Injury Time - Beryl Bainbridge [13]
It was as well, thought Binny, that the Simpsons weren’t coming until eight o’clock. Edward pretended that he didn’t mind about Mrs Papastavrou, that he’d grown used to her. But he hadn’t. He stood well back from the window, both saddened and embarrassed, while the children snickered with laughter and the old lady, marooned on her balcony, wailed like a banshee.
‘Alison won’t,’ said Lucy, coming back into the room.
‘Well, make her,’ shouted Binny, stamping her foot. She was beginning to breathe quite heavily. ‘I would be grateful if you would get your own things together as well. Have you got your nightdress?’
‘Don’t be bloody wet,’ said Lucy. She went to the table and tore at a french loaf with her teeth.
‘I don’t want to remind you of the shirt I bought you,’ Binny said. ‘Or the pair of shoes costing twenty-four pounds that you said you couldn’t live without and promptly gave to your friend Soggy. When I was your age I was grateful if my mother gave me a smile.’
‘I lent them, you fool,’ corrected Lucy.
Binny’s voice became shrill. ‘I’ve long since given up expecting gratitude or common courtesy, but I do expect you to get Alison and yourself out of the house. It’s little enough to ask, God knows.’
‘Keep your lid on,’ said Lucy. She began to comb her hair at the mirror. Strands of hair and crumbs of bread fell to the hearth. Binny could feel a pulse beating in her throat. She burned with fury. No wonder she never put on an ounce of weight. The daily aggravation the children caused her was probably comparable to a five-mile run or an hour with the skipping rope. Clutching the region of her heart and fighting for self-control, she said insincerely, ‘Darling, you can be very sensitive and persuasive. Just tell her Sybil’s waiting and that there’s ice cream and things.’
Lucy strolled into the hall and called loudly, ‘Come down, Alison, or I’ll bash your teeth in.’
After several minutes a sound of barking was heard on the first-floor landing.
‘Baby,’ crooned Binny, going upstairs with outstretched arms. Alison was on all fours, crouched against the wall. Binny often told friends it was nothing to worry about. Until two years ago Alison had insisted on baring her tummy button in the street and rubbing it against lamp posts. She had grown out of that, as doubtless she would soon grow tired of pretending she was a dog.
‘Come along, darling,’ said Binny brightly. She bent down and patted her daughter’s head.
Alison growled and seized Binny’s ankle in her teeth.
Putting both hands behind her to resist hitting the child, Binny descended the stairs.
Lucy was at the sink pouring cooking sherry into a milk bottle.
‘Out, out, out,’ cried Binny. ‘I am not here to provide booze for your layabout friends. This is not an off-licence.’
She frogmarched Lucy to the door and pushed her down the steps. Alison began to cry. Running down the path, Binny caught up with Lucy at the hedge and put desperate arms about her. She said urgently, ‘Now please, pull yourself together. Get your things, take your coat, and I’ll give you a pound note to spend.’
Smirking, Lucy re-entered the house and began to put on her flying jacket. Smothering her youngest daughter in kisses, Binny took her to the door. She nodded blindly as Alison climbed the fence.
‘You’re crying, Mummy,’ called Alison. Her mouth quivered.
‘I’m very happy, darling,’ said Binny. ‘Don’t you worry about me.’ She wiped her cheeks with her hand. ‘I’m going to have a lovely party.’ She stood there waving until Alison was let into the Evans’s.
Lucy had locked herself in the bathroom. Binny blew crumbs off the tablecloth and attended to the cushions on the sofa. She cut the end off the mutilated loaf and straightened the reproduction of The Last Supper that hung askew on the wall. Then she called gently down the hall that she would like to use the lavatory.
‘Go away,’ snarled Lucy. ‘I’m trying to have a crap.’
Binny left a pound note on the table and climbed the stairs. She walked round and round