‘And that’s for Victor.’ Laughter bubbled out of her. Matthew felt sick.
The candles when lit would flare together, their elongated tongues stretching and thinning like beaten gold until they dissolved into the air. They could be snuffed and relit in a moment. They were immortal. The dried cherry for Victor was like a clot of stagnant blood. On the tree a cherry dripped crimson life: on the cake it was dead. A crack on one side with whitened edges leered at him. Gran scooped it off the cake.
‘Why do you do these things, Margaret?’
‘What’s the matter with “these things”?’
‘Horrible.’
‘Fiddle. It was only a cherry. Now if I’d put a gooseberry …’ and she giggled.
‘Margaret!’
‘Let her be, Sarah,’ said Edward. ‘She’s Meg today.’ Sarah looked first at Edward and then at Margaret, hot faced with resentment. ‘Yes, yes,’ she laughed, but Matthew knew it was neither a comfortable nor happy laugh. He had heard people laugh like that when they lost their way. They would say, ‘I believe I’m in the wrong street. Can you help me?’ or ‘I took the wrong turn and lost my way. Can anyone be so silly?’ and then they’d laugh like that. You never chuckled with them because it was a private laugh.
Both women were quiet as they continued to set the table. Edward, catching Matthew’s eye, winked at him but Matthew didn’t know why. Sarah had served an extra dish of food for Victor. She always did this and either she or Margaret took it to him before they sat down. Today she placed everything on a tray but as she went to take it Margaret jumped up.
‘I’ll take it, Mother. Let me.’
‘Very well. Thank you, Margaret.’
Edward, Matthew and Sarah sat in silence at the table waiting for her return.
‘He’s fine. Said he could manage.’
She had been subdued going out but returned briskly. She adjusted the sleeves of her dress giving them a little shake as if casting something off. Edward pulled out her chair and she plopped into her seat.
‘Hands, Margaret,’ said Gran.
‘Oh, bother.’ She jumped up again, lathered soap on her hands at the sink and rinsed them off. Then she sat down again with a sigh. ‘It’s hard to be happy.’
‘Not so hard,’ Edward said.
‘No,’ Sarah said.
‘It’s still a party day,’ Matthew said, and looked at them all hopefully.
‘Of course.’ Edward ruffled his hair.
‘Of course,’ Sarah said indulgently.
‘Yes, a bally party day or a belly one.’ And Margaret put her hands on her stomach and laughed heartily.
They ate cheerfully. Margaret tucked into her salad. ‘Can’t eat celery delicately can you? It makes such a crunch in a quiet room. I never eat it when I’m out. I much prefer to take a cream cake and flick a few crumbs elegantly off my lips. Then people look at my beautiful mouth. Once ladies used to wear beauty patches to draw attention but a few crumbs will do for me—’.
‘Sarah,’ Edward interrupted her, ‘Sarah, would you be able to store a couple of boxes for me?’
‘What sort of boxes?’
‘Just cardboard ones. I’ll seal them.’
‘I’m not interested in their fabric. What’s in them, Edward?’
‘A few books, a few papers, private stuff.’
‘How private?’
‘Letters, documents.’
‘Who from?’
‘Mother! How can you? Edward’s private letters. ‘They might be from a woman.’ Archly she invited his denial.
Gran frowned. ‘Not these.’
Edward looked embarrassed.
‘Really, Mother. Look. He’s blushing. How could you embarrass him so? Who is she, Edward?’
‘There’s no woman.’
‘I don’t know, Edward.’
‘Don’t be silly, Mother. Of course we can have his old boxes. And we won’t even peek.’
‘You shouldn’t ask, Edward.’
‘I know—but I’m stumped.’
‘Two women, a child and a sick man.’
‘I know, Sarah. I’m sorry. It’s just that of late—I’ve wondered—it seems that …’ He hesitated.
‘That what?’
‘Someone …’ He glanced at Margaret and Matthew. ‘Never mind. Perhaps I’m seeing ghosts—everywhere.’
‘Things are getting nastier, Edward?’
‘Yes.’
‘And less safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you both talking about? All this fuss over a couple of boxes. Of course we’ll have them. They can go in the laundry, with the other boxes.’
‘No. In Victor’s room.’
‘Why Victor’s room?’
‘Nobody goes there.’
‘Well, for heaven’s sake. I can’t understand either of you.’
Matthew pulled Edward’s sleeve. ‘Edward, please don’t go into Father’s room.’
‘It’s all right, Matthew,’ said Gran. ‘Mother and I go in and out. Edward won’t get sick.’
‘But he might disappear.’
‘Disappear?’
‘You’re all talking in riddles,’ said Margaret impatiently. ‘It’s always like this. We try to be happy, to have a party day, and then you all talk in riddles. Why can’t you all just talk?’ And she burst into tears and rushed out of the room.
‘Damn!’ Edward said. ‘Damn!’
‘You won’t go into the room, will you, Edward?’
‘Do shut up, Matthew. It’s not important. I’ve wrecked the party day and made everyone unhappy.’
Matthew woke. He needed to go to the lavatory. He could use the white ceramic chamber pot that was always under his bed but he knew that afterwards the window-open-all-day scent of his room would be tainted with the sour, steamy odour of urine and his pyjama pants would have uncomfortable damp patches.
The night was still. He knew there was no wind, not because of the quiet but because the fuzzy shadows, which leapt like live creatures on a windy night, now slept untroubled in their corners. Their hairy coats roughened the edges of the splinters of moonlight that penetrated the room but did not unroll themselves. He wondered why shadows so sharply defined in sunlight became furry at night; why in daylight they offered friendship and rest while at night they became changelings—strange, mysterious offsprings of darkness.
One day when he and Gran shopped he had seen a blind man selling shoelaces and trinkets from a tray suspended about his neck. Most people’s faces looked outward on the world but this man’s seemed to stare only inwards. He remembered how later that day he had shut his eyes and groped from his bed to his wardrobe, then to his bookcase. He felt along his books, fingering each jacket, trying to identify one from another. It was impossible.
