She damn well hated him. Spread-eagled on the wicker lounger, his belly a hard dome beneath his ugly royal-blue swimsuit, his thick, arrogant fingers – yes, even his fingers were arrogant – tapping cigar ash into the sand. And his face, that look on his face – boredom spreading into something like – no, not disgust, not quite, because disgust was so taxing an emotion and she wasn’t worth the energy required. ‘I am not arguing with you any more,’ said her father. ‘You will do as I say.’
She pictured that cigar in his eye, the red tip sizzling through his retina. ‘Yes, Daddy.’
He squinted up at her, his moustached lip pulled into a sneer. ‘“Daddy?” For heaven’s sake, Bettina, are you five?’
She shrugged, her hands clasped behind her back, toes flexing into the warm sand. Her head itched against the band of her straw hat.
‘I mean, don’t be so transparent, darling. You obviously haven’t been paying close enough attention to your mother.’ He lay his head back down and laughed, shaking his head from side to side. ‘Amateur.’
She stared down at his sun-bright body; his large bald thighs and shiny shins, the narrow pale feet with conjoined toes on the left side, the springy orange hair, the same as hers, spilling over his forehead. Placed next to the lounger was a tumbler of lemonade and a hardback book which, she guessed, was awfully clever. He was a fat old bastard. A fraud. God, she hated him.
She swung her leg back and kicked sand. And she turned and ran, gritting her teeth and wincing as if expecting his arm to somehow reach out to some ludicrous length and his hand to clasp around her ankle, she ran, heels sinking into the sand, knowing that he wouldn’t follow – he had other ways – but all the same waiting, feeling that same ticklish dread that she’d felt, as a small girl, when exiting the small, dark outhouse at the end of her great-auntie’s garden (hands reaching for ankles – she’d always been plagued by hands reaching for ankles); she ran until she reached the scalding boardwalk. Turned back to look. He was dusting the sand off his body and she could see, by the jerking of his head, that he was furious. Good.
Her mother was in the games room playing gin rummy with Bart’s mother, Lucille. They were hunched over the poker table amidst a dense cumulus of smoke, their ankles crossed under their chairs, glasses of sherry at their elbows. Two cigarettes smouldered in the emerald-green ashtray in the centre of the table. Each woman stared at her respective hand with a shark-like focus, neither glancing up when Bettina sloped into the room. Lucille plucked a card from the deck, setting her bracelets to tinkling, and inspected it, her mouth a slick pink line, before scanning the fanned cards in her other hand. She was wearing a purple silk scarf tied around her head and her jewelled ears glinted with every tiny movement.
Bettina could hear the women breathing through their noses. She walked up to the billiards table and ran her palm along the soft felt. She saw her mother bring her sherry to her lips and heard the sound of glass knocking lightly against teeth followed by a dainty glug. She picked up a red ball, felt its weight and then tossed it back on the table where it clattered against another. Both women jerked their heads up.
‘Betsy, darling,’ said her mother, ‘if you carry on like this I’ll have to insist you start wearing a bell around your neck.’
‘Moo,’ said Lucille, laughing into her glass.
Bettina wasn’t sure if she liked or disliked Lucille.
‘Sorry,’ she said to her mother. And then to Lucille: ‘It’s all that ballet she made me take. Turned me into quite the sneak.’ She tiptoed clownishly to the table and peered at her mother’s cards. ‘Who’s winning, then?’
Her mother eyed her with wary bemusement, bringing the cards to her chest. With her free hand she picked up her lipstick-smeared sherry glass and held it out for Bettina to take. ‘Be a sweetie, eh?’
‘Where’s Gerty?’ Gerty was her mother’s maid. She was a mean-looking, roll-necked woman with the face of an exhausted turkey, but was in actual fact a very tender-hearted person deep down. Supposedly. Her mother was always mythologising the serving classes like this.
‘I’ve given her the afternoon off. Her sister is dying, poor thing.’ She shook the empty glass.
Bettina headed over to the bar. Her father had had it installed just before the start of the war and very much enjoyed hinting at its cost. A special kind of mahogany had been imported all the way from Bangor – the American Bangor, not the Welsh one – and he also very much enjoyed bringing this detail to the attention of whichever awful twit he was entertaining, running a lethargic hand along the wood. ‘Not the Welsh one, of course – haha!’ Large front teeth flashing underneath the giant foxbrush over his lip. ‘Not the Welsh one,’ she quietly mimicked, pouring the sherry into a fresh glass.
‘Thanks, dear,’ her mother said, eyes still burning into her card hand. She glanced up at Bettina. ‘Do put some clothes on, won’t you? You look like something the tide rejected. Are all your things packed for school yet?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Bettina curled her foot around the back of her sand-crumbed calf and watched them play. Lucille and Venetia had been best pals since early adulthood. They came from similar social backgrounds (wealthy but not stinking rich, as they saw it) and lived only one mile from each other. Since Lucille’s husband had passed away five years ago, she was over most days. Only once had they properly quarrelled; Lucille had by all accounts been a ‘know-it-all interferer’ when it came to child-rearing, offering unsolicited advice at every turn. Venetia bore this with patience, since Lucille had not only suffered the loss of Tabitha, who had been kicked in the head by a shire horse, but also a stillbirth, and so her incessant commentary was of course motivated by loss. Venetia took her resentment and sat on it, like a letter she never wished to read. But one day, after Lucille had personally taken it upon herself to issue instructions to Bettina’s piano tutor, Venetia snapped: ‘If he wants her to do Chopin, she’ll bloody well do Chopin! It’s none of your business. I don’t tell you how to raise your brat of a son.’
Lucille had covered her mouth with her hand and walked in a wordless daze to the front door. She stopped coming around and Venetia vented about her for weeks, usually over breakfast. ‘She’s spoiled, that’s the thing of it, so just one cross word is enough to send her whimpering to lick her wounds like some pathetic mongrel.’ Angry knife-hand slashing butter thickly over her pikelet. ‘She should’ve tried growing up with three older sisters, then she’d know what it is to grow a thick hide.’ A spoon rammed into the jam pot, striking the glass at the bottom; a peeved glance from Monty over his teacup. ‘And I’m sorry, but he is a brat! Don’t look at me like that, Betts – he is, for a fact, a brat. For. A. Fact. His name is even an anagram of brat.’ She barked out a laugh. ‘You can’t argue with the alphabet, darling.’
But she missed Lucille and eventually turned up at her house with flowers and a bottle of her best claret, and Lucille had clearly missed her in return because she only made her grovel for two hours. ‘I know you didn’t mean that awful thing about Bart. After all, Bettina and my Barty are the same in nature, so to call him a brat’ – a sly look over her wine glass – ‘is to call your own daughter a brat.’
Lucille and Venetia mostly played gin rummy and cribbage. Lucille had a croquet lawn in her garden but they never used it because Venetia was a terrible shot and always ended up tossing her mallet into the flowerbeds and returning to her patio chair in a sulk. They ate cakes practically on the hour. On Sundays they chose to start drinking after lunch and got slowly sozzled on whatever drink suited their mood, smoking incessantly. Sometimes they gossiped about trivialities, such as the impossibility of finding a good butcher, or mean-spirited things – Sybil Palmer’s eyes were too close together and she just had this look about her, like she’d do it with anyone, even the blessed gardener. Other times they discussed the suffrage movement or the ‘situation in India’ (‘Bit of a pickle, I hear’), lolling back in their chairs, using unimaginative language and taking unoriginal viewpoints because they were close and comfortable friends who had no need to impress each other.
Once, after a whole afternoon of cribbage and fizz, they’d retired to the sitting room; Bettina had pressed her ear to the door and heard raucous, naked laughter, and one word had leapt out of the fragmented chatter – ‘fuck’ – and her ears heated up like steamed cockles. She caught a partial sentence, from Lucille: ‘… his hands squeezing my throat, just so, it was quite delicious’.
‘You’re loitering,’ her mother said now. She took her eyes from her cards and looked up at Bettina. ‘Let me get this right: you’ve talked to your father and didn’t hear quite what you wanted to hear.’
‘Correct,’ said Bettina.
‘And you think I can change his mind?’
‘I know you can.’
Venetia put her cards down. ‘Darling, I really can’t. Not about this. Every year you do this, and every year he doesn’t budge an inch.’
‘Got his heels in the stirrups,’ added Lucille, blasting thick smoke from the side of her mouth.
‘He really does,’ said her mother, her brows tilted in apology. ‘This is something he feels awfully strongly about. And he is a benefactor. What would it look like if his own daughter dropped out?’
Bettina’s body slumped and she rolled her head back. ‘But they’re all such horrible bitches!’
‘Well, of course they are, darling. They’re sixteen-year-old girls.’
‘You’re not being helpful.’
‘I don’t know what else to say.’
‘Isn’t there at least one nice one you can be friends with?’ asked Lucille.
‘No! Not one!’Actually, Bettina did have one ‘nice’ friend in school. But it was like finding one pearl in a field of sheep droppings. The pearl is lovely, but look – there’s still all this sheep shit and one can’t help but step in it.
‘Perhaps the world is trying to tell you something,’ said Lucille, raising an eyebrow.
‘Oh, do be quiet, Lolly,’ said Venetia, shooting her a cross look. She stood up and took Bettina by the arms – her hands were cold and digging. ‘Look, lovey, it’s only another two years and then you can come back home. Two years really isn’t a terribly long time and you’ve already got through the worst of it. My father made me go to finishing school when I was your age, and what a dreadful bore that was.’
Lucille knocked back the last of her sherry. ‘And just be thankful you’re not a boy,’ she said, dabbing the corner of her lips with her finger. ‘From what I hear, it’s all buggery, buggery, buggery—’
‘Shut up, Lolly!’
‘Please don’t tell me to shut up, Neesh – I’m simply pointing out the positives.’
Bettina stared at the powder clinging to her mother’s downy chin. The skin was soft, like an old woman’s earlobe. She should be thankful she wasn’t a boy, and she was reminded of this every bloody day, from the black armbanded women gusting into Our Lady of the Angels, the leftover mothers, wives, sisters – in fact she’d passed by them just this morning on her way to St Mark’s, watching through the cab screen with blank eyes but a swirling dark mischief in her stomach. And inside her own church it was all the same, just with nicer hats and better teeth.
She didn’t even have to leave the house for a reminder of how thankful she should be: there, across the dining-room table, sat her older brother Jonathan every mealtime, struggling one-armed with his cutlery, face pale, proud and pinched as the broad beans or new potatoes rolled around on his plate or flew across the table. She should be supremely grateful. She should be kissing the trench-blackened feet of every young man in Great Britain, she should be worshipping their mangled stumps before skipping off to her prestigious, wonderful boarding school at the end of every holiday, because she was so privileged, so fortunate, skipping, skipping, white teeth shining, singing to the finches and marvelling over butterflies! Instead she mewled and scratched like a fat, spoiled housecat. She knew it. And she felt guilty about it. And guilt was a boring waste of time.
They really were such dreadful bitches, those girls.