Page 35 of Little Wing
‘But you can hear me,’ Nell called down. ‘Who is Florence?’
She’s walking out! Marjorie was ignoring her and walking to the exit! Nell started to make her way down the steps but at the same time Marjorie stopped, figuring out that a scene in an empty, soundproofed lecture hall was probably preferable to one playing out in the foyer in front of an audience.
‘Who’, said Nell, ‘is Florence?’
She was a tier up, but close now to her aunt who kept her hand raised like a peaked cap across her forehead. Nell didn’t think the lighting warranted it and it made it hard to decipher Marjorie’s expression. Was that regret or annoyance? Were her lips pursed in anger or disquiet or simply to keep secrets contained? And her eyes – indignation or remorse? What was going on in that soul of hers and was her heart beating hard behind that crisp cotton shirt the colour of summer skies?
‘Florence,’ said Nell again, not caring that her voice cracked. ‘Who is Florence?’ She searched her aunt’s face but her expression remained unnervingly illegible. ‘You wereallgiven those cups and saucers and plates with the Queen and her nice hair. My mum broke her plate the day she got it. Is that Florence’s set in your cupboard?’
‘Yes,’ said Marjorie. ‘It’s hers.’
Nell’s head pounded. What was she to say next? Why was this lecture theatre so cold? What was written on her aunt’s face?
‘Who – is Florence?’ Simple question and one yet to be answered.
‘Florence was the youngest,’ Marjorie said simply.
‘Youngest sister?’
‘Yes. I was fifteen when she was born. Your mother was ten.’
Nell sat down. It was true, then. ‘Why did I not know this?’
Marjorie wasn’t going to answer that.
‘Where is she now?’
Nor that.
What next. Keep going. ‘Why—?’
‘She was born in 1952,’ Marjorie nodded, her voice steady and unemotional.
‘Aunt Em—’ Nell rubbed at her face. ‘Is there something I don’t know?’
Marjorie looked straight at her, steel eyes and emotionless. ‘On a need-to-know basis, no – I’d say no.’
‘If I asked my Mum, if I ask Wendy, what will she tell me?’
Marjorie shrugged, an eyebrow raised, nothing soft. ‘I have to go, Nell. This is all quite unexpected. A colleague wants to see me. And I have a meeting. And my research.’
‘Oh, fuck your bloody research!’
Two students had entered but quickly exited.
‘I beg your—!’
What was her aunt going to do – tell her off ? Give her an F?
‘Why does Mum callmeFlorence?’ Nell paused but her heartbeat was so fast, so audible, it was as if her body was trying to block out the sound of the possible answer. ‘Why does my mum say she has no daughter?’
Why won’t Marjorie answer?
‘Do I look like her? Do I look like Florence?’
The redness creeping up Marjorie’s neck, a different tone of voice when it came, one Nell had never heard. It carried with it defeat. ‘Yes, Nell. You do.’
‘I do?’
