Brothers & Sisters - Charlotte Wood [48]
‘When I got stuck with Bluebell’s Voyage,’ said Judy, ‘and I didn’t know what to write next, I remembered what you once said, darling, when we were kids.’
‘What did I say?’ said Tony, swivelling in Judy’s direction. ‘What’s all this getting at me about?’
‘You said all the words were there waiting, everything we’d ever say in our lives. You said the words were in the wind.’
‘Well, even without us the wind keeps blowing,’ said Tony, and without knowing why, felt radio drop from his life, needs, and necessity.
TROUBLE
Tegan Bennett Daylight
Emma and I were walking home from school together. It was September, spring, with a cheerful breeze running along with us, new leaves lit and flickering, the houses hung with wisteria and jasmine. We were walking with Peter, who had been troublesomely in love with Emma for several years. If she’d been alone he might not have dared to follow her, but her younger, noisier sister made it easy. I was, without knowing it, combative; sparring with me had relieved the nerves of more than one of Emma’s boyfriends. Emma walked silently beside us, a spray of jasmine dangling from one hand.
A truck, uncommon in our money-quiet suburb, screamed past us. When it had gone, Peter said, ‘A truck drove into my house once.’
‘No, really?’ I was balancing on the low stone wall that ran beside the road. ‘Tell us about it,’ I said, hopping off the wall to land next to him.
He glanced at Emma, who continued to watch the pavement in front of her, which was lumpy with tree roots.
‘We lived on a corner,’ said Peter. ‘It came too fast on the way round, and its brakes failed. It went straight through the fence and into the side of the house.’
‘Amazing,’ I said.
‘It was a big deal!’ said Peter. ‘If I’d been playing in the yard it would have killed me!’
Suddenly inspired, I said sweetly, ‘Do you often play in the yard, little boy?’
Emma snorted with laughter and Peter blushed angrily. He was quite a handsome boy, with thick blond hair and long eyelashes. ‘It was years ago. I was much younger.’
A magpie whose nest we were passing swooped suddenly, clicking its beak in Peter’s hair. He swung at it in fright. It flew up into the branches ahead of us and perched there, glaring.
‘Come on,’ I said, prodding Peter in the small of his back.
‘You’re much bigger than it is,’ said Emma.
We went forward, turning to face the bird as we passed, then continuing to walk backwards. The magpie snapped its beak again and hopped along the branch speculatively, but did not swoop.
When I was eighteen Emma and I moved to London, using money that our grandmother had left us. We had a place to stay: a flat, belonging to wealthy friends of our parents, who lived for the most part in their farmhouse in Surrey. They were in their sixties, and had no children. The flat was furnished with cream carpet and cream brocade sofas. The windows had double glazing, so that the traffic outside could hardly be heard, although it made the ground bounce under your feet when you went outside. The kitchen shone. We took our boots off at the door when we came in, and the carpet would always be warm underfoot.
In our second week Emma started applying for work. I went with her to her first interview and sat outside on the street, in a quickly shifting rectangle of sunlight. First the sunlight was on the steps of the office, which was in a silent lane of low sandstone buildings with pretty window boxes. No cars. Then it moved to the pavement, so I sat there, my back against the cold stone. When the light moved onto the road itself I stayed where I was, growing colder, watching it cross the narrow space.
The door next to me opened and Emma was handed out by a man in a white shirt and linen pants. My legs had gone to sleep. I tried to get up to say hello but the door closed before I was upright.
‘Did you get it?’ I said. I put one hand on the stone wall for balance while I flexed my stiff feet.
‘Pretty much,’ said Emma.