“Florence, if we had stale bread when we were children I expect it was because Mother was too lazy and disorganised to have any fresh in the house.” He turned to Sylvia. “She got fussy as she got older, you know, but when we were kids it was a different story.”
“I think that’s very disloyal, Colin.” Two red spots appeared on Florence’s cheeks. “I don’t know how you dare. She was an excellent mother, and there was nothing wrong with the way we were brought up.”
“I’ve not got time to discuss it.” Colin hauled his cuff up again and tapped the face of his watch. “Sylvia—”
“You’ve not answered my question,” Florence said stubbornly. “About the bread.”
“Bread?” Colin’s self-control fled now with a great yell into his sister’s face. “Bread? They chew nails, this lot. You could feed them nitroglycerine and ground glass and they’d bloody digest it.”
Sylvia pulled at his arm, and Alistair, red-faced, wormed among the overnight bags and took Florence by her skirt.
“Aunty Florence, I’ve got a septic hole in my knee.”
“What, my pet?”
Standing on one leg, Alistair pointed to his wound. “You’ll have to get your glasses,” he said.
Florence bent over his raised knee and looked up with a face full of alarm.
“It’s all black, Sylvia. Whatever’s happened?”
“Take no notice of him, it’s nothing.”
“But it’s black.”
“It’s from a pencil. It’ll wash off.”
“I’d better get my first-aid kit,” Florence said. “I don’t think you ought to leave me with him like this.”
“I’ve told you, it’s nothing. Alistair, I’m going now, and if I hear from your Auntie that you’ve been playing her up there’ll be trouble.”
“Oh all right, you go,” Alistair said. “I expect I’ll be up all night crying with the pain, that’s all.”
Suzanne sat down on the stairs and clasped her arms round her abdomen, rocking with simulated mirth; standing amid the baggage, Karen began to scream.
“We’re off,” Sylvia yelled above the noise. “Thanks a lot, Florence, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“But you can’t leave me with them like this. He might be ill. What if—”
Sylvia bolted out of the front door, Colin was already in the car. Alistair’s voice followed her, “I expect my leg will be cut off and you’ll have to push me round in a wheelchair,” and Karen’s wails and Suzanne’s snorts of laughter. Mud splashed the back of her tights. She slammed the car door.
“It’s quarter to nine,” Colin said.
“How far is it?”
“Half a mile as the crow flies, that’s all.”
“As the crow flies? Does that mean you don’t know the way? Oh, what a bloody business it all is. My evening’s ruined before it starts.”
Colin edged the car out of Lauderdale Road.
“And Colin, remember you’ve to get up early in the morning to fetch the kids, and before that you’ve got to get us both home tonight.”
“When do I get drunk, Sylvia? Come on, when have you ever seen me drunk?”
“You drink too much if you get the chance. You always do, and you know it.”
“And how often do I get the chance? Come on, Sylvia, when did you last see me reeling round the estate smashing people’s windows and singing ‘I belong to Glasgow,’ and throwing up on the pavement? When was the last time, eh, when?”
Sylvia lapsed into moody silence. “They’ll settle down,” she said, after a while. “They’ll settle, won’t they?”
“I hope so. Florence isn’t used to them.”
“I mean, it’s not just them, all kids are like that. There’s many worse. Florence doesn’t know. Colin, this is a long half-mile.”
Colin saw that he was in a cul-de-sac. He slowed the car to a crawl.
“Are we there?”
“No, we’re not. Look out, will you, and see if you can see Balmoral Road.”
It was the very edge of Florence’s respectable district, bigger houses well back from the road, flat-land encroaching, street names buried in dripping hedges.
“Andover Crescent,” Sylvia said.
“That’s no help. Well, okay, I’ll just drive along it.”
“Hadn’t you better go back?”
“If it’s a crescent, it’s bound to go round, isn’t it, use your common sense. I wish you’d learn to drive, Sylvia, then I could have a drink sometimes without you nagging me.”
