a go at smiling.
‘Oh, sorry, kid, didn’t see you. This is Chris; Chris Baudelaire – he’s adopted. He doesn’t stand up when he meets girls, but that’s probably just an attack of spleen.’
I stuck out a hand and tried to make up for lost ground.
‘What did you say her name was, this chippy of yours?’ I asked; but somehow it didn’t come out as witty and ironic; just gawky and ill-bred.
‘Jeanne Duval to you,’ he replied, despite warning glances from our father. ‘And next time, Chris, you don’t put out the hand until it’s offered, OK?’
I sat back in my chair again, as an act of aggression. Nigel sat ‘her’ on the sofa next to him. Then they both got the sherry treatment. I stared at the girl’s legs, but couldn’t find any fault. Not knowing what to look for didn’t help. Her stockings seemed all right too – no holes, seams straight, and despite a low sofa tipping her backwards, there wasn’t a touch of stocking top (which I yearned for, and yearned to disapprove of).
I spent the whole evening hating Ginny (what a stupidname for a start). Hating her for what she was doing to my brother (like helping him grow up); hating her for what she was going to do to my relationship with him (like ending the few boyish games we still played together); and hating her, most of all, for being herself. A girl, a different order of being.
The evening was full of humiliating reminders that I was still a kid. I didn’t get wine with my dinner (I didn’t like wine, but that was hardly the point) and my glass of orange squash mocked me unbearably. I tried ignoring it at first, but found it grew louder and more contemptuous in colour as the meal progressed, until, by the time the matching orange pudding was brought in, it was practically flashing out I-M-M-A-T-U-R-E like an illuminated sign, and I gulped it down in one draught. My attempts to assert bonds of adolescence with my brother went unanswered; my appeals to holidays, shared japes, my God even SF, were all rebuffed. The culminating moment came when I turned to Nigel and began
‘Do you remember when we …’
but got no further as he broke in with a forcefully languid
‘Can’t say I do, kid.’
At which this girl, this Ginny, simpered. Christ, she was obnoxious. I scarcely looked at her all evening; I certainly didn’t listen to the little she said; enough that I hated her. She simpered, she pouted, she played up to the Front Seat, she made hypocritical noises about the food. Wait till I told Toni about her . We’d mince her .
‘My brother brought his new chippy home last night,’ I told Toni casually, as we sipped our milk during break the next morning with the habitual, affected disgust of gourmets (you never knew, there might be someone watching). He frowned his eyebrows together and twinkled his eyes. Here came the SST test.
‘Soul?’
‘No, absolutely none, I’d say. No more than most, if you ask me. Still waters running shallow is what it looked like.’
‘Suffering?’
‘Well, her father’s dead, I managed to get that out of her,but when I started asking if it was suicide they all pretended to be fantastically épated and shut me up. She toadied like a hot bitch to my mum, which may of course mean that her own beat her as a kid.’
‘Yeah, or it may just mean she wanted to grease up.’
‘She’s certainly got some Two-S coming to her though.’
‘How?’
‘Going around with my bro.’
‘Do you think he’s tried it on?’
‘She sat next to him on the sofa.’
‘Collar test? Hair test? Eye interchange?’
‘All negative. We didn’t have the telly on, unfortunately. I tried to push for Wells Fargo , but no one seemed keen.’
Toni and I had worked out an infallible television test. No one can watch a kiss – at least, a long-drawn-out oil-drilling sort of kiss – without somehow giving away what they feel. You couldn’t observe directly, but by sitting close to the telly and staring at the reflection
‘Oh, sorry, kid, didn’t see you. This is Chris; Chris Baudelaire – he’s adopted. He doesn’t stand up when he meets girls, but that’s probably just an attack of spleen.’
I stuck out a hand and tried to make up for lost ground.
‘What did you say her name was, this chippy of yours?’ I asked; but somehow it didn’t come out as witty and ironic; just gawky and ill-bred.
‘Jeanne Duval to you,’ he replied, despite warning glances from our father. ‘And next time, Chris, you don’t put out the hand until it’s offered, OK?’
I sat back in my chair again, as an act of aggression. Nigel sat ‘her’ on the sofa next to him. Then they both got the sherry treatment. I stared at the girl’s legs, but couldn’t find any fault. Not knowing what to look for didn’t help. Her stockings seemed all right too – no holes, seams straight, and despite a low sofa tipping her backwards, there wasn’t a touch of stocking top (which I yearned for, and yearned to disapprove of).
I spent the whole evening hating Ginny (what a stupidname for a start). Hating her for what she was doing to my brother (like helping him grow up); hating her for what she was going to do to my relationship with him (like ending the few boyish games we still played together); and hating her, most of all, for being herself. A girl, a different order of being.
The evening was full of humiliating reminders that I was still a kid. I didn’t get wine with my dinner (I didn’t like wine, but that was hardly the point) and my glass of orange squash mocked me unbearably. I tried ignoring it at first, but found it grew louder and more contemptuous in colour as the meal progressed, until, by the time the matching orange pudding was brought in, it was practically flashing out I-M-M-A-T-U-R-E like an illuminated sign, and I gulped it down in one draught. My attempts to assert bonds of adolescence with my brother went unanswered; my appeals to holidays, shared japes, my God even SF, were all rebuffed. The culminating moment came when I turned to Nigel and began
‘Do you remember when we …’
but got no further as he broke in with a forcefully languid
‘Can’t say I do, kid.’
At which this girl, this Ginny, simpered. Christ, she was obnoxious. I scarcely looked at her all evening; I certainly didn’t listen to the little she said; enough that I hated her. She simpered, she pouted, she played up to the Front Seat, she made hypocritical noises about the food. Wait till I told Toni about her . We’d mince her .
‘My brother brought his new chippy home last night,’ I told Toni casually, as we sipped our milk during break the next morning with the habitual, affected disgust of gourmets (you never knew, there might be someone watching). He frowned his eyebrows together and twinkled his eyes. Here came the SST test.
‘Soul?’
‘No, absolutely none, I’d say. No more than most, if you ask me. Still waters running shallow is what it looked like.’
‘Suffering?’
‘Well, her father’s dead, I managed to get that out of her,but when I started asking if it was suicide they all pretended to be fantastically épated and shut me up. She toadied like a hot bitch to my mum, which may of course mean that her own beat her as a kid.’
‘Yeah, or it may just mean she wanted to grease up.’
‘She’s certainly got some Two-S coming to her though.’
‘How?’
‘Going around with my bro.’
‘Do you think he’s tried it on?’
‘She sat next to him on the sofa.’
‘Collar test? Hair test? Eye interchange?’
‘All negative. We didn’t have the telly on, unfortunately. I tried to push for Wells Fargo , but no one seemed keen.’
Toni and I had worked out an infallible television test. No one can watch a kiss – at least, a long-drawn-out oil-drilling sort of kiss – without somehow giving away what they feel. You couldn’t observe directly, but by sitting close to the telly and staring at the reflection
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