5

After dinner at the house on the point, in the acceptably disordered living-room, the children of two families buried their differences, and stood to sing by lamplight round the old worm-eaten upright. The little boys’ voices were exceptionally pure and clear. They’re really rather sweet, Anthea Scudamore decided, throwing back her arms as she sat sprawled in the chintzy chair from which the springs had gone. Except for the straggle of veins, she was at her whitest in the crooks of her arms, Barry Flegg observed. Objectively. Even warmest she was cold. And Anthea was perspiring by now, after the couple of gins, and the washing-up, and conversation with Doctor Flegg. They had discussed in such unusual detail dish-washing machines and God, that Anthea had plunged her arms almost up to the elbows in the sink, and the yellow water had risen up, and over on to her raw silk. What a disaster, Mollie Aspinall shrieked, from beside her droopy cigarette. Anthea laughed, and looked at herself, and said it didn’t really matter. Nor did it, except that Mummy. All the other women were wearing haggish, spotty slacks. Doug Furfield, drawing a tea-towel out of a tumbler as he discussed trolling techniques with Gil, thought perhaps this girl wasn’t such a bad sort. But as a solicitor in real life he would know how to keep his distance.

Afterwards in the living-room, while the little boys, accompanied by Helen Furfield, sang what could have been their wordless songs, Anthea remembered Mrs Meadling’s saying which irritated her on most occasions. I love people, Mrs Meadling used to say, several times every Thursday, as she turned out the house for Mummy. Oh, but Mrs Meadling, how can you be so general? the irritated Anthea had once exclaimed. Eh? I was never a general, only ever went out daily. Anthea murmured: What I mean, Mrs Meadling, is, there are reservations in everything. Now in the Tullochs’ disorderly room, so obviously a place for living, she rubbed her head against the back of the chair, and felt she clung less, perhaps, to the principle of reservation.

Poor thing, Val Tulloch concerned herself; one has to remember she is younger. What can one do for Anthea? Out of her fullness Val continually felt the need to be doing things for people, when people, her husband reminded her, didn’t wish to have them done.

Anthea started rubbing her hair against the Tulloch’s perennial chintz.

Pale hair loving itself, Gil saw round the edge of Tristram Shandy, which, he had come to the conclusion, must remain his great stumbling block.

Suddenly Val had thought of something.

‘I know –,’ she said, ‘who’d like to feed the possums?’

There was an immediate barging of little boys as they ran for stale crusts.

‘What about you, Anthea?’

Anthea Scudamore remarked: ‘I don’t think I’ve ever touched a possum!’

But got up, though, a grinning girl whose hockey stick might have been standing in the hall.

Barry Flegg announced he would fetch a supply of bread, and made for the bin, while Anthea waited, embarrassed, touching the stain on her frock. His return removed her, not exactly from her isolation, but together they went outside. The furry darkness was full of the distinctive noise made by possums, and the giggles of little boys.