Read Online The Spider-Orchid by Celia Fremlin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Celia Fremlin
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stepmothers are , so inclined to be jealous and all that. The trouble is, you see, that they aren’t real blood-relations to your father the way you are, and of course they feel it, poor things. I have to be terribly careful not to let Daddy be too nice to me while she’s there. Gosh, you should have just seen the look on her face when he swung me up in his arms last time when I arrived…! I thought she’d have killed me…!
That would be the line at school—nonchalant, detached, and gently tolerant towards the problems of the poor tangled adults. Perhaps Mr Owen would be on playground duty, and would notice the little crowd gathering. “Why, it’s Amelia Summers!” he would say to himself, strolling a little nearer, “What a very popular girl she appears to be … I wonder what she is saying…?” And maybe he would stroll nearer still, catch snatches of her words. And then … maybe….
*
“Nothing much,” she heard herself saying sullenly in answer to one of her mother’s eager queries about the afternoon: and, “Not very,” was all she could think of to answer the anxious enquiry as to whether she’d thought Rita pretty.
Was she nice? Did you like her? Can she cook? Was it a nice tea? Has she a job?
Not very. Fairly. I don’t know. More or less. I didn’t ask her.
The sulky monosyllables filled Amelia herself with shame, and a great sadness, yet somehow there was nothing she could do about it. Not a word of real information could be she bring herself to divulge.
And it wasn’t a question of loyalty, not to either parent. Since the divorce, Daddy had made no secret of Rita’s association with him—if anything, he seemed rather to like the idea that people should know about it, as if it was a book he had published or something, whose success would be boosted by a bit of publicity.
And as for Mummy, she’d known about Rita for ages—right from the very beginning, in fact, and it was years since she’d cried over it or gone around looking miserable. There was no doubt at all that,by now, Mummy would enjoy a good gossip about Rita—her hairstyle, her clothes, her table manners, her intellect, if any. Such a cosy, gossipy evening it could have been, with the drawing-room fire burning brightly, the copper bowl with the beech leaves in it dancing and flickering in the shadows like a second fire; and Esben giving the final touches to the scene by lying curled up on the hearthrug, a golden ball of satisfaction so absolute that it did not even need to purr. Such an evening it was for confidences, and laughter, and little, scandalous revelations.
“Look, Mummy, look, this is how she walks!” Amelia could have exclaimed, “Like this—sort of teetering backwards on to the heels of those dreadful boots…!”—and Mummy would have laughed delightedly while Amelia tottered ridiculously round the room. And under the spur of this audience response, Amelia’s gift for mimicry would have gone from strength to strength:
“Listen, Mummy, this is how she says ‘Da-a-ahling!’ when she wants Daddy to do something for her! All sort of drawly and languishing—‘da-a-ahling, I do wish you’d sometimes remember to …’”
How they’d have laughed, she and Mummy, in that lovely cosy intimacy, tearing Rita to pieces by the light of the glowing fire! How close they would have felt, how safe!
“ Mummy — ! ”
But it was impossible. It just couldn’t be done. Trying not to see the sudden flash of hope and eagerness in her mother’s face, followed by the sagging of disappointment, Amelia gathered up her books and her cardigan and humped herself to her feet.
“Homework,” she muttered, face averted, and trailed out of the door, flinging it open noisily and almost slamming it behind her with shame and remorse.
*
Upstairs in her own little room, with the pictures of prehistoric monsters on the walls, and the electric fire with the imitation coals which Mummy had tried to persuade her not to choose
That would be the line at school—nonchalant, detached, and gently tolerant towards the problems of the poor tangled adults. Perhaps Mr Owen would be on playground duty, and would notice the little crowd gathering. “Why, it’s Amelia Summers!” he would say to himself, strolling a little nearer, “What a very popular girl she appears to be … I wonder what she is saying…?” And maybe he would stroll nearer still, catch snatches of her words. And then … maybe….
*
“Nothing much,” she heard herself saying sullenly in answer to one of her mother’s eager queries about the afternoon: and, “Not very,” was all she could think of to answer the anxious enquiry as to whether she’d thought Rita pretty.
Was she nice? Did you like her? Can she cook? Was it a nice tea? Has she a job?
Not very. Fairly. I don’t know. More or less. I didn’t ask her.
The sulky monosyllables filled Amelia herself with shame, and a great sadness, yet somehow there was nothing she could do about it. Not a word of real information could be she bring herself to divulge.
And it wasn’t a question of loyalty, not to either parent. Since the divorce, Daddy had made no secret of Rita’s association with him—if anything, he seemed rather to like the idea that people should know about it, as if it was a book he had published or something, whose success would be boosted by a bit of publicity.
And as for Mummy, she’d known about Rita for ages—right from the very beginning, in fact, and it was years since she’d cried over it or gone around looking miserable. There was no doubt at all that,by now, Mummy would enjoy a good gossip about Rita—her hairstyle, her clothes, her table manners, her intellect, if any. Such a cosy, gossipy evening it could have been, with the drawing-room fire burning brightly, the copper bowl with the beech leaves in it dancing and flickering in the shadows like a second fire; and Esben giving the final touches to the scene by lying curled up on the hearthrug, a golden ball of satisfaction so absolute that it did not even need to purr. Such an evening it was for confidences, and laughter, and little, scandalous revelations.
“Look, Mummy, look, this is how she walks!” Amelia could have exclaimed, “Like this—sort of teetering backwards on to the heels of those dreadful boots…!”—and Mummy would have laughed delightedly while Amelia tottered ridiculously round the room. And under the spur of this audience response, Amelia’s gift for mimicry would have gone from strength to strength:
“Listen, Mummy, this is how she says ‘Da-a-ahling!’ when she wants Daddy to do something for her! All sort of drawly and languishing—‘da-a-ahling, I do wish you’d sometimes remember to …’”
How they’d have laughed, she and Mummy, in that lovely cosy intimacy, tearing Rita to pieces by the light of the glowing fire! How close they would have felt, how safe!
“ Mummy — ! ”
But it was impossible. It just couldn’t be done. Trying not to see the sudden flash of hope and eagerness in her mother’s face, followed by the sagging of disappointment, Amelia gathered up her books and her cardigan and humped herself to her feet.
“Homework,” she muttered, face averted, and trailed out of the door, flinging it open noisily and almost slamming it behind her with shame and remorse.
*
Upstairs in her own little room, with the pictures of prehistoric monsters on the walls, and the electric fire with the imitation coals which Mummy had tried to persuade her not to choose
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