Dimitri, Dudley and Olive are swimming. My parents are sitting on the picnic blanket.
I paddle into the water. I’d like to swim too, but I didn’t bring a bathing costume with me.
“Where’s Margaret?”
My father turns towards me. “No idea,” he says, speaking slowly. His legs stand out, white against the sand.
“Papa, you’re drunk.”
“We’re simply enjoying the summer, sweetheart.” He doesn’t see my irritation, picks up a guitar and bursts into song. No one joins in.
I walk up the hill, looking for Margaret. It seems to be getting hotter and hotter. My body feels heavier. Sand on sand.
I walk along a little path that leads to the wood, its shade drawing me towards it. After a short climb, I see a meadow on my left. Swallows are circling above, swooping down almost to grass level, tumbling over each other, downwards, upwards. I follow the blue flowers. A hare bolts off.
I hear them before I can see them. “Ow, ow. Something’s stinging me.”
“Yes, darling. You did want to be beside the pond. Water means midges.”
I take another step, still hidden by the hill. I see them lying there, entwined, one body made from two, and then a leg moves, an arm. He’s tickling her. She pretends she wants to break free.
I recoil, stumble, out of sight already. They must have heard me, but so what? I was looking for Margaret. They shouldn’t have been so secretive. I refuse to walk quietly. There’s a crack between my breasts, spreading down through my whole body: first a line, then an opening, then a gaping hole. The path blurs. I angrily wipe the tears away. Why didn’t I know about this? Does everyone else know? Why couldn’t I see it? Why does he look at me like that then? And Margaret—she knows what I feel. They must have been laughing at me.
I run past my parents at a brisk trot, so they won’t notice my tears, pull my dress off when I reach the water, and jump in, clad only in my chemise, swimming underwater to the others. Dimitri whistles. Olive laughs. Dudley splashes water at me. I swim round the boat and imagine that the hole in my breast is filling with water. When I follow the others out of the river I feel as if I’ve turned to liquid. My mother looks at my chemise with distaste. My father’s eyes are sleepy. Drops of water run down my legs, making little streams that flow back to the estuary.
“We should go back soon,” my father says. “They’re forecasting bad weather at the end of the day.”
“Margie!” Dudley shouts at the top of his voice. “Paul!”
“Have they gone somewhere together then?” Olive says, frowning.
“Gwen, did you catch sight of them just now?” My mother takes off her sunglasses and throws a shawl round her shoulders.
I shake my head. A fist clenches in my stomach.
There comes Margaret, the filly, frisking back through the meadow, sketchbook in hand. “Are we leaving already? I was by a little pool. There were such beautiful butterflies there.” She shows my mother her drawings, traces the butterflies with her fingers.
“So it’s just Paul now.”
At that moment Paul comes towards us from the other direction. His shirt is rumpled and there is sand in his hair. “Am I late? Sorry. I went to the woods to write something and fell asleep there.”
Paul winks as he walks past me. I pretend not to notice and follow Olive to the fore-bench. She tells me about a book she was reading, where everything happens in a single day. Margaret joins my mother in the centre of the boat. “Are there any sandwiches left? I suddenly feel so hungry.”
My mother slowly opens the picnic basket, lengthening the scene. This is her moment. Dudley suddenly also feels hungry, and Paul as well.
My father holds out his hand. “I’d like another one too.”
“You’ve had enough already.” My mother closes the picnic basket, smiling.
My father pulls it towards him. My mother keeps a tight grip on the handle. My father tugs harder. My mother presses her lips together. She grasps the handle more tightly still and it breaks away from the basket at one side. She loses her balance and falls backwards. The sandwiches slide out, landing in a neat row one behind the other.
“For the fishes,” Margaret says, helping my mother to her feet again, and then she throws the sandwiches one by one into the water. Slices of cucumber are left on the bottom of the boat. My father sits down and stares intently at the horizon. Dudley and Paul steer the boat into the channel.
In the distance the clouds are piling higher, a dark-grey castle, and the only thing I long for is rain.
A rosy sun, rosy sky, blue sky, yellow sun. I’m lying in bed listening to Olive knock on the door, then my mother, then Olive again.
“Gwen?” she says, peeping her head round. “Are you all right?”
I sit up, my eyes feeling swollen. “I’m just a little unwell.”
“Cook will make you some porridge. Shall I ask her to bring it to your bedroom?”
I shake my head. “I’ll get up. Perhaps I ought to go out and get some fresh air.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? It’s eleven o’clock already.”
“Yes. Of course.” I get out of bed, wash my face with water from the jug on the tall table in the corner. In the corridor I peer at my face in the looking glass. Dark spiky hair, a sharp nose, long cheeks, questioning eyes—I understand. I can’t find anything attractive in my face either.
Dudley is lying like a beached seal, stretched out on the sofa. He’s reading a book, Jane Eyre. My book.
“Good morning.”
He turns a page with his fat fingers. His nails are rimmed with black. He does absolutely nothing at all. At least Kingsley works, at the factory owned by Dimitri’s father.
“I said, good morning!” A door slams upstairs. “That’s my book, by the way.”
“Crikey, Gwen. Are you picking a quarrel?” He doesn’t even look up as he says this.
I snatch the book from him, as if I’m eight instead of eighteen, as if he’s ten instead of twenty.
“You’re all so frightfully annoying.” Limb by limb he begins to shift his body. “Mama?” he calls upstairs. “I’m going swimming.”
Cook brings me the porridge. I eat it slowly, in small mouthfuls. When the plate is half empty, I take it to the kitchen. “Sorry,” I say to Cook. “I don’t feel very well.”
I feel calmer once I’m outside. The heat makes me feel much better. “Charles, wait a minute.” I could already see him from my window—he probably wants to go exploring with me. He waits in front of the house until I reach him, perched on the lowest branch of the oak tree. Then he darts up, flies off, flies back, far too frisky for this weather. The white rocks along the path feel warmer than usual and leave a chalkiness on my hand. My heart is beating much too fast. I slow down. The earth hums with heat. As I reach the first oak trees, I lose sight of Charles. He flew off down a side path and was flying too low for me to still see him. I choose the right path through sheer good luck. Something is rustling behind the fir trees—there’s not a hint of a breeze, so it must be an animal, a rabbit probably. The path leads to a clearing. We’ve been here before, in the winter, when the woods were icy and sealed, the tree branches black and hard, the creatures hungry. In the shadow of a pool I see Charles. He solemnly wades into the water, left foot, right foot, his feathers puffed out against the heat. As he sinks down, the water ripples slowly away from him in circles. I take off my shoes. “Good idea, little one,” I tell him.
Charles was only a few weeks old when my father found him. We thought he wouldn’t survive. But after the first night I was allowed to keep him in my own room. At first he slept in a shoebox, then in a canary cage. He can’t speak, but he understands a great deal and he’s just like a dog. He loves following me everywhere and when he was younger he loved to play with sticks and balls. As soon as he could fly properly, I’d leave the window open for him, even when it was frosty, especially when it was frosty. At first, he’d come indoors every evening, but later he stayed away. Sometimes he flies with a group of other Crows, but I don’t think he’s found himself a mate. Perhaps he’ll find someone next year, when they start nesting again in March.