Page 27 of Little Wing
‘I ought to go,’ Nell said. ‘I said I was going to feed a made-up neighbour’s imaginary cat.’
‘Very good, dear,’ Marjorie said.
Nell was puzzled; wasn’t that precisely the sort of nonsense her aunt would leap on to dissect? She thought of Frank, how sometimes he would suddenly come over so weary, how after a hearty chinwag he was content just to sit in his chair while Nell went about the chores quietly before leaving. Maybe Marjorie was the same, just a little tired these days.
‘Here,’ said Nell, loading the tray, ‘let me take it in for you.’
Nell went through to the kitchen, which was so spotless it was as if nothing had ever been cooked there. On the windowsill an incongruously vulgar ornament of a bright green frog holding a lily-pad umbrella emblazoned withI’LL NEVER FROGET YOU. Next to it, a white dish with a nailbrush. Next to that, an old-fashioned kitchen timer. To her side, a tea towel ironed crisply. The water was satisfyingly hot as Nell washed up and looked out at the garden, the squirrel still pilfering nuts. She dried the plates and the cups and the saucers and opened cupboard doors to find where they lived.
And there on the shelf, the exact same Clarice Cliff trio that her mother had. She took it out. Pristine – plate and all. Marjorie wasn’t the type to drop or break anything.
But.
Wait.
Look.
Behind it – another set, identical and complete.
‘Each of us had a set. We were all given them, in 1953.’
It made Nell jump; her aunt was standing right behind her.
Marjorie spoke thoughtfully. ‘We each had a set – but Wendy broke her plate the day she got it.’
I heard the door shut.
It was Wendy, back from work. I heard my mother call her into the sitting room and the door was shut. I was in my bedroom wishing I could be absorbed into the walls, the floor, the furniture. I’d been sent to my room like a child. A child with child. My mother had called me some terrible things, really. Language I had no idea she knew, let alone would dare to say aloud. She called me a slut and said she couldn’t even look at me. How could you? she said. How could you do that? How could you be so bloody bloody stupid. You’re no daughter of mine, Florence. You bloody little whore slut.
So up to my room I went, listening to her on the phone to Marjorie.
You need to come home, Marjorie – yes, dear, I know you’ve only just gone back. But something has happened. That slut little sister of yours. No – not Wendy! Florence! Oh, I can’t say it – truly I can’t say it! But you need to come home. Family crisis, Marjorie. Well, tell your professor. Tell him what? Oh, but I can’t say it! Oh, Marjorie – she’s gone and got herself. Gone and. Speak to George! I can’t – Speak to George! George – George – speak to Marjorie. Tell her she needs to come home. Tell her what her youngest sister is.
And up in my room I heard Wendy come up the stairs. She always skips up the stairs; she has this funny way of walking practically on tiptoes.
Jesus, Florence, she said. Jesus Christ – what did you do? It was that night, wasn’t it – before Christmas. Joan’s party – when I said you could go. Jesus, you stupid little fucking idiot.
How mad is Mum? I asked.
Wendy shook her head, ran her finger grimly across her neck, looked genuinely scared.
What should I do? Should I run away?
It was the first time I cried. Not because of my situation, not because of the trouble I was in, but because I was terrified of what I didn’t yet know.
Wendy cuddled me. What were you thinking, you idiot idiot girl? She started shaking me, silently. She slapped my face hard and then she kissed me over and over. She said I love you I hate you I love you I hate you – over and over again. Then she pulled at her hair and rocked back and forth. She does this when she’s stressed. She pulled small chunks of hair right out. She’s always done that too – when I was little, I used to tickle her arms to make her stop.
What’ll happen? I wanted to know. What should I do?
I haven’t a clue, she said, distraught.
Then she gave a huge grin and cupped my face in her hands. Anyway! she breezed. Look! And she held out her hand and the sparkle of the ring filled the room. I’m engaged! Jimmy and I are getting married. Oh, isn’t it the best!
Wendy can do that – she can be one way and then immediately the other. She can be down in the depths one minute, then soaring at a dizzying height in a split second without you seeing how she got there. She can be with you – and then away from you. She’s always been that way.
All she did after that was talk at me about wedding dresses and cakes and who would be at the reception. And it was just such a relief, if momentary, to escape into the fairy tale of my sister’s making.
Wendy, I pleaded when finally she broke for breath, Wendy – won’t you please help me?
