Come and Tell Me Some Lies by Raffaella Barker

Author:Raffaella Barker [Barker, Raffaella]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
Tags: General, Fiction
ISBN: 9781408850664
Google: 3CdRAgAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00H7ZF2TA
Publisher: Bloomsbury Paperbacks
Published: 2014-01-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

There were always people at Mildney, and many of them were Fans, Poetry Fans. First they wrote, then they telephoned, then they came, eager to pay homage to The Poet. Patrick would only tolerate them on Saturdays. Brodie, Flook and Va Va founded a kingdom beyond the river with three islands named Fuck, Shit and Hell. The names were part of their sinful secrecy. Springing out from the reeds around their domain, the children greeted cars crawling up the drive, a phalanx of mud-coated outriders brandishing sticks and home-made guns.

Newcomers were nervous and indulgent, poised to greet the children. The American ones brought presents, the German ones came on motorbikes. Va Va fiddled with her hair, legs twisted coyly, when Eleanor said, ‘And this is Gabriella, but we call her Va Va.’ It was the handbags, not the guests, which were interesting. Va Va had two of her own, identical, shiny, one pink, one blue, given on the same birthday by Eleanor and Granny. She spied a bulging green one near a chair and sidled over. ‘Can I play with your handbag?’ The woman laughed. ‘Of course, why not?’ Va Va knelt down and lost herself in the musty leather folds of someone else’s life.

Eleanor did not have much make-up, and what she did have was hers and not for playing with, Va Va had been told a thousand times. But a stranger, wanting to make friends, was more forthcoming. Out came scent, exotic in a round bottle with a gold stopper, breathing a hint of the delectable promise inside. Out came lipstick, heavy in a bullet-shaped tube and tasting of violets and Vaseline. Out came a purse, jangling with coins. One would be given to Va Va. She paraded it in front of Brodie. ‘ ’S’ not fair,’ he whined to Patrick, who leaned forward to hear him, then reached into his pocket for a sixpence.

Children’s supper was haphazard. People milled in the kitchen – ‘Eleanor, do let me help’ – and then stood smoking, talking, talking, talking, while Eleanor spooned baked beans and yoghurt into anyone within reach. No toothbrushing or face-washing on Drinking Evenings. Straight upstairs. Brodie built a castle on his bed. Sheets thrust over the spikes where he had unscrewed his bed knobs made a canopy beneath which he sat cross-legged, smirking. Flook and Va Va copied him. Three castles, three pairs of ripped sheets, toys catapulting across the wasteland of the room and bombing against the castle walls.

Va Va went on a mission for provisions at half-time. The kitchen was empty, plates strewn across the table, festooned spaghetti, half-eaten, hanging from them. All the grown-ups were in the Drinking Room, forbidden territory on Saturday nights. Through a crack in the door Va Va could see a bright sliver of flame reflected in the glass of the french windows and Patrick leaning one arm upon the mantelpiece.

He didn’t see her when she sidled in to whisper something to Eleanor. He stood close to a man, talking.

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