How long will that take?' asked Colin.
' An hour. '
She put loaves of bread on the table, then butter, cheese, plates. They polished off the Stilton, and began serious eating, the vandalised tray pushed aside.
' Mother, said Colin, ' we've got to ask Sophie to come and live here. '
But she is practically living here. '
'No properly. It's got nothing to do with me ... I mean, I'm not saying Sophie and me are a fixture, that isn't it. She can't go on at home. You wouldn't believe what she's like, Sophie's mother. She cries and grabs Sophie and says they must jump off a bridge together, or take poison. Imagine living with that?' It sounded as if he were accusing her, Frances, and, hearing that he did, said differently, even apologetically, ' If you could just get a taste of that house, it's like walking into the Black Hole of Calcutta.'
'You know how much I like Sophie. But I don't really see Sophie going down into the basement to share with Rose and whoever turns up. I take it you aren't expecting her to move in with you?'
'Well... no, it's not... that's not on. But she could camp in the living-room, we hardly ever use it. '
' If you've packed up with Sophie, do I have your permission to take my chance?' enquired Andrew. Im madly in love with Sophie, as everyone must know. '
I didn't say...
And now these two young men reverted to the condition schoolboy, began jostling each other, elbow to elbow, knee to knee.
' Happy Christmas, said Frances, and they desisted.
' Talking of Rose, where is she? said Andrew. Did she go home.'
Of course not, said Colin. ' She's downstairs, alternately sobbing her heart out and making up her face. '
How do you know?' asked Andrew.
You forget the advantages of a progressive school. I know all about women. '
I wish I did. While my education is in every way better than yours, I fail continually in the human department. '
You' re doing pretty well with Sylvia, said Frances.
'Yes, but she isn't a woman, is she? More the ghost of a little child someone has murdered. '
'That's awful,' said Frances.
But how true, said Colin.
'If Rose is really downstairs, I suppose we had better ask her up, said Frances.
'Do we have to? said Andrew. 'It's so nice en famille for once.'
Ill ask her, said Colin, ' or she'll be taking an overdose and then saying it's our fault. '
He leaped up and off down the stairs. The two who remained said nothing, only looked at each other, as they heard the wail from beneath, presumably of welcome, Colin's loud common-sensical voice, and then Rose came in, propelled by Colin.
She was heavily made up, her eyes pencilled in black, false black eyelashes, purple eye-shadow. She was angry, accusing, appealing, and was evidently about to cry.
'There'll be some Christmas pudding,' said Frances.
But Rose had seen the fruit on the tray and was picking it over. What's this? she demanded aggressively, What is it?' She held up a lychee.
You must have tasted that, you get it after a Chinese meal, for pudding, said Andrew.
What Chinese meal? I never get Chinese meals. '
Let me. ' Colin peeled the lychee, the crisp fragments of delicately indented shell exposing the pearly lucent fruit, like a little moon egg, which, having removed the shiny black pip he handed to Rose who swallowed it, and said, ' That's nothing much, it's not worth the fuss. '
You should let it lie on your tongue, you should let its inwardness speak to your inwardness, said Colin. He allowed himself his most owlish expression, and looked like an apprentice judge who lacked only the wig, as he cracked open another lychee, and handed it to Rose, delicately, between forefinger and thumb. She sat with it in her mouth, like a child refusing to swallow, then did, and said, ' It's a con. '
At once the brothers swept the plate of fruit towards them, and divided it between them. Rose sat with her mouth open, staring, and now she really was going to cry. 'Ohhhhh,' she wailed, ' you are so horrible. It's not my fault I've never had a Chinese meal.'
Well, you've had Christmas pudding and that's what you are going to get next, said Frances.
Im so hungry, ' wept Rose.
' Then eat some bread and cheese. '
'Bread and cheese at Christmas?'
'That's all I had,' said Frances. 'Now shut up, Rose.'
Rose stopped mid-wail, stared incredulously at Frances, and allowed to develop the full gamut of the adolescent misunderstood: flashing eyes and pouting lips, and heaving bosom.
Andrew cut a piece of bread, loaded it with butter, then cheese. ' Here, ' he said.
Ill get fat, eating all that butter. '
Andrew took his offering back and began eating it himself. Rose sat swelling with outrage and tears. No one looked at her. Then she reached for the loaf, cut a thin slice, smeared on a little butter, put on a few crumbs of cheese. She didn't eat however, but sat staring at it: Look at my Christmas dinner.
'I shall sing a Christmas carol,' said Andrew, 'to fill in the time before the pudding. '
He began on Silent Night' , and Colin said, Shut up, Andrew, it's more than I can bear, it really is. '