Whiteout - Ken Follett [40]
“Did he say why?”
“No.”
Tom piped up: “He’s probably bringing a girl, and doesn’t want us all to hear her squeals of delight.”
The kitchen went quiet. Miranda was astonished. Where had that come from? Tom was eleven, and never talked about sex. After a moment, they all burst out laughing. Tom looked bashful, and said, “I read that in a book.” He was probably trying to seem grown-up in front of Sophie, Miranda decided. He was still a little boy, but not for much longer.
Stanley said, “Anyway, I don’t mind where anyone sleeps, you know that.” He looked at his watch distractedly. “I have to watch the lunchtime news on television.”
Miranda said, “I’m sorry about the technician who died. What made him do it?”
“We all get weird ideas into our heads, but a lonely person has no one to tell him not to be crazy.”
The door opened and Olga came in. As always, she entered speaking. “This weather is a nightmare! People are skidding all over the place. Is that wine you’re drinking? Let me have some before I explode. Nellie, please don’t sniff me there, it’s considered vulgar in human society. Hello, Daddy, how are you?”
“Nella merde,” he said.
Miranda recognized one of her mother’s expressions. It meant “in the shit.” Mamma Marta had fondly imagined that if she swore in Italian the children would not understand.
Olga said, “I heard about the guy who died. Is it so bad for you?”
“We’ll see when we watch the news.”
Olga was followed in by her husband, Hugo, a small man with impish charm. When he kissed Miranda, his lips lingered on her cheek a second too long.
Olga said, “Where shall Hugo put the bags?”
“Upstairs,” said Miranda.
“I suppose you’ve staked your claim to the cottage.”
“No, Kit’s having it.”
“Oh, please!” Olga protested. “That big double bed and a nice bathroom and kitchenette, all for one person, while the four of us share the poky old bathroom upstairs?”
“He particularly asked for it.”
“Well, I’m particularly asking for it.”
Miranda felt irritated with her sister. “For God’s sake, Olga, think of someone other than yourself for a change. You know Kit hasn’t been here since . . . that whole mess. I just want to make sure he has a good time.”
“So he’s getting the best bedroom because he stole from Daddy—is that your logic?”
“You’re talking like an advocate again. Save it for your learned friends.”
“All right, you two,” their father said, sounding just as he had when they were small. “In this case, I think Olga’s right. It’s selfish of Kit to demand the cottage all to himself. Miranda and Ned can sleep there.”
Olga said, “So no one gets what they want.”
Miranda sighed. Why was Olga arguing? They all knew their father. Most of the time he would give you anything you wanted, but when he said no it was final. He might be indulgent, but he could not be bullied.
Now he said, “It will teach you not to quarrel.”
“No, it won’t. You’ve been imposing these judgments of Solomon for thirty years, and we still haven’t learned.”
Stanley smiled. “You’re right. My approach to child rearing has been wrong all along. Should I start again?”
“Too late.”
“Thank God for that.”
Miranda just hoped Kit would not be offended enough to turn right around and drive away. The argument was ended by the entrance of Caroline and Craig, the children of Hugo and Olga.
Caroline, seventeen, was carrying a cage containing several white rats. Nellie sniffed it excitedly. Caroline related to animals as a way of avoiding people. It was a phase many girls went through but, Miranda thought, at seventeen she should have got over it.
Craig, fifteen, carried two plastic garbage bags crammed with wrapped gifts. He had Hugo’s wicked grin, though he was tall like Olga. He put the bags down, greeted the family perfunctorily, and made a beeline for Sophie. They had met once before, Miranda recalled, at Olga’s birthday party. “You got your belly button pierced!” Craig said to Sophie. “Cool! Did it hurt?”
Miranda became aware that there was a stranger in the room. The newcomer, a woman, stood by the door to the hall, so she must have come in by