pies, which may have been why my mother was sharper than usual with me. She told me not to touch the pies after she gave me one to taste. I was the twins' age and unable to resist. Halfway through a comedy show full of jokes I didn't understand I sneaked back to the kitchen. I'd taken just one surreptitious bite when I saw Beryl's face leaning around the night outside the window. She was at the door behind me, and I hid the pie in my mouth before turning to her. Her puffy whitish porous face that always put me in mind of dough seemed to widen with a grin that for a moment I imagined was affectionate. 'Peep,' she said.
Though it sounded almost playful, it was a warning or a threat of worse. Why did it daunt me so much when my offence had been so trivial? Perhaps I was simply aware that my parents had to put up with my mother's sister while wishing she didn't live so close. She always came to us on Christmas Day, and that year I spent it fearing that she might surprise me at some other crime, which made me feel in danger of committing one out of sheer nervousness. 'Remember,' she said that night, having delivered a doughy kiss that smeared me with lipstick and face powder. 'Peep.'
Either my parents found this amusing or they felt compelled to pretend. I tried to take refuge in bed and forget about Beryl, and so it seems little has changed in more than sixty years. At least I'm no longer walking to school past her house, apprehensive that she may peer around the spidery net curtains or inch the front door open like a lid. If I didn't see her in the house I grew afraid that she was hiding somewhere else, so that even encountering her in the street felt like a trap she'd set. Surely all this is too childish to bother me now, and when sleep abandons me to daylight I don't immediately know why I'm nervous.
It's the family, of course. I've been wakened by the twins quarrelling outside my room over who should waken me for breakfast. 'You both did,' I call and hurry to the bathroom to speed through my ablutions. Once the twins have begun to toy with the extravagant remains of their food I risk giving them an excuse to finish. 'What shall we do today?' I ask, and meet their expectant gazes by adding, 'You used to like the beach.'
That's phrased to let them claim to have outgrown it, but Gerald says 'I've got no spade or bucket.'
'I haven't,' Geraldine competes.
'I'm sure replacements can be obtained if you're both going to make me proud to be seen out with you,' I say and tell their parents, 'I'll be in charge if you've better things to do.'
Bertie purses his thin prim lips and raises his pale eyebrows. 'Nothing's better than bringing up your children.'
I'm not sure how many rebukes this incorporates. Too often the way he and Paula are raising the twins seems designed to reprove how she was brought up. 'I know my dad wouldn't have meant it like that,' she says. 'We could go and look at some properties, Bertie.'
'You're thinking of moving closer,' I urge.
Her husband seems surprised to have to donate even a word of explanation. 'Investments.'
'Just say if you don't see enough of us,' says Paula.
Since I suspect she isn't speaking for all of them, I revert to silence. Once the twins have been prevailed upon to take turns loading the dishwasher so that nothing is broken, I usher them out of the house. 'Be good for grandpa,' Paula says, which earns her a husbandly frown. 'Text if you need to,' he tells them.
I should have thought mobile phones were too expensive for young children to take to the beach. I don't want to begin the outing with an argument, and so I lead them downhill by their impatient hands. I see the scrawny windmills twirling on the bay until we turn down the road that slopes to the beach. If I don't revive my question now I may never have the opportunity or the nerve. 'You were going to tell me who taught you that game.'
Gerald's small hot sticky hand wriggles in my fist. 'What game?'
'You know.' I'm not about to release their hands while we're passing a supermarket car park. I raise one shoulder and then the other to peer above them at the twins. 'Peep,' I remind them.
Once they've had enough of giggling Geraldine splutters, 'Mummy said we mustn't say.'
'I don't think she quite meant that, do you? I'm sure she won't mind if you just say it to me when I've asked.'
'I'll tell if you tell,' Gerald informs his sister.
'That's a good idea, then you'll each just have done half. Do it in chorus if you like.'
He gives me a derisive look of the kind I've too often seen his father turn on Paula. 'I'll tell mummy if you say,' he warns Geraldine.
I mustn't cause any more strife. I'm only reviving an issue that will surely go away if it's ignored. I escort the twins into a newsagent's shop hung with buckets and spades and associated paraphernalia, the sole establishment to preserve any sense of the seaside among the pubs and wine bars and charity shops. Once we've agreed on items the twins can bear to own I lead them to the beach.
The expanse of sand at the foot of the slipway from the promenade borders the mouth of the river. Except for us it's deserted, but not for long. The twins are seeing who can dump the most castles on the sand when it starts to grow populated. Bald youths tapestried with tattoos let their bullish dogs roam while children not much older than the twins drink cans of lager or roll some kind of cigarette to share, and boys who are barely teenage if even that race motorcycles along the muddy edge of the water. As the twins begin to argue over who's winning the sandcastle competition I reflect that at least they're behaving better than anybody else in sight. I feel as if I'm directing the thought at someone who's judging them, but nobody is peering over or under the railings on the promenade or out of the apartments across it. Nevertheless I feel overheard in declaring, 'I think you've both done very well. I couldn't choose between you.'
I've assumed the principle must be to treat them as equally as possible — even their names seem to try — but just now dissatisfaction is all they're sharing. 'I'm bored of this,' Gerald says and demolishes several of his rickety castles. 'I want to swim.'
'Have you brought your costumes?'
'They're in our room,' says Geraldine. 'I want to swim in a pool, not a mucky river.'
'We haven't got a pool here anymore. We'd have to go on the train.'
'You can take us,' Gerald says. 'Dad and mum won't mind.'
I'm undismayed to give up sitting on the insidiously damp sand or indeed to leave the loudly peopled beach once I've persuaded the twins not to abandon their buckets and spades. I feel as if the children are straining to lug me uphill except when they mime more exhaustion than I can afford to admit. They drop the beach toys in my hall together with a generous bounty of sand on the way to thundering upstairs. After a brief altercation they reappear and I lead them down to the train.
Before it leaves the two-platformed terminus we're joined by half a dozen rudely pubertal drinkers. At least they're at the far end of the carriage, but their uproar might as well not be. They're fondest of a terse all-purpose word. I ignore the performance as an example to the twins, but when they continue giggling I attempt to distract them with a game of I Spy: s for the sea on the bare horizon, though they're so tardy in participating that I let it stand for the next station; f for a field behind a suburban school, even if I'm fleetingly afraid that Gerald will reveal it represents the teenagers' favourite word; c for cars in their thousands occupying a retail park beside a motorway, because surely Geraldine could never have been thinking of the other syllable the drinkers favour; b for the banks that rise up on both sides of the train as it begins to burrow into Birkenhead… I don't mean it for Beryl, but here is her house.
Just one window is visible above the embankment on our side of the carriage: her bedroom window. I don't know if I'm more disturbed by this glimpse of the room where she died or by having forgotten that we would pass the house. Of course it's someone else's room now — I imagine that the house has been converted into flats — and the room has acquired a window box; the reddish tuft that sprouts above the sill must belong to a plant, however dusty it looks. That's all I've time to see through the grimy window before the bridge I used to cross on the way to school blocks the view. Soon a station lets the drinkers loose, and a tunnel conducts us to our stop.
The lift to the street is open at both ends. It shuts them when Geraldine pushes the button, her brother having been promised that he can operate the lift on our return, and then it gapes afresh. Since nobody appears I suspect Gerald, but he's too far from the controls. 'Must have been having a yawn,' I say, and the twins gaze at me as if I'm the cause. No wonder I'm relieved when the doors close and we're hoisted into daylight.
As we turn the corner that brings the swimming pool into view the twins are diverted by a cinema. 'I want to
