Ros and her girls were round for Sunday lunch at her brother’s. She’d shut Crosby and Nash in the boot room to stop them ransacking the beef. Her brother had said getting the full West Sussex kit, are we? when she’d turned up last year with two black Labrador puppies in a cage. They’re for Molly and Issy she’d snapped back, Christmas presents that had turned into more work for her. They’d been so sweet aged eight weeks. You’ll have to take them gun dog training Peter had replied, turning to the culture section of the Financial Times. She’d told him to fuck off. He could talk with his glass walkway and 4WD Porsche. As if he had the rights to all of it.
“Have more potatoes.” She’d been watching Molly stall at the loaded platters which crowded the centre of the large dining room table. Cabbage richly mixed with chestnuts and lardons, roast beef pink and thinly sliced, Yorkshire puds like golden clouds exploding. A pile of roast potatoes, honeyed parsnips, glazed carrots, Peter’s homemade horseradish in a bowl but Molly’s plate looked like an art piece from the eighties when a parsley leaf did for supper. “Give yourself some gravy.”
“She’s fine, mum.”
At least Issy ate. Even if she refused to say anything nice, at least some goodness went in her mouth.
“Get your fingers out of the horseradish.” Ros leaned across her youngest daughter to get at the cabbage. She held up a spoon, but Molly moved her plate away. She could hear the dogs scratching at the boot room door. “Can we give them a bone, or something?”
Her brother went off to the kitchen. He still had his Nick Cave apron on. Sunday lunch was his domain, and he didn’t mind who knew it. A bit like the countryside in general. He’d said it’s a quiet life here, Ros. I’m not sure you’ll like it, but he didn’t know shit. She hadn’t had this much attention in years. Her analyst had asked her if she’d want to get married again and she’d said if he could see her social life he wouldn’t bother. She watched the marrieds, the wives bitter, the husbands fat, and think Thank God, what hell, no thanks. Her brother and his wife seemed the only ones happy. “Pass your plate.” She held the spoon towards Molly.
“Leave her alone.” Diane topped up Ros’s glass. “Girls that age never eat.”
“Mum never eats.” Issy dipped her finger in the horseradish again.
“She did at your age,” said Peter, coming back in. “Quite the porker.”
Ros threw him a look. “Molly. Give me your plate.”
“I can do it myself.” Molly took the spoon out of her mother’s hand. Long brown hair, a fringe Ros used to push away when she was still allowed to touch her.
“And the bacon and chestnuts. Not just the cabbage.”
“I’m seventeen, mum. I can do it.”
“Do leave her,” Diane put a reassuring hand on Molly’s arm. “You’re fine, darling.”
“Were you fat, mum?” said Issy.
“How’s school, Molly?” asked Peter.
“She’s predicted three A stars,” said Ros. Having a rich brother had its pluses and minuses. On the one hand, he’d bought her a house and paid for the girls’ schooling. On the other, he’d bought her a house and paid for the girls’ schooling. A gift with one, an expectation with the other, they all had to be happy, the girls had to succeed, he’d never been cornered like she had. Ros watched her brother’s face and hoped for approval. His life had rolled out in steps he was willing to take; Westminster, Cambridge, Goldman Sachs and when their father had died, Peter had inherited everything. Her mother had said countless times You were only fifteen, Roselyn. Daddy did what he thought was best. Daddy could have realised she’d grow up and not want to be dependent on her brother for the rest of her life. There’s nothing to stop you getting a job. She’d heard that one too. She’d had a job; she’d had a brilliant job doing what she loved best. It wasn’t her fault it had ended.
“None of it makes a sou of difference,” said Diane. “You pass, you fail, it’s only school. Careers told me there was no business in jumpers!” Diane had run a knitting company and sold it for millions.
“It does make some difference,” said Peter.
“It’s where you go that matters.”
“Where did you go?” said Issy.
“Cheltenham Ladies.” Diane took another slice of beef. “And then Cambridge.” She smiled at Molly.
Bloody Diane. If she hadn’t mentioned it, Molly might have been content with something lower. Like Southampton. Or Exeter.
“She’s quite right of course.” Peter passed Molly the gravy. “Get a third at Cambridge, you still went to Cambridge.”
“You’ve still got to get into Cambridge,” said Molly.
“You’ll get in,” said Diane.
“I might not.”
“You’re a bright girl,” said Peter.
“I want to go to Bedales,” said Issy. She was blonde like Harold had been when he was a little boy. Bloody endless trips to his mother’s house, the adored son, photographs of him everywhere.
“You don’t want to stay at Seaford, Iss?”
Issy shook her head. “Bedales then RADA or Bristol Old Vic.”
Ros flapped her napkin. “Issy’s got a thing about acting.”
“Good for you,” said Diane.
“Anyone can act,” said Issy. “I want to direct.”
“Not everyone can act.” Ros sliced a carrot in half. “I’ve told her it’s a tough business.”
“Issy’s tough,” said Peter.
“Do you not like your friends?” said Diane.
“I did say it was the wrong place for her.” Peter tore his Yorkshire pudding in half.
“Will you come and look with me?” Issy scooped up a bit of cabbage that was hanging from her mouth.
“I can do that,” said Ros.
“I’d like Uncle Peter to do it. He’s paying the bills.”
There were pluses and minuses to being upfront with your kids, too.
“Dad said he’ll pay uni fees, if I get in,” said Molly.
“When did you speak to your dad?” said Ros.
Molly moved a lardon from one side of her plate to the other. “Nancy says she’ll have to get a loan.”
“Has she not got a rich dad?” said Issy.
Ros glared at her. All she’d gathered from Clare was that Nancy’s dad wasn’t around. She’d had to guess the rest.
“Will dad pay for Bedales too?”
“I’m not taking money from him, full stop.” said Ros.
“Isn’t it up to Peter?” said Diane.
“It’s up to me and Peter. If you want to change schools that’s fine, but we need to discuss it.”
“We are discussing it,” said Issy.
“Some other time,” said Ros.
“Why not now?” insisted Issy.
“Because Peter wants his lunch.”
“I’m sure he’s capable of eating and talking at the same time, aren’t you darling?” said Diane. She filled the chair, the table, the room with her mass of scarves and beads and open arms. A constant forgiveness. Ros would do anything to see her snap.
“I want to have my lunch then. Molly. Have some carrots.”
“I don’t want carrots.”
“Did I tell you, Diane,” Ros picked up her glass of wine, “that Brian’s asked me to do the play?”
“I thought you turned it down.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You’re going to be in the play?” asked Issy.
“As Elvira.”
“But I’m in the play.”
“I thought Tessa was Elvira,” said Diane.
“She’s asked me to step in.”
“You just said Brian asked you to step in.”
“I’ve had quite enough of you for one day, Miss Busy.”
Issy made a face and Peter laughed.
“She’s asked me to hold the fort.”
“I don’t want to do the play with you.”
“Won’t it be fun to do something together?” said Diane.
“No,” said Issy.
“Don’t lick your knife.” Ros emptied her glass and reached for the bottle.
“Next time I’m going to give you just horseradish,” said Peter.
“I’d like that,” said Issy, licking her knife again.
“There’s no reason why we shouldn’t have two Elviras,” said Diane.
“How can there be two Elviras?” said Issy.
“Finish your lunch,” said Ros.
“And we’d be thrilled to have you. You’ll be a boon,” added Diane slopping gravy down her front.
“No she won’t.”
Diane wiped her shirt. With so much pattern it was hard to see what was what. “Your mother’s a professional, Isabel. We’re jolly lucky to have her. You should have seen us last year.”
“I did see you last year.” Ros put her knife and fork together.
“It was very sweaty,” said Issy.
“Can I get down?” said Molly. Her fringe was almost in her eyes. She pushed her hair over her shoulder.
“You’ve hardly eaten anything.”
“You’re fine, Moll,” said Diane. “You too Isabel.”
“Don’t you want pudding?” Ros picked Issy’s napkin off the floor.
“Have a brownie,” said Diane. “They’re in the larder.”
“But don’t let the dogs out,” Ros called after Issy’s departing back.
“Can I take it home? I have homework,” said Molly reappearing with a brownie in her hand.
After the door slammed, Ros put her feet up on Issy’s chair and finished off the red.
“I’ll let them out into the garden,” said Peter getting up.
“Everything all right then?” Diane began stacking plates.
“You can see what I have to put up with. She’s like a bird.”
“I meant with Tessa.”
Outside the window Crosby and Nash raced into view and tumbled over each other on the lawn. Peter still accused her of not walking them enough. He had all the time in the world. She couldn’t see why he didn’t do it. The table was a mess of plates and half empty dishes, most of the beef, all of the horseradish, only a scattering of cabbage left. The platters, painted with pheasants, were part of a set from their childhood that Peter had also inherited, as if their mother never thought Ros would have a table big enough. She stretched her arms over her head, her spine against the chair. God she was tired. She grappled for her cigarettes.
“Would you mind? Diane, set sail for the doorway, a platter in each hand.
Ros got up, a Marlborough already between her lips. In the garden she leaned in through the kitchen window as Peter and Diane made coffee and loaded the dishwasher. “She’s had to sort something parental.” Smoke clouded and vanished above her.
“Nothing serious I hope?” Diane took a bowl out and rearranged the plates.
“God no. You know Tess, she’s terribly close to her mother.”
“Is she?”
Ros had no idea. Most people were. “Her father’s broken his toe, or something. She’ll be back soon.”
“I should hope so.” Diane snapped the dishwasher shut and turned it on.
Ros lost what she said next, she’d gone over to the Aga where Peter was warming milk, but she heard Peter say how should I know.
She stubbed her cigarette out on the windowsill where it left a smear. “Can I help?”
Diane had started on the roasting pan. The tap was running, the sink filled with suds, Diane had her sleeves up. A year, and they still treated her like an errant schoolgirl sent home on suspension, as if she was expected to be taking a long hard look at herself for something she hadn’t done. What did they know about life? They’d met, married, decided against children; they’d had it easy from day one. Ros leaned in at the window again. “You must let me bring something next time, Di. I could do my beef stew, give you a Sunday off.”
“Coffee,” said Peter, lifting a tray from the island.
“I’ll come in,” said Ros.
“Do mind the agapanthus,” said Diane, shutting the window.
Hellish luncheon
Hectic