One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [46]
The Bosnian war was still topical and it gave him a bit of glamour, I think. He used to talk about it a lot, although these days, less so. In fact, not at all. And he was impatient when it was mentioned. My father, who’d often got maps out and spoken to him about it, thinking it was important, had been surprised at the brusque way Seffy no longer wanted to discuss it. But Mum said it was only natural: he was English, for heaven’s sake, at an English public school. All his friends were called Tom, Sam and Harry, he wanted to fit in, move on, not be different. He was growing up. He was. Up until he was about twelve, he’d still crawl into my bed for a cuddle. Not now, of course.
When I next went to speak to him, I saw he was already watching me in the rear-view mirror.
‘Hungry?’ I smiled.
‘Starving. Breakfast had finished by the time I got up, so I missed it.’
‘Oh, Seffy, don’t they make you get up in time? What’s that matron doing, filing her nails?’
‘We’re deemed Responsible Adults.’ He made ironic quotation marks in the air. ‘Old enough to get ourselves up.’
‘Yes, but still,’ I grumbled as we pulled into the front drive and crunched to a halt. ‘They should make some provision for adolescent torpor. Left to your own devices, I’m surprised you get up for lessons.’
‘I don’t always,’ he said softly as he climbed out of the car, then seeing my horrified face: ‘Joke, Mother. Chill. I’ve haven’t missed one at Lightbrook yet, OK?’
Although I missed quite a few at Westminster, was implicit in that, I thought as he slouched up the drive, hands in his overcoat pockets, to the house. Biba and Daisy, behind him, were yelling that he could at least help with their bags, or didn’t they teach those sort of manners at top public schools any more? He turned and walked backwards towards the front door, cupping his ear, quizzically, aping deafness. What? Can’t hear. They appealed to their mother who’d just that minute pulled up beside us in her four-by-four, Charlie in the front seat, fresh from his prep school, looking impossibly gorgeous and freckly, his face lighting up when he saw Seffy, banging on the window to attract his attention. Laura, though, when she’d got out and hugged her daughters, refused to censure her nephew.
‘Well, if you girls worked harder on your charm, perhaps he might help. I always found the delicate-flower routine worked wonders.’
Seffy stopped walking backwards and widened his eyes in mock delight. ‘Oh, I love delicate flowers,’ he assured his cousins. ‘Now if you were a bit more like your mother, a bit more…’ he wrinkled his brow, ‘gentle, feminine…’ He didn’t get any further, though, as, roaring like banshees, the girls chased him into the house, Biba taking off a shoe and hurling it at him, Charlie on their heels, shrieking with delight and shedding his blazer as he raced after them. Laura and I sighed and stooped to pick up the heavy bags, obviously.
Supper that evening was a noisy affair. Mum and Dad, down from London, were there in their favourite role as grandparents, Kit was relaxed amongst his family, and Maggie made an easy guest. As a single girl she was accustomed to singing for her supper and could be very droll, but also thrived on drawing people out, something no one in my family needed, but were all delighted to do, given the opportunity. She was leaning her chin in her hand at the kitchen table now, making huge eyes at Kit.
‘It must be wonderful having a calling, a vocation,’ she was saying as Laura and I hustled vegetable dishes to the table, Laura telling her daughters they could at least lend a hand, instead of poring over her latest copy of Hello!. They shut it grudgingly, and slouched to the table.
‘Oh, I feel very blessed,’ Kit agreed.
‘And you really stepped up to the plate, didn’t you? Gave up so much. I mean, materially, if you were thinking of going into the City. I