(clean, unironed, shapeless, not a dress for winter) now protruded thin stockingless legs and thin forearms whose shade of fluff caught the light. When she strained to hook her coat on the stand’s tall curlicue, the dress rode wispily up her Bambi thighs. See? She really is my sister and she really is about ten.
I opened my third packet of cigarettes that day and poured out the wine brought to us smartly enough by the uppity waiter. Round about us, sexy youngsters laughed and whispered.
‘Whew, Terry!’ said Ursula. ‘You
are
nervy tonight.’
‘I know. Look at my hands.’
Ursula had just returned from a weekend with her parents at home. We talked about it, that secure and companionable-seeming place (I used to go back there a lot. I don’t any more and neither does Gregory. I don’t like going away at all any more: I’m frightened something might happen behind my back. And home gives me the horrors, anyway). Apparently father’s ankle had healed after his celebrated fall from the barn roof; he now claimed to be fleeter of foot than at any period of his life. Recent stories about him included his heckling of — and subsequent scuffle with — the left-wing vicar of the village church, his new passion for indoor bowls, his continued refusal to eat vegetables, his second wave this year of horrendous spending sprees, his third early-morning pass at the septuagenarian cleaning-lady, and his decision to erect a wigwam in the main sitting-room.
‘Christ, everything’s falling apart these days,’ I said. ‘I suppose he really must be a bit mad, mustn’t he?’
Ursula’s expression — like mine, one of vestigial amusement — did not change. ‘Of course. He always has been. All of us lot always have been. You’re the lucky one, Ginger.’
‘Oh
that’s
what I am. I was wondering what I was. But you’re posh, you lot. It makes no odds if posh people go mad. They’re all mad anyway.’
‘That’s why you’re the lucky one — you’re not posh.’
‘Yes I am. I’m posh too now.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘What am I then?’
‘You’re a yob.’
No I’m not. I’m posh. I know everything there is to know about class, and about how you can locate it. I was present that historic evening five years ago when the girl sitting opposite me now came into the television room of Rivers Hall, where the family was watching a series about pre-war servants and their mistresses and masters, and unthinkingly curled up on her nanny’s lap. The nanny (since retd.) did not move as she accepted the weight of her fourteen-year-old charge.
At no point did they take their eyes off the screen
. I know all there is to know about class. I say sofa, what?, pepper-and-salt, lavatory, vale
t
(I could even say behind instead of ass if I liked). When
I
was fourteen I did a quiz in a magazine: anyone who completed this quiz, the idea was, would know at once how posh they were. Halfway through — yes, I tipped the soup bowl away from me; no, I didn’t put the milk in first — I could tell I was going to be very posh indeed. The last question was about what you had called your children, or what you would call them if you ever had any (this was when people could still afford them). Would you call your son (a) Sebastian, Clarence, Montague, or (b) Michael, James, Robert, or … As I poised to give the (b) section an imperious tick (I hadn’t fallen for all that (a) bullshit), my eye trailed over the (c) section, which ran: (c) Norman, Keith, Terry. The biro tinkled from my hand. So my dad was a yob. So what else is new? (Do you stillthink any of that matters, class and so on? It doesn’t. It’s crap. It’s
crap.
)
‘Yobs go
tonto
too, you know,’ I said.
‘Oh no they don’t,’ said Ursula.
‘Oh yes they do. What’s it like?’ I asked dully, ‘ — I mean leaving home and stopping being at school and being in a town and jobs and everything? I’ve been doing it for ages now and I still can’t tell what
I opened my third packet of cigarettes that day and poured out the wine brought to us smartly enough by the uppity waiter. Round about us, sexy youngsters laughed and whispered.
‘Whew, Terry!’ said Ursula. ‘You
are
nervy tonight.’
‘I know. Look at my hands.’
Ursula had just returned from a weekend with her parents at home. We talked about it, that secure and companionable-seeming place (I used to go back there a lot. I don’t any more and neither does Gregory. I don’t like going away at all any more: I’m frightened something might happen behind my back. And home gives me the horrors, anyway). Apparently father’s ankle had healed after his celebrated fall from the barn roof; he now claimed to be fleeter of foot than at any period of his life. Recent stories about him included his heckling of — and subsequent scuffle with — the left-wing vicar of the village church, his new passion for indoor bowls, his continued refusal to eat vegetables, his second wave this year of horrendous spending sprees, his third early-morning pass at the septuagenarian cleaning-lady, and his decision to erect a wigwam in the main sitting-room.
‘Christ, everything’s falling apart these days,’ I said. ‘I suppose he really must be a bit mad, mustn’t he?’
Ursula’s expression — like mine, one of vestigial amusement — did not change. ‘Of course. He always has been. All of us lot always have been. You’re the lucky one, Ginger.’
‘Oh
that’s
what I am. I was wondering what I was. But you’re posh, you lot. It makes no odds if posh people go mad. They’re all mad anyway.’
‘That’s why you’re the lucky one — you’re not posh.’
‘Yes I am. I’m posh too now.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘What am I then?’
‘You’re a yob.’
No I’m not. I’m posh. I know everything there is to know about class, and about how you can locate it. I was present that historic evening five years ago when the girl sitting opposite me now came into the television room of Rivers Hall, where the family was watching a series about pre-war servants and their mistresses and masters, and unthinkingly curled up on her nanny’s lap. The nanny (since retd.) did not move as she accepted the weight of her fourteen-year-old charge.
At no point did they take their eyes off the screen
. I know all there is to know about class. I say sofa, what?, pepper-and-salt, lavatory, vale
t
(I could even say behind instead of ass if I liked). When
I
was fourteen I did a quiz in a magazine: anyone who completed this quiz, the idea was, would know at once how posh they were. Halfway through — yes, I tipped the soup bowl away from me; no, I didn’t put the milk in first — I could tell I was going to be very posh indeed. The last question was about what you had called your children, or what you would call them if you ever had any (this was when people could still afford them). Would you call your son (a) Sebastian, Clarence, Montague, or (b) Michael, James, Robert, or … As I poised to give the (b) section an imperious tick (I hadn’t fallen for all that (a) bullshit), my eye trailed over the (c) section, which ran: (c) Norman, Keith, Terry. The biro tinkled from my hand. So my dad was a yob. So what else is new? (Do you stillthink any of that matters, class and so on? It doesn’t. It’s crap. It’s
crap.
)
‘Yobs go
tonto
too, you know,’ I said.
‘Oh no they don’t,’ said Ursula.
‘Oh yes they do. What’s it like?’ I asked dully, ‘ — I mean leaving home and stopping being at school and being in a town and jobs and everything? I’ve been doing it for ages now and I still can’t tell what
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