Sorrow and Bliss(8)
The uniform list was five pages long and double-sided. My mother read it out at the table, laughing in a way that made me nervous. ‘Winter socks, crested. Summer socks, crested. Sports socks, crested. Bathing suit, crested. Swim cap, crested. Sanitary towels, crested.’ She tossed it on the sideboard and said, ‘Martha don’t look like that, I’m joking. I’m sure you can use non-regulation pads.’
Because she did not get a scholarship, our parents enrolled Ingrid at the high school near our house that was free and co-ed and offered female students two kinds of uniform, she told people, the normal one and the maternity one. But at the last minute our parents changed their minds and sent her to mine. My mother said she had sold a piece. Ingrid and I made a cake.
In the car, on our way to Belgravia that Christmas Eve, we had asked our mother why she didn’t like Winsome, because she had spent the previous few hours refusing to get ready, issuing her annual threat of not coming whenever my father tried to chivvy her along, only agreeing once there had been sufficient begging. She told us it was because Winsome was controlling and obsessed with appearances and, sister or not, she could not relate to someone whose twin passions were renovation and large group catering.
Even so, my mother always gave her extravagant presents – to everyone, but especially Winsome who would open hers just enough to see what was in it, then try to re-stick the tape, saying it was too much. Always, my mother would get up and leave the room aggrieved, and Ingrid would say something funny to make everything fine but instead, that year, she stayed where she was, threw up her hands and said, ‘Why, Winsome? Why are you never, ever grateful for things I buy you?’
My aunt looked deeply embarrassed, her eyes darting all over the room for anywhere to look. Rowland, who had just given her per tradition, a Marks & Spencers voucher in the amount of ￡20, said, ‘Because it’s our bloody money Celia.’
Ingrid and I were sharing the same armchair and found each other’s hands. Hers felt hot, gripping mine, as we watched our mother struggle to her feet, saying, ‘Oh well Rowland, win some, lose some I suppose.’ She laughed at her own joke all the way to the door.
As old as we were, it had never occurred to us that a blocked poet and a sculptor who was yet to achieve minorly important status would not earn anything and our crested swimsuits were, like everything else, paid for by my uncle and aunt. Once our mother was out of the room, Ingrid said to Winsome, ‘What is it? I’ll have it as long as it’s not a sculpture’ and everything was fine.
*
It was the rule at Belgravia that children opened presents in ascending age order. Jessamine first, Nicholas and I last. As Oliver’s turn approached, Winsome disappeared briefly and came back again with a present that, unnoticed by everyone except me, she put under the tree. A moment later, she retrieved it and said, ‘One for you, Patrick.’ He looked stunned. It was some kind of cartoon annual. Ingrid whispered ‘disappointing’ when she saw what it was but I did not think I had ever seen a boy smile as hard as Patrick was when he looked up from opening it to thank my aunt.
How there was a present with his name on it even though no one knew he was coming remained a mystery to him until years later; we were packing to move to Oxford. Patrick found the book on a shelf and asked me if I remembered it. He said, ‘It was one of the best presents I got as a kid. No idea how Winsome knew to get it for me.’
‘It was from her emergency gift cupboard, Patrick.’
He looked vaguely deflated but said, ‘Still,’ and stood reading it until I took it out of his hands.
*
I only spoke to Patrick once that first year, on the walk through the streets to Hyde Park and all the way around Kensington Gardens, which we were always made to take in the afternoon so Rowland could watch the Queen’s Speech in relative peace. Relative because my mother would begin railing against the institution of the monarchy from the first sweeping aerial shot of Windsor Castle and continue for the duration of Her Majesty’s address, while my father read bits aloud from a book he had gifted himself for Christmas.
Ingrid and I were walking directly behind Patrick when, near the top of the Broad Walk, he stopped suddenly and lunged for a tennis ball Oliver had just thrown to him. My sister did not stop in time and was struck hard in the chest by his outstretched arm. She swore and told Patrick he’d massively hurt her boob. He looked stricken and said sorry. I told him not to worry, it was hard to not hit Ingrid in the boob. He apologised for that as well and ran ahead.
*
Patrick returned the following year, this time by arrangement with Winsome, because his father had just got remarried – to a Chinese-American litigator called Cynthia – and was on his honeymoon. I was seventeen. Patrick was fourteen. I said hello when he appeared in the kitchen with Oliver; he stood near the door, doing the same rolling thing with the hem of his jumper while my cousin looked for whatever he had come in to find.
At some point that day, we all went up to Jessamine’s room and sat on the unmade airbeds, except Nicholas, who went over to the window and took a cigarette out of his pocket, a roll-your-own that was loose and coming undone. Jessamine, who was nine, flapped her hands and started crying while he attempted to light it.
Ingrid said, ‘No one thinks you’re cool, Nicholas,’ and got Jessamine to come sit between us. ‘It looks like a tea bag wrapped in toilet paper.’
I offered to go and find him some sticky tape, then asked Jessamine if she wanted to see a trick. She nodded and let Ingrid wipe her face with the sleeve of her jumper. I had braces then and with everybody watching, I started moving my tongue around inside my cheek. A second later, I made my mouth into an O and one of my rubber bands shot out. It landed on the back of Patrick’s hand. He looked at it uncertainly for a moment, then carefully picked it off.