Julia desperately. ‘I need company, Cassandra.’ It had always been like this. Always asking, for something she should long ago have known better than to expect. Cassandra looked at her, silently; the muscles of her face were stiff, and Julia could see the swelling round her eyes. She was nobody you could comfort.
‘I know you don’t want – to talk.’
‘There’s nothing to say.’
Well,
some
sisters might bloody well talk to each other, Julia’s mind snapped, crossly. For company.
‘Mother’s gone to sleep. Out of exhaustion. Thor’s with Debbie. Debbie’s gone all hysterical. Probably I shouldn’t have brought her. But there didn’t seem much else.…
He
said better to bring her.…’
‘He seems to know what’s best,’ Cassandra said, entering the conversation with an effort. She added, flatly, ‘He seems good.’
‘I don’t know. He’s
too
good, do you know?’
Cassandra shivered.
‘Like Father was too good,’ Julia went on. ‘He will give and give and think he can change everything.’
‘It might be best at least to live like that,’ Cassandra said, with a touch of her old authoritative tone. Julia wanted her to go on talking, to make their father real, by talking. But Cassandra said, more faintly, ‘I’m sorry about Deborah. She seems highly strung.’ A teacher’s assessment. Julia said with a rush. ‘She reminds me of
you
, Cass. All nerves and sharp edges and will-power. She’s clever, too, school-clever. I wish you’d
talk
to her. She needs … I wish …’
Cassandra’s hands plucked at her skirt. She fills me with embarrassment and a kind of respect, Julia thought. Why do I always lie? I don’t want her to talk to Debbie at all. I said that because I always think I need to make contact, somehow;anyhow, make her see I exist, make her
care.
I want her to take me into account. I want to be nice to her. Foolish. Useless.
‘Cassandra, nobody’s left us anything to do. Come in now,
please.
We could play cards, or something. Like we used to do, remember?’
‘If you like,’ said Cassandra, who was now beginning to feel the cold.
So, all afternoon, whilst Thor made telephone-calls, and held his daughter’s hand, the sisters sat in front of the fire in the hall and played games. They played snakes and ladders, chequers, bezique and piquet. Then they played chess. Julia had changed into tight black velvet trousers and a Swedish rough woollen overshirt, square, high-necked, patterned in purple and scarlet. Round her neck she wore a hammered lump of silver on a chain, from a Knightsbridge crafts shop. Leaning across the chess board, moving the pieces with ringed fingers, they looked surprisingly in keeping with each other, as though Burne-Jones or Rossetti could have used them for models for a painting of a mediaeval lady and her page; Julia’s hair dropped forward in a long, pointed curve along her jaw. She was winning; both of them were accurate players, but Julia was more courageous. They played almost silently.
At supper-time Julia went to see if she was needed and found that she was not; she came back to Cassandra with a plate of ham and tomatoes, and announced this to her.
‘It seems funny we’re not needed, Cass.’
‘Tomorrow, maybe …’
‘Have some bread. Cass … do you think they’ve kept the Game?’
‘It was in my room. It must still be there. I haven’t looked.’
‘Would you look? Do you think we could get it out? We’ve played everything else, it would be exciting to see if we could remember.…’
‘If you like,’ said Cassandra.
‘I’ll come up with you.’
When they were children, there were rules which governedJulia’s going into Cassandra’s room – passwords, which changed with bewildering frequency, and all sorts of locked drawers, and locked boxes. She had expended some ingenuity on getting into these; she considered Cassandra laid herself open to espionage. For years she had kept secret the fact that the drawer which
‘I know you don’t want – to talk.’
‘There’s nothing to say.’
Well,
some
sisters might bloody well talk to each other, Julia’s mind snapped, crossly. For company.
‘Mother’s gone to sleep. Out of exhaustion. Thor’s with Debbie. Debbie’s gone all hysterical. Probably I shouldn’t have brought her. But there didn’t seem much else.…
He
said better to bring her.…’
‘He seems to know what’s best,’ Cassandra said, entering the conversation with an effort. She added, flatly, ‘He seems good.’
‘I don’t know. He’s
too
good, do you know?’
Cassandra shivered.
‘Like Father was too good,’ Julia went on. ‘He will give and give and think he can change everything.’
‘It might be best at least to live like that,’ Cassandra said, with a touch of her old authoritative tone. Julia wanted her to go on talking, to make their father real, by talking. But Cassandra said, more faintly, ‘I’m sorry about Deborah. She seems highly strung.’ A teacher’s assessment. Julia said with a rush. ‘She reminds me of
you
, Cass. All nerves and sharp edges and will-power. She’s clever, too, school-clever. I wish you’d
talk
to her. She needs … I wish …’
Cassandra’s hands plucked at her skirt. She fills me with embarrassment and a kind of respect, Julia thought. Why do I always lie? I don’t want her to talk to Debbie at all. I said that because I always think I need to make contact, somehow;anyhow, make her see I exist, make her
care.
I want her to take me into account. I want to be nice to her. Foolish. Useless.
‘Cassandra, nobody’s left us anything to do. Come in now,
please.
We could play cards, or something. Like we used to do, remember?’
‘If you like,’ said Cassandra, who was now beginning to feel the cold.
So, all afternoon, whilst Thor made telephone-calls, and held his daughter’s hand, the sisters sat in front of the fire in the hall and played games. They played snakes and ladders, chequers, bezique and piquet. Then they played chess. Julia had changed into tight black velvet trousers and a Swedish rough woollen overshirt, square, high-necked, patterned in purple and scarlet. Round her neck she wore a hammered lump of silver on a chain, from a Knightsbridge crafts shop. Leaning across the chess board, moving the pieces with ringed fingers, they looked surprisingly in keeping with each other, as though Burne-Jones or Rossetti could have used them for models for a painting of a mediaeval lady and her page; Julia’s hair dropped forward in a long, pointed curve along her jaw. She was winning; both of them were accurate players, but Julia was more courageous. They played almost silently.
At supper-time Julia went to see if she was needed and found that she was not; she came back to Cassandra with a plate of ham and tomatoes, and announced this to her.
‘It seems funny we’re not needed, Cass.’
‘Tomorrow, maybe …’
‘Have some bread. Cass … do you think they’ve kept the Game?’
‘It was in my room. It must still be there. I haven’t looked.’
‘Would you look? Do you think we could get it out? We’ve played everything else, it would be exciting to see if we could remember.…’
‘If you like,’ said Cassandra.
‘I’ll come up with you.’
When they were children, there were rules which governedJulia’s going into Cassandra’s room – passwords, which changed with bewildering frequency, and all sorts of locked drawers, and locked boxes. She had expended some ingenuity on getting into these; she considered Cassandra laid herself open to espionage. For years she had kept secret the fact that the drawer which
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