Campari for Breakfast (16 page)

Johnny Look-at-the-Moon, our coal boy, so-called because of his prophetic dreams. In fact he is renowned in Egham for his important dreams, and can tell you the Derby winner, or a good day to go to the bingo. Mythical, lyrical in attitude with dreamy eyes, even if he is always filthy with coal. And how I love the way he pronounces ‘Thursday’ without an ‘H’. If he were older I would definitely fall, but as he is only 14, this would be wholly unsuitable. (However, I still give him 10 out of 10.)

Cameo and I actually had a row over Johnny, because I told her I had a painful crush, so she said she had a painful crush too, but only because I had said that I had one. It is troubling however, because she happens to be the right age for him. To be three years younger than your husband is perfect. In the end we agreed to leave Johnny alone and divide Sayler and Mr D’Olivera between us instead. We came to an understanding that sisters will always come first.

‘I cannot let there be hatred in my heart Coral, I love you far too much,’ Cameo said.

‘If there is no hatred in your heart, Cameo,’ I said, ‘then why is it coming out of your eyes?’ It was one of our most literate quarrels.

Last night after we made it up Cameo came into my bed again, when I really wanted to be alone. I think she just wanted to check we were still a happy family.

‘Don’t tell me I can’t talk about sex because I’m eleven,’ she began. ‘Sex is wonderful,’ she continued, swirling an arm as if she were dangling it off a rowing boat.

‘How do you know?’

‘Everyone says so,’ she said.

‘Actually, I was rather hoping to crack on with my medical series – I’ve got prostates and sternums tonight,’ I said.

This had the desired effect and she slithered off. They grow up so fast.

House News

The downstairs Mary, Miss Lunn, has been dismissed because she was delusional and convinced that Father wanted her to sleep with him in the afternoons, and that the reason for his withdrawn attitude was that she didn’t, and nothing to do with his sternum. She has been crying in corners and, ultimately, it impacted too much on the household. Mrs Morris has kept a lid on it. Mother doesn’t even know. I hope Miss Lunn catches a glimpse of comfort in the near future.

Father, in a bad mood because of his sternum, has accused us of laziness, saying we never lift a finger round the house. But we do our bit in our own way; I just don’t think he sees it. Cameo trails her languid fingers through the dust, leaving symbolic drawings. She claims she has lost the ability to dust, as if it is evolution.

Sue

Wednesday 8 July

I’ve been trying to find out more about the mysterious Nana Cameo recently. As a child she fell down a mountain and a ski pole went through her eye. As a consequence she wore a glass one which Aunt Coral says did little to steal from her beauty.

‘She had the face of an angel and hair as pale as Victoria sponge. She never once had to pay a bus fare if there was a male conductor,’ she said.

Outside in the garden there’s a plaque where Cameo buried some of her dollies.

It was a great tragedy she died so young, although perhaps even more of a tragedy for Aunt Coral, who was left alone to look after their father, once Nana Pearl had also gone. During this period nobody in Egham saw her. She had all their food delivered and for some reason kept their calendar always to the same year. I wonder if she wanted time to stand still, or felt that she could save up the lost years for betterment? Great Grampa Evelyn became reclusive and took her for granted. She says that some days he did not come out of his room. They had no Mrs Morris any more, and the maids never stayed very long. Mrs Bunion didn’t come on the scene until later. It must have been hard for Aunt Coral, I don’t like to think of her fading like that, it wasn’t right for her. She is a definite people person and so delights in a group.

My mother was around of course when Great Grampa Evelyn was getting old, but she had turned her back entirely on privilege when she left boarding school, found her job and married my father. But she often talked of her guilt at having not visited more often and having left Coral alone to manage. But in her defence, I think my mother felt banished by her boarding school days, because had Nana Pearl lived longer, it is very unlikely she would have been sent away.

But, as for Aunt Coral and Cameo, as in so many cases, it was the most dutiful daughter who was treated like an old slipper, whereas Cameo, prior to her death, had always been treated like a jewelled sandal.

Aunt Coral eventually confided one evening last week, after one too many Sapphires, that it is in the locked room in the East Wing that Cameo died, and that behind the locked door are all her things just as she had left them. I think this often happens when somebody dies suddenly; it helps them to last a bit longer in the minds of the people they’ve left behind.

‘But it’s not only her things, it’s a feeling I get when I go in there,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘It’s like there’s something inside.’

‘Imagination?’ I said. (I was her true follower, choosing the pragmatist’s view.)

‘Must be,’ she said, and then her defence gates burst under a rush of memories.

‘The thing about losing Cameo is that it was such a shock. I was called back from Oxford and by the time I got home my sister was gone. It was all so sudden.’

‘But how did she die?’ I said, for I thought this might be a good moment to ask her. But Aunt Coral filled up at the thought of it all and asked if she could explain when she was feeling sober. It is odd she is so cloak and dagger about it; Cameo’s death certainly seems shrouded in mystery. I did ask my mum about it once a long time ago, and she said she wasn’t sure, but thought it might have been a stroke.

‘I know you know how it feels,’ said Aunt Coral. ‘I loved her; I wanted to take care of her.’

I tried to comfort her with a nugget from my own life experience.

‘I’ve always wanted a brother or a sister but now I think that not having one has been a kind of a blessing,’ I said.

‘How do you mean?’ said Aunt C.

‘Because I could never lose them,’ I said.

Monday 20 July

The thing that I keep coming back to is that Icarus asked me out once, and if he’s asked me out once, he’ll do it again, surely, especially with Loudolle out of the way? Taking the extra care that is necessary over my appearance in the mornings is proving a time-consuming business. It means early starts and long trips to the bathroom to keep fresh and in tip top shape.

Aunt Coral describes me as girlish, Delia says I am cute, Joe said he thought I was gorgeous, (this was before I spurned him). Hopefully, I may be all those things, to all those people, but Loudolle is really beautiful, with coltish knees and glamour locks, and I don’t know if Icarus sees me that way.

If I could just get close enough to him to ask him why he asked me out, then at least I’d know that he actually had, and that I hadn’t just imagined or dreamt it. I try without ceasing to find a moment to talk to him, but every time there is one, my courage fails me. Asking him why he asked me out isn’t an easy question. There are always so many people around to listen.

A new Maid has started at the Toastie called Charlie Harker. She comes from New Zealand and drinks Whisky Macs. She is the kind of girl who’d give Loudolle a run for her money, though she is not what you’d call a beauty. She has the smell of airports, or rather, the stuckdown bits in magazines which have fragrance you wipe on your wrists. I admire her a lot for having travelled from the other side of the world.

Mrs Fry has appointed her Head Maid. She’s all about getting maximum performance from everyone and she gets it by operating rewards. Being Head Maid means that Charlie has extra breaks and doesn’t have to wash any pots. My hands are peeling because they are always in water, and I’d have loved to have been Head Maid, but I don’t think Mrs Fry has ever liked me that much.

At the moment I am working from seven in the morning till five in the afternoon, five days a week, sometimes doing extra hours in the evenings making picnic orders for deliveries. My earnings have shot up from £30 per week to £100, and I give most of it to Aunt Coral for upkeep, bar the pound a week I am putting aside to buy back her handbag, and three pounds a week for my personal savings. With occasional babysitting for Mary-Margaret Fry I am able to swell my salary further and afford occasional treats.

I babysat for Mary-Margaret the other day and got a sneak inside Icarus’s bedroom. It was very much a child’s bedroom with pictures of pop groups, and pants on the floor. There were teddy bears on his bed, which is crazy when you think how machismo he is. Though I did spot a big black machine in the corner which looked like a terribly loud gateaux blaster.

Joe’s room by contrast had flowers in a vase and clean towels on his basin. His room resembled that of an elderly gay man and it was interesting to note that in trying to kiss me, he may have been fighting against his nature. I was fascinated to see both their rooms and how much they revealed about the men inside.

Things with Joe are awful at the moment, and most of the time he ignores me, and to make matters worse, he’s even begun to skip Group. I asked him if he’d make good on his promise to take me to Titford, but he said that he was too busy.

Brackencliffe

In the morning Cara arose before dawn and went to the ridge to spy for the runaways. She had tarried there only a moment before Van Day rode up on Peril. The great stallion circled, its clipperty hoofs arucking the earth. The ridge was not like the bedchamber, there was none to save her here.

‘Now where was I,’ said Van Day dismantling, with his great mouth open in yearning.

But like bullets Fiona and Keeper came running, out of the darkness, out of nowhere. Keeper tore into the Master’s trouser and brought him to his knees.

‘Run!’ he barked, and Cara and Fiona fled, leaving Keeper to fight Knight Van Day, who seized the dog by the scruff and took out his revolver.

‘You think that I would be thwarted by a spaniel?’ he said, and threw back his head in laughing.

‘Fuck me’ said Fiona, ‘what are we going to do now?’

‘You’re very unusual you know.’ That’s what Aunt Coral said when I read my last excerpt out to her.

Wednesday 22 July

I haven’t told you yet about the strange new noises I’ve been hearing at night at Green Place. As I mentioned some time ago, Delia says ‘Fuck’ in her sleep, so I put most of the noises down as part of her night-time regime. And Aunt Coral’s bed squeaks up against her desk whenever she turns over. But about two weeks ago I registered a sound as being nothing to do with Delia or Aunt C. It was on a black and starless night, the sort of night that is suffocating. I heard a distinct thud coming from somewhere below me, then all was quiet again, but there was an atmosphere, a presence, like someone was there. My own ability to listen was soon drowned out by my heartbeat, which was so loud that I had to cover my chest with a pillow in order to hear the sounds of the house.

The thud has happened on every consecutive night since, so the night now has a tune that goes: ‘Fuck, squeak, thud, Fuck squeak, thud.’ I can account for the fuck and the squeak, but I can’t account for the thud. It is troubling.

I am not an easily frightened girl; in fact I used to be quite the opposite. Back in Titford I used to spook Aileen when she came to stay by telling her I could see floating heads. Of course I couldn’t, but I loved to scare her, it made me feel I had power. Poor Aileen; I feel bad about it now. No wonder she got in my bed for safety.

It’s not the same at Green Place, however, and I am beginning to feel afraid. Coupled with what is going on in my nightmares, it makes me feel quite dreadful. At about ten I get into bed, exhausted from the Toastie, so I drop off quickly. But then I find myself at the suicide bank reading the notes of every language. Then I awake to the sound of the ‘Fuck, squeak, thud,’ then lie there and hold on to my pillow. Then I fall off to sleep again to see Mr Jewell with his feet up smoking and my mother lying dead on the floor. Then I repeat the process over and over again for the rest of the moonlight hours. It’s always a huge relief when it is time for morning, when I wake up calling and Aunt Coral rushes up to me, avoiding the gaps in the stairs.