Evelyn accepted. After the wedding, Axon, who did not care for the jibes of his colleagues, left the firm and went into an insurance office, and was moved away from Liverpool. Afterwards, Uncle Reggie was vaguely sorry. He suspected Axon of indulging in sexual deviations. But it was too late to do anything about that.
When Evelyn thought of her childhood, it seemed to have taken place in another century.
When the meal was over the children went upstairs, screaming and bawling, to play with their toys. The sound of their disputes punctured the air at intervals, like machine-gun fire.
Sylvia yawned, and reached out for the congealing dishes with their remains of pudding. She began to scrape the leftovers into one dish.
“Florence doesn’t think you ought to scrape the plates at the table,” she commented. “She carries them out two at a time. It’s hard on the feet.”
“I’ll do it, if you like,” Florence said weakly. After the heavy meal, Sylvia’s activities were making her nauseous.
“That’s all right,” Sylvia said. “You can sit still, if you’ll allow me to suit myself at my own table.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Florence protested.
“No, but you looked plenty.” Sylvia reached across for a sprout which one of the children had rolled onto the table cloth, chopped it into a general mess, and stood up to carry the pile of dishes away.
“I’ll help you,” Colin said. He made movements to show that in time, after preparation, he would push back his chair and rise to his feet. He felt gross and sated. He eyed the last inch of red wine. Self-indulgence was tripping through his blood-vessels, tiptoe on warning feet.
“Get the presents,” Sylvia said. “We might as well have them in peace while the kiddies are out of the way.”
She went into the kitchen, and Colin took the presents from the sideboard. Sylvia had refused to have a proper tree, on account of the pine needles, the sweeping up they entailed, the danger to children’s feet, and their habit of appearing imbedded in upholstery, to next September and beyond. Every year she set out her argument, passionless, step by step, and every year Colin refused to put the presents under her Tesco artefact with its stiff tinsel branches.
“This tree,” he said to Florence. He shook his head. “I like a tree. A proper one.”
“It’s not worth quarrelling over,” Florence said. “They only came in with Prince Albert.”
“Nonsense,” Colin said. “It’s a pagan custom.”
“I didn’t know you were a pagan,” Sylvia said, returning. “I thought you were an agnostic.” She sat down and wiped her hands on her paper napkin, and looked expectant. Impelled to goodwill, Colin placed two parcels before her, and doled out the same to Florence.
“Well,” Colin said. “Another drink, anybody? Such largesse. I always think this is the nicest moment. I mean giving, of course, as well as receiving.”
“It’s a pity you weren’t a vicar,” Sylvia said.
“If I were a vicar, Sylvia, we should have even less money than we do, and certainly none to spare for presents.”
“Really, do you have to go on like this?” Florence muttered. They composed their faces to amiability. From upstairs came Alistair’s long-drawn and hideous wail; his sisters were pinching him and calling him pig. There was a loud, almost shocking rending of paper, as Sylvia pulled out of its wrapping the bottle of scent Colin gave her every year.
“A new one,” she said. “You’ve bought a new kind.” She opened the box, prised it out, unscrewed the cap, and began to dab the scent on her wrists.
“Steady,” Colin said. “Don’t waste it all.”
“This was imaginative of you, Colin,” Florence said.
“I thought, oh, you know, try a change.” He looked modest.
“I don’t think I was praising you,” Florence said. “I think I was being sarcastic, really. Have you actually bought her the same each year?”
Sylvia held her wrist to her nose and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. They snapped open, and a flicker of surprise crossed her face.
“Well?” Colin demanded. He was eager to get on with his own parcels.
Sylvia hesitated, and proffered her wrist.
“Very nice,” Colin said. “Very nice indeed.”
“Let it warm up on your skin, Sylvia,” Florence suggested. “That might make all the difference.”
“I hope so,” Sylvia said.
“It wasn’t cheap,” Colin said. “It wasn’t bloody cheap, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He thrust his chair back, glowering.
“I know,” Sylvia said quietly. “I know the prices of perfumes.” Because I walk around the shops and covet them, she might have added. “It’s my skin. It doesn’t suit it.”
“Well, surely it cannot be intended to smell like that,” Florence said. “They must take into account that people have different skins. One would think so.”
“I don’t think they took mine into account,” Sylvia said.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’ll get you something else. How was I to know? Oh, Sylvia, for God’s sake don’t start crying
