, Jeremy and Miranda stood transfixed in the corridor. ‘It was a very long drive and I’m rather tired. Is lunch soon, do you know?’

‘I think so –‘ Jeremy said, and just then, much to their relief, Frances appeared. ‘Hel o, hel o,’ she said, rushing towards her sister, pushing her hair back up into her head-scarf. ‘Pamela, darling, how wonderful to see you. We weren’t expecting you til tea! You have made good time!’

‘Thank you,’ Pamela said. ‘Yes, we set out early. I hope this doesn’t throw your plans off.’ She pronounced it ‘orf’. ‘I did say we might be here for lunch.’

Frances waved her hands. ‘No, of course not! It’s wonderful to have you here.’ She linked her sister’s arm through hers and they stood there, both tal and similar in looks, but utterly different people: Frances barefoot in cropped trousers and a bil owing smock, a patterned scarf tying back her hair, glowing with sun and a smudge of paint on her shirt and her long slim neck: and Pamela, perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place even after a six-hour drive.

‘I’l go and help with the bags,’ said Guy, glad to have an excuse to disappear.

‘We’ve been overrun with young people,’ Frances told her sister. ‘Absolutely overrun with them. I’ve been feeling terribly old and dowdy, and now you and John are here, we can redress the balance.’ She smiled manical y at Pamela, as if she wasn’t sure who she was.

‘I hope the children have been behaving themselves,’ Pamela said. ‘That they’ve not been too much trouble.’

‘The children?’ Frances tugged at a blue glass necklace hanging round her neck. ‘Oh . . . goodness, no. They’re wonderful. Terrific to have them al here. And the Leightons are lovely boys. I think they’ve been getting along fine – I’m afraid we’ve been terribly lax hosts,’ she said, scratching her head and smiling vaguely as Guy reappeared, carrying two suitcases, fol owed by John James, who was taking off his driving gloves as he entered the house. ‘Ah, John, how lovely!’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I was just saying to Pamela, I’m sure the children have been getting up to al sorts of mischief. It’s a good thing you’re both here, I’m sure!’

Only then did she catch sight of Archie, and she ran her hand rather helplessly over her brow. ‘Goodness, Archie, you have been in the wars, darling.’

They were al silent. Pamela and John stood there, watching them. From upstairs came the sound of Louisa’s weeping.

‘Is that crying ?’ Pamela said, as if she’d never heard it before.

‘Oh, dear,’ Frances said, looking almost annoyed. ‘What have you al been up to?’

‘You real y didn’t hear, did you?’ Cecily said quietly to her mother.

‘No,’ Frances said. ‘Have you al gone wild? Started beating each other up? Is this Lord of the Flies ?’ She laughed, but it sounded odd, harsh.

‘What have we let ourselves in for, dear?’ John said, rocking on his feet. His face was stern; he was only partly joking.

There was no answer to this. The others were silent. Frances went over to the front door, pushing it shut. ‘Come in,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘I’l find out when lunch wil be ready. I’m sorry. Welcome, welcome.’

Chapter Eighteen

There would be no ‘Please Please Me’ blaring out of the sitting-room record player into the dining room now that Pamela and John were here, that much was obvious. There would also be no smoking after dinner, and Cecily would not be given her customary glass of wine. And there would be no lazing around on the terrace afterwards. Something in the atmosphere had shifted that day.

When Pamela and John came into the living room that evening, Guy was saying to Frances, ‘The Stratford by-election is soon, isn’t it? I bet old Macmil an must be terrified. The way things are going, that Monster Raving Loony party could win it, you know. They’ve certainly got my vote.’

‘I don’t think that’s a suitable subject for discussion,’ said Pamela, stopping in front of him. ‘And I don’t think one should refer to the Prime Minister of one’s country as “Old Macmil an”, Guy.’

Frances jumped up. ‘No, of course not,’ she said cravenly, shooting Guy a glance of apology. ‘Quite right. Jeremy, wil you get your mother a drink? Pam, wil you have a gimlet? Darling, that’s a beautiful dress, you put me quite to shame.’ She patted her sister’s arm and turned, catching sight of her daughters, who were looking bored on the sofa. ‘Miranda, Cecily, you look like vagrants,’ she said, her voice sharp. ‘Go and change, for God’s sake.’

Looking slightly surprised at her mother’s harsh tone, Cecily said, ‘But Mummy, Guy and I were picking the blackberries, you said it was al right.’

‘Not like that,’ Frances said. ‘Look at you.’ She waved a hand, encompassing her youngest daughter’s stained yel ow shorts and crumpled white cotton top. Cecily’s hair was in knots where the wind had caught it. ‘Guy changed, why on earth can’t you?’

Cecily turned to her, mystified. ‘Mother, you are very very annoying.’

‘Cecily!’ Pamela said, scandalised. ‘You shouldn’t talk to your mother like that.’

‘She is annoying,’ Cecily said. ‘In the mornings when she paints me she’s always trying to get me to be more ruffled up and dirty, and when I am, she tel s me to go and change! Come on, Miranda.’

‘I’m not changing,’ Miranda said. She crossed her arms and stared defiantly at her mother, thick hair tossed to one side, her rosebud lips pouting.

‘Oh, yes you are,’ Frances said, her voice quiet.

Miranda squared up to her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to. And you know you can’t make me.’

She carried on staring at Frances, her jaw set, her eyes blazing. Cecily watched them.

‘Fine,’ Frances said eventual y, turning away from Miranda, but not before she’d given her a cold, hard look, quite chil ing. ‘How did you get that scratch on your cheek?’ she said suddenly. Miranda covered her face with her hand, blushing.

‘Did it myself,’ she mumbled. ‘Where’s Archie?’ Frances asked. ‘Early night,’ Guy said. ‘Stil a bit shaken.’ Frances looked as if she would ask something else, but then a voice behind her came from the corridor. ‘Ah. So, the outsiders are inside.’ Frances turned around grateful y.

‘He lives!’ she cried, trying to keep out the harshness she could hear creeping into her voice. ‘Darling, hel o. Get a drink. How’s your day been?’

‘Unpleasant,’ Arvind said. ‘Troubling. Disrupted.’

He advanced gingerly into the room; he was uneasy around his tal , brash, far too English sister-in-law.

Frances went over to him, smiling suddenly. ‘Poor darling,’ she said. ‘Have a gimlet. Thank you, Mary.’

‘Welcome,’ Arvind said, raising his glass to Pamela and John. They nodded politely.

Silence threatened to engulf the room. ‘How – how is your work going?’ John enquired, looking vaguely from Arvind to Frances, both of whose professions, if you could cal them that, were a source of mystery to him. John was a solicitor of the old school. Philosophers and painters were outside his remit but, unlike his wife, he thought you had to ask to find out.

Frances and Arvind looked at each other, like naughty children caught by a teacher.

‘You first,’ said Arvind. ‘Oh, wel . I’m preparing for a show, at the Du Val on Gal ery, in September,’ Frances said.

‘How interesting.’ John nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Frances smiled. ‘We’re having a party! They’re sending out invitations soon.’