They walked downhill from their house, underneath the quiet trees. The sun was shining above, she could tell, but the leaves were so thick that only the shadow of green fell upon her. At the end of the road, you could turn left, and that went up to Crosspool and the shops and the school with its black wall and the word GIRLS over the gate, though anyone, girls or boys, could go in. It wasn’t like the old-fashioned times. Or you could turn right, and that went downhill and, Lavinia thought, if you turned left when you got to the Fulwood road, you would reach Broomhill and after that carry on and reach the centre of the city. They turned right.
There were two old people coming up the hill towards her: a lady in a hat and a strange fluffy yellow coat, and a person that at first Lavinia thought was a man. In this sunshine you could see the whole shape of the second person’s head through their hair. It was as if they were bald but with a thin little cloud clinging to their scalp and anyone could see through it. Lavinia did not know either of these people, and she felt very nervous that she had now got to a place where people did not know who she was or where she lived. One of them looked at her: the one who was definitely a woman. Lavinia thought she was going to say something to her, and she swung her arms and carried on as if they weren’t there at all. In five minutes, striding briskly and bravely, Dr Mario and Lavinia reached the bottom of the road, and were facing a busy flow of traffic. Lavinia was almost sure that here you were supposed to turn left and walk down the hill, and then you would reach Broomhill. But the road first went down and then went uphill again. She was not certain, and turned to Dr Mario to see what he thought. But Dr Mario was not there. He had gone. All at once Lavinia felt that she had been playing a game, a stupid game, that none of it was real, that Dr Mario was just something she had made up that could not help her against the smell of petrol and the flash of shining metal and the incurious, unhelpful gaze of the women passengers driving past. She had made a terrible mistake.
But then all at once there was Mummy, just standing alongside her as if she were waiting for a moment to cross the road. She looked right, and looked left, and looked right again, just as the Tufty Club said you should, and then, with great surprise, said, ‘Lavinia! How lovely to see you! I was just thinking – I would love a cup of tea or a glass of squash on a day like today. I know just the right person who would really like to have us round, and her house is just over there. Would you like to come with me and have a glass of squash with Pauline?’
Pauline taught music – she taught the piano, which Lavinia might learn when she was a little bit older, but also the flute and recorder. Her husband was a musician; he had once played the violin in the Hallé Orchestra but he had suffered from nerves. Now he played in the Edward Carpenter Quartet and taught, but only older, special people. Their house was wonderful. There were musical instruments lying around to try out, and two whole pianos, and wonderful pictures on the wall that you could look at, and afterwards you found you were making up stories about the pictures, and best of all, there was a piece of paper that Beethoven had signed with his own name. That was in a special frame. You had to know who Beethoven was or you wouldn’t think it mattered at all. Pauline was so happy to see Lavinia, and she made Lavinia exactly the sort of squash that grown-ups didn’t know how to make – how Lavinia liked it, with so much squash, almost a quarter of the glass, that Daddy, if he saw it, would normally say something like ‘Do you have enough water in your squash?’ Pauline asked her to say when, and she only stopped when Lavinia said when, and she poured the water into it from a special clay bottle that sat on the piano, a grey china pot with the face of a wicked dwarf, all bulging eyes and warty nose. Lavinia completely forgot that she didn’t like meeting new people, and perhaps Pauline wasn’t a new person, really. And afterwards Pauline let Lavinia try to play the flute. You blew across it as if you were blowing across the top of a milk bottle. It was hard, and for a long time Lavinia couldn’t get a noise at all, and then suddenly it rang out, just like a flute on a record. ‘Well, there you are,’ Mummy said.
Quite soon it was time to go home, and Lavinia took Mummy’s hand. They walked together up the hill, and all the time Lavinia was telling Mummy about the adventure she’d had. Mummy was laughing and once she lifted Lavinia up and gave her a kiss – Mummy smelt so nice, and her clothes were always so clean, her hands warm and dry. Just as they were turning into the house, and before Blossom and Leo, holding baby Hugh in the crook of his arm, could get up from where they were sitting on the lawn in front of the house, underneath the cherry tree, Mummy said something to Lavinia that she would never forget: she said, ‘Well, Lavinia, you’ll always remember today, won’t you, all your life?’ It was true. She knew that. She would. It must have been 1968 or 1969, the day that Dr Mario went and she knew that Mummy, after all, would always be there.
1.
Aunt Blossom’s house was like a house in a cartoon. The things that Josh had only seen drawn hastily, on the funny pages of Daddy’s newspaper, were here made real. There was the lake with swans, there were guns in the locked cupboard where nobody was allowed, and there were rooms with names from books. Once he had forgotten this, and at school had said that his aunt Blossom had a china pug that sat by the fireplace in her morning room: the class had stared, had half laughed, the teacher, too (Miss Hartley), had stared. Afterwards his friend Andrew had asked him what he had meant: a room for morning. What happened to it in the afternoon? And after that Josh had made sure that Aunt Blossom’s house was confined, in his mind, to the ranks of houses in books, to Netherfield and Thrushcross Grange and Toad’s house and Bludleigh Court: the flushed warm brick of the front before the gravel circle, the azalea-lined drive, the terrace above the lake and the sweep of the lawn down to it. Aunt Blossom ought to be good at inhabiting it, and she did her best, but it seemed to Josh that she was not quite convincing. Her head held up and her shoulders back, she was nevertheless like an actress who was going to play a role in six months’ time, and had decided to live in the part until then. Was that unfair? She was the smallest of them, small as Daddy – even Thomas was almost as tall as her now. She had to make herself felt.
But the house was the real thing. The woods to one side, hiding the houses of the village; the washed-pale stone, the peeling wallpaper that nobody noticed or commented on, the sofas with the torn green silk and the fascinating horsehair bulging out; all this retreated from reality into a fantasy of Josh’s and, by repeating a formula, he could sometimes convince himself he loved it, when enough time had passed since they had gone away, Josh silently screaming in the back of the car. Aunt Blossom’s house had a morning room, a drawing room, a library, a dining room – Granny’s house had a dining room, as well as a conservatory, which Aunt Blossom didn’t have. But Granny’s dining room was not like Aunt Blossom’s, a room from a cartoon, with Aunt Blossom and Uncle Stephen sitting at either end of the long polished table, the cousins in the middle around the silver candelabrum with the Japanese nanny, practising their Japanese and boning their breakfast kippers with two forks. In the middle, too, were Josh and Mummy, both humbly limiting their breakfasts to Coco Pops and toast with strawberry jam. The cousins had told him many times that the Coco Pops and jam were got in especially for him and his mummy, and collected dust in the buttery between their visits. That was another room: buttery.
The food at Aunt Blossom’s was sometimes OK but sometimes frightening – they ate things that had been shot, things that were bleeding, things with bones and innards and eyes still looking at you. Josh didn’t believe that anyone liked these things, plucking lead shot from their teeth