This, however, on Boxing day, was perfect. Schubert.
No one else about, it seemed, except the music. It had that odd timbre on the air, stirring the dust, which meant it was real and not from a record. The records she had most often came home to weren’t Schubert. Usually they were Dusty Springfield or Cilla Black.
She went to see who it was and there was a strange woman in a plain black dress. She had come already in mourning, which set Wendy’s teeth on edge right away. Her hair was neat and gracefully grey, cut in a bob. The woman tilted her head to acknowledge Wendy and show her intense, alert, grey eyes. But she played to the end of the piece, holding Wendy there. Wendy could only stare at the woman’s incredibly long fingers. Wasn’t there a story about a boy with long fingers, and the scissor man who came to trim them down?
When the woman was satisfied she was finished, she sank into herself, then stood and gave Wendy an off-putting smile that went up higher on the left side. She held out one large hand for Wendy to shake.
“I’m Serena Bell,” she said in an English accent, as if it was a name Wendy should already know. “I’m a friend of your aunt’s.”
“Oh. She said you were coming, actually. Where is she?”
“With your uncle. He’s sleeping.”
“She’s sitting beside him?”
“They’ve had the doctor out this morning. Your uncle had a rather tricky time. The doctor tells us there isn’t an awful lot they can do.” She closed the piano lid. “Your aunt is sitting with him till he wakes,” she said again.
Wendy turned to go.
“I don’t think they want you to go dashing in, Wendy.”
“I’m not dashing anywhere.”
“You can see your uncle this evening. It’s been discussed. Why don’t we take this time to become better acquainted?” She lowered her voice. “If this really is your uncle’s final few days, then I gather we may be thrown together rather a lot. So we might as well know each other. Let me make a pot of tea. Your aunt showed me where everything is kept.” She started to lead the way into the hall. Wendy overtook her.
“No. I’ll do it. Where’s Colin?”
“He went out with his friend, before Anne decided to call the doctor. They’ve gone to something called the Scarlet Empress.”
Wendy didn’t want be the one to tell Colin what had been going on. Or to explain this new arrival. “Well, why’s no one phoned the café? Told him to come back?”
“I think the emergency is now over, Wendy. Neither your uncle nor your aunt want a fuss, you know.” She smiled that tight, lopsided grin again. “What lovely pictures they’ve chosen for their hall. Horses. When you come to visit me in London, you’ll see all my pictures. I’m quite a collector, you know. Not that I know anything about them. I’m ignorant, really. I’m not like Joshua, who knows everything about the beautiful things he buys.”
Wendy was frowning. She couldn’t take it all in. “Let’s have that tea,” she said.
That night the kitchen table was littered again with the usual things: used knives, dirty plates and ash trays, Rizla papers, shreds of tobacco, the tall red glasses that Anne had bought the flat for Christmas. And two sky blue bottles of Bombay Sapphire gin.
Serena Bell didn’t drink. While the others topped themselves up and talked, much more placidly than on other nights, she gave the distinct impression of waiting for something. Waiting for everyone to wear themselves out, perhaps, and start behaving properly.
How we must have bored her, Wendy thought later. Serena with her friends in high places, and her lofty thoughts. But she sat with Captain Simon, who told us about scuba diving of all things, and Astrid, who wondered aloud whether one day they would invent something that would enable her to dive like that and see the glories of the deep.
“One day they will,” said Captain Simon. “And a whole new world will open up. You will be the little Sea Maid.”
“Jesus God,” she said, shaking with laughter.
Aunty Anne looked white and didn’t say much.
David drank with us, waiting anxiously on Colin, whose turn it was to sit with his father. I hadn’t taken my turn yet. I was dreading it.
When they heard the news—what news? Was anything really going on? It wasn’t like waiting for a baby to be born. An old man was slipping in and out of consciousness, limboing gently—but when they heard the news at any rate, Belinda and Timon abandoned their romantic Boxing Day dinner for two to sit with us. We needed more chairs. Outside it snowed on the Royal Circus. Timon lit the stove and I found myself surprised again, at how practical he could be when he needed to be.
Oh, anyway, and Serena Bell’s eyes were looking at each of us in turn. You couldn’t help but feel judged. She was coolly inspecting us for faults. We all thought that.
“Are you sure now, Serena,” said Aunty Anne, pulling herself out of her reverie, “that you’ve had enough to eat?”
“Quite sure.”
“It wasn’t very good, I’m afraid. Not really a proper welcome.”
“I am glad of a welcome at all in these times,” said Serena, and Aunty Anne smiled. Anne’s speech was crisper, more exact when she talked to her friend. The way she looked at Serena made you think she was studying her.
“I suppose this
