Family Album (22 page)

Alison frowned and addressed herself to Stefan. “You’ll find life in a big family a bit different. We all learn to make allowances, don’t we?” She looked around the table.

“Not so that you’d notice,” said Sandra. “Is there any more, Mum?”

Alison got up. “That’s not very nice, dear. Pass your plate. But first see if Stefan would like some.”

Stefan said that he had had enough, thank you.

Clare said, “Can’t we ever have
thinning
food? Toad-in-the-hole is just stuffed with carbohydrates.”

Gina said, “At the age of ten you shouldn’t even know what a carbohydrate
is
.”

Clare said, “Look, I’m getting so fat I can’t even do a handstand.”

Paul told Gina that he was going to the pub later and she might want to come along and buy him a drink.

Katie wondered if anyone had seen her red purse, it was on the dresser, I’m sure . . .

Stefan said, “Toad-in-the-hole?” but no one heard him.

Roger looked at Stefan and saw a dark, intense, observing presence. He looked at his family and saw everyone talking at once, Ingrid telling Mum that there was no hot water again, Dad asking who had removed the paper from the hall table and would they kindly put it back. He knew, with an awful certainty, that Alison was going to suggest that he and Stefan have a game of Scrabble after supper.

Roger stared at the board. He had four letters left, and the only word that he could make was “fuck.” Allersmead house rules prohibited obscenities but Stefan did not know about Allersmead house rules. Stefan was winning—he probably had won—but “fuck” would give Roger twenty-seven and might just possibly put him ahead. Roger was not unduly competitive but Scrabble can bring out the worst in anyone; he did not like being trounced by someone for whom English was not even his own language—it was humiliating. His hand hovered over the pieces; he picked them up one by one and set them down.

Stefan studied the result. He had already mentioned that at home he and his parents sometimes played Scrabble in English, just for fun (
Fun?
thought Roger, aghast). He said, “With my family we don’t allow that word. It is different here, I suppose.”

There was just the faintest criticism implied, and Roger saw that he was scuppered. Either he came clean about Allersmead house rules and admitted cheating but retrieved the family honor, or he kept quiet and allowed the family to be tarnished in comparison with Stefan’s decent and superior home lifestyle. Or—a possible third way occurred to him—he gave a little snort of amusement at this priggish scenario, as one accustomed to a climate of liberal self-expression.

He stared hopelessly at the board, avoiding Stefan’s eye.

The door opened. “What about bed, boys?” said Alison. “Stefan must be more than ready, after that journey. Or do you want to finish the game?”

Roger swept up the pieces. “Oh, we just about have,” he said. “Stefan’s won anyway.”

Much later, lying awake, it came to him that if Stefan’s family was so clean-living, then “fuck” shouldn’t be a part of their English vocabulary. After all, Stefan had apparently been baffled by “sod.”

The next day Roger and Stefan took a football to the local park, at Alison’s suggestion. Roger had not quite reckoned with this enforced twinning by the cultural exchange program: whatever you did, you did together. You and he were an artificial unit, for the duration of his stay. You slept together, you played together, you ate, drank, and communed. There was no escape, it seemed. “What are you boys going to do now?” Alison would inquire brightly.

They played football, obedient to requirements. For Roger, this was no penance; it was clear that Stefan was less keen, but he kicked the ball around gamely for an hour or so, somewhat inept, which was an embarrassment to both. Eventually, by mutual consent, they trailed back to the house. The day yawned ahead.

Left to himself, Roger would have luxuriated in holidays boredom; he would have mooched, idled, done nothing in particular for many constructive hours. This was now not an option: he must be seen to be doing something in order that Stefan should do it with him. Monopoly, badminton in the garden, demon patience, quoits in the garden, snakes and ladders, why not get out the table tennis things and set them up in the garden? It was exhausting.

Stefan appeared to be all compliance. Except, Roger realized, that his good manners were so ingrained that it was virtually impossible for him not to comply. “Yes,” he would say. “I would like that. You must teach me this game—I do not know it.” He played with awful determination; he played for the honor of his country, one felt. At night, he was haggard with fatigue.

Thirteen-year-olds are not strong on empathy. Roger was not strong on empathy, but just occasionally he glimpsed in Stefan a sort of shuttered anguish. He saw it when Stefan awaited his turn for the bathroom, he saw it when Stefan so evidently tried and failed to follow the exchanges over the Allersmead kitchen table, at mealtimes, he saw it when Stefan faced a plateful of corned beef hash (“No, we do not have this at home”).

It was during one of those quick-fire, competitive, coded Allersmead mealtimes that Alison began to explain to Stefan the treat in store.

“It’s such fun that you’re here for it, Stefan—one of our big family events. It’s my
birthday,
you see, and since it happens so nicely in the school holidays—so sensible of me to have been born in August—we always have a family picnic. The birthday picnic. Now—quiet, everybody, please!—we haven’t decided yet where it’s going to be this year, and it’s only two days away, so I want some ideas.”

“Alton Towers theme park,” said Clare.

“Oxford Street,” said Sandra. “With shopping opportunities for those who wish.”

“That green bit outside the Houses of Parliament,” said Paul. “With placards extolling the sanctity of family life.”

Alison frowned. “
Sensible
suggestions, please.” She turned to Charles. “What about you, dear? Anywhere you’d particularly like to go?”

Charles had appeared to be lost in some private reverie. Now he surfaced. “Ah, yes, the annual celebration.” He glanced at Stefan. “Perhaps our visitor should be allowed to choose the destination?”

Stefan looked panic stricken. “I do not think . . .” he began.

Katie came to his rescue. “Actually, why don’t we go to Whipsnade Zoo?”

Groans. “Oh, puh-leeze,” said Sandra.

Charles again addressed Stefan. “You will note a certain absence of agreement in this family. A tradition that a ritual should also be a matter of dissension. It’s always a challenge to see for how long it can go on.” He looked around the table expectantly.

“That’s right, Dad,” muttered Paul. “Muddy the waters.”

Gina went to kick him, and found Stefan’s leg instead. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

“Perhaps a beach would be nice,” said Ingrid. “For the swimming.”

Alison waved her arms. “Hush, all of you. In fact, I’ve had an inspiration. Maiden Castle—nice and grassy for the picnic, and we can have a wander around Dorchester before.”

There was a silence. “
What
castle?” said Sandra.

“You know Maiden Castle,” said Paul. “Famous for the ritual sacrifice of maidens in—um—the twelfth century.”

Charles spoke. “A neat choice, if I may say so. A combination of historical and literary contexts for our visitor. The Iron Age meets the sage of Wessex.” He surveyed the table. “Hands up anyone who knows what I’m talking about?”

His children sat in silence, stony-eyed. “That’s it, then,” cried Alison merrily. “Maiden Castle it is. Fingers crossed for the weather.”

The days of the Volkswagen were long gone. There were now two cars—an elderly Volvo estate that was mainly Alison’s and an equally mature Vauxhall that was perhaps mainly Charles’s except that Charles was not a man to have any sort of relationship with a car. He used it from time to time, but was unsure where the keys were kept and did not know how you would check the oil or the tire pressure. These two vehicles would accommodate the entire family for occasions such as this (fewer and further between, these days)—five in one and four in the other, with room to squeeze in an extra such as Stefan.

There was argument about who should go in which car for the drive to Dorchester, which would take an hour and a half or so. Charles and Alison would both appreciate a navigator, and the only volunteer map readers were Paul and Gina. Clare would feel sick in the Vauxhall. The Vauxhall being the smaller car, the two other smaller people—Roger and Stefan—would have to go in that, or there would be a squash. Eventually, the two parties were sorted out thus: Gina, Ingrid, Katie, and Clare in the Volvo, driven by Alison; Sandra, Paul, Stefan, and Roger in the Vauxhall, with Charles driving. The picnic—several baskets, boxes, and hampers—was loaded into the back of the Volvo, along with rugs and a few folding chairs. The weather was looking a little dubious, but Alison was all optimism: “It’ll clear up—you’ll see.”

In the Vauxhall, Paul sat next to Charles in the front, with the map; Sandra, Roger, and Stefan occupied the backseat. Initially they tailed the Volvo, but soon lost it at a roundabout. Charles and Paul bickered over Paul’s map reading after one wrong turn was taken, landing them in a housing estate. “I thought we’d do the scenic route,” said Paul cheerfully. Charles was not amused: “I understood you to be competent with a map.”

After a further half hour they went wrong again. “I meant left,” said Paul. “Sorry about that.” Charles was silent for a few moments. Then, “You’ll notice, Stefan, that my son seems unable to distinguish left and right, a failing that would make him ineligible even for army recruitment.”

“I don’t think Stefan quite heard that, Dad,” said Paul. “Don’t worry—if the army won’t have me I daresay something else will turn up.”

Stefan stared rigidly out of the window.

They stopped for petrol. Paul left the car while Charles was filling up and returned from the shop with a six-pack of lager.

“Are you going to
drink
that?” said Sandra.

Paul sat down and stowed the lager alongside his seat. “No, I’m going to pour it down the slopes of Maiden Castle as a libation.”

Charles returned. They set off once more. Stefan, who, along with Roger, had bought a bar of chocolate and seemed to rally a little, said, “The place we are going to . . . it is very old?”

“Maiden Castle,” said Paul, “is the site of the annual slaughter of a dozen nubile maidens in a ritual designed to ensure national productivity. Interestingly, this practice continues . . .”

Sandra leaned forward. “Shut
up
. This is
so
boring. Plus, it’s contemptuous of women.”

Roger looked nervously at Stefan, whose expression was blank.

Charles drove in silence. Presently, he said, “For our visitor’s sake, I should remind you all that Dorchester, where we shall meet up with the rest of the party, is Thomas Hardy’s Casterbridge. As in
The Mayor of . . .
We are now in Wessex, scene of most if not all of the novels.”

“I’ve seen a film,” said Sandra. “Alan Bates.
So
sexy. Fantastic.”

Paul broached one of the cans of lager. His father glanced sideways. “Would you mind applying yourself to the map. I think we should be turning off soon.”

In the car park at Dorchester they met up with the rest of the party. Alison was in high spirits: “We’ve got plenty of time before the picnic. What shall we head for?”

“Topshop?” said Sandra. “French Connection? Next?”

“Does it have a swimming pool?” said Clare.

Roger knew where they would go. That was where they always went, in any new place. Dad would announce that that was where they were going, and Mum would agree, to avoid argument and to be seen to be supportive.

“The museum is apparently worth a visit,” said Charles. “I believe they have Thomas Hardy’s study, re-created.”