determined not to meet her eye.
As children they used to torment each other with “the look” at the
Sunday lunches their parents gave for elderly relatives. These were awesome
occasions worthy of the ancient silver service; the venerable great-uncles and
-aunts and grandparents were Victorians, from their mother’s side of the
family, a baffled and severe folk, a lost tribe who arrived at the house in
black cloaks having wandered peevishly for two decades in an alien, frivolous
century. They terrified the ten-year-old Cecilia and her twelve-year-old
brother, and a giggling fit was always just a breath away. The one who caught
the look was helpless, the one who bestowed it, immune. Mostly, the power was
with
Leon
, whose look was
mock-solemn, and consisted of drawing the corners of his mouth downward while
rolling his eyes. He might ask Cecilia in the most innocent voice for the salt
to be passed, and though she averted her gaze as she handed it to him, though
she turned her head and inhaled deeply, it could be enough simply to know that
he was doing his look to consign her to ninety minutes of quaking torture.
Meanwhile,
Leon
would be free,
needing only to top her up occasionally if he thought she was beginning to
recover. Only rarely had she reduced him with an expression of haughty pouting.
Since the children were sometimes seated between adults, giving the look had
its dangers—making faces at table could bring down disgrace and an early
bedtime. The trick was to make the attempt while passing between, say, licking
one’s lips and smiling broadly, and at the same time catch the
other’s eye. On one occasion they had looked up and delivered their looks
simultaneously, causing
Leon
to spray soup from
his nostrils onto the wrist of a great-aunt. Both children were banished to
their rooms for the rest of the day.
Cecilia
longed to take her brother aside and tell him that Mr. Marshall had pubic hair
growing from his ears. He was describing the boardroom confrontation with the
man who called him a warmonger. She half raised her arm as though to smooth her
hair. Automatically,
Leon
’s attention was
drawn by the motion, and in that instant she delivered the look he had not seen
in more than ten years. He pursed his lips and turned away, and found something
of interest to stare at near his shoe. As
Marshall
turned to
Cecilia
,
Leon
raised a cupped hand
to shield his face, but could not disguise from his sister the tremor along his
shoulders. Fortunately for him,
Marshall
was reaching his
conclusion.
“ . . .
where one can, as it were, catch one’s breath.”
Immediately,
Leon
was on his feet. He
walked to the edge of the pool and contemplated a sodden red towel left near
the diving board. Then he strolled back to them, hands in pockets, quite
recovered.
He said to
Cecilia, “Guess who we met on the way in.”
“Robbie.”
“I told
him to join us tonight.”
“
Leon
! You
didn’t!”
He was in a
teasing mood. Revenge perhaps. He said to his friend, “So the cleaning
lady’s son gets a scholarship to the local grammar, gets a scholarship to
Cambridge, goes up the same time as Cee—and she hardly speaks to him in
three years! She wouldn’t let him
near
her Roedean chums.”
“You
should have asked me first.”
She was
genuinely annoyed, and observing this,
Marshall
said placatingly,
“I knew some grammar school types at
Oxford
and some of them were
damned clever. But they could be resentful, which was a bit rich, I
thought.”
She said,
“Have you got a cigarette?”
He offered
her one from a silver case, threw one to
Leon
and took one for
himself. They were all standing now, and as Cecilia leaned toward
Marshall
’s lighter,
Leon
said,
“He’s got a first-rate mind, so I don’t know what the hell he’s
doing, messing about in the flower beds.”
She went to
sit on the diving board and tried to give the appearance of relaxing, but her
tone was strained. “He’s wondering about a
As children they used to torment each other with “the look” at the
Sunday lunches their parents gave for elderly relatives. These were awesome
occasions worthy of the ancient silver service; the venerable great-uncles and
-aunts and grandparents were Victorians, from their mother’s side of the
family, a baffled and severe folk, a lost tribe who arrived at the house in
black cloaks having wandered peevishly for two decades in an alien, frivolous
century. They terrified the ten-year-old Cecilia and her twelve-year-old
brother, and a giggling fit was always just a breath away. The one who caught
the look was helpless, the one who bestowed it, immune. Mostly, the power was
with
Leon
, whose look was
mock-solemn, and consisted of drawing the corners of his mouth downward while
rolling his eyes. He might ask Cecilia in the most innocent voice for the salt
to be passed, and though she averted her gaze as she handed it to him, though
she turned her head and inhaled deeply, it could be enough simply to know that
he was doing his look to consign her to ninety minutes of quaking torture.
Meanwhile,
Leon
would be free,
needing only to top her up occasionally if he thought she was beginning to
recover. Only rarely had she reduced him with an expression of haughty pouting.
Since the children were sometimes seated between adults, giving the look had
its dangers—making faces at table could bring down disgrace and an early
bedtime. The trick was to make the attempt while passing between, say, licking
one’s lips and smiling broadly, and at the same time catch the
other’s eye. On one occasion they had looked up and delivered their looks
simultaneously, causing
Leon
to spray soup from
his nostrils onto the wrist of a great-aunt. Both children were banished to
their rooms for the rest of the day.
Cecilia
longed to take her brother aside and tell him that Mr. Marshall had pubic hair
growing from his ears. He was describing the boardroom confrontation with the
man who called him a warmonger. She half raised her arm as though to smooth her
hair. Automatically,
Leon
’s attention was
drawn by the motion, and in that instant she delivered the look he had not seen
in more than ten years. He pursed his lips and turned away, and found something
of interest to stare at near his shoe. As
Marshall
turned to
Cecilia
,
Leon
raised a cupped hand
to shield his face, but could not disguise from his sister the tremor along his
shoulders. Fortunately for him,
Marshall
was reaching his
conclusion.
“ . . .
where one can, as it were, catch one’s breath.”
Immediately,
Leon
was on his feet. He
walked to the edge of the pool and contemplated a sodden red towel left near
the diving board. Then he strolled back to them, hands in pockets, quite
recovered.
He said to
Cecilia, “Guess who we met on the way in.”
“Robbie.”
“I told
him to join us tonight.”
“
Leon
! You
didn’t!”
He was in a
teasing mood. Revenge perhaps. He said to his friend, “So the cleaning
lady’s son gets a scholarship to the local grammar, gets a scholarship to
Cambridge, goes up the same time as Cee—and she hardly speaks to him in
three years! She wouldn’t let him
near
her Roedean chums.”
“You
should have asked me first.”
She was
genuinely annoyed, and observing this,
Marshall
said placatingly,
“I knew some grammar school types at
Oxford
and some of them were
damned clever. But they could be resentful, which was a bit rich, I
thought.”
She said,
“Have you got a cigarette?”
He offered
her one from a silver case, threw one to
Leon
and took one for
himself. They were all standing now, and as Cecilia leaned toward
Marshall
’s lighter,
Leon
said,
“He’s got a first-rate mind, so I don’t know what the hell he’s
doing, messing about in the flower beds.”
She went to
sit on the diving board and tried to give the appearance of relaxing, but her
tone was strained. “He’s wondering about a
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