October 1988
Trixie divorced Russell and came to stay at Mildney with her new boyfriend, David. We were all there for the weekend. On Saturday morning David put on a builder’s helmet and a checked shirt and went out with his chainsaw to cut up fallen trees in the Wilderness. Trixie, her hair held back by a child’s pink hairband adorned with two bobbing antennae, stamped round the house waking us all up. ‘Come on, you lot, I want to talk to you. Present yourselves in the playroom in ten minutes.’
Groaning, I turned over, burying my face in the pillow, but Trixie was not to be defeated. Into my room she thumped, the yellow fluff-balls on the ends of her antennae swivelling as they brushed the ceiling. ‘You can marshal your brothers, Va Va.’ She sounded like a drill-sergeant chivvying soldiers on parade. I got up.
There was a tray of tea in the playroom. I poured five mugfuls and handed them to the others as they slouched in; hair tangled from sleep, jerseys inside out. Brodie had holes in the toes of his socks; rosy flesh peeped rudely from grey wool as he sat down.
Trixie enjoyed being in command. Her visits to Mildney were infrequent, but whenever she came her mission was to change things. Mum was fond of her, but she never failed to upset someone with her two-pronged approach of generosity and bullying. She bought Mum a new washing machine and then policed it, banning any items of clothing belonging to the boys. ‘They can use a laundrette,’ she insisted. ‘Their ghastly jeans will break it immediately, and as for their socks …’ She paused, dragged on her cigarette and exhaled a frill of blue smoke from her nose. ‘My dear, they should be incinerated.’
In the playroom Trixie slumped her bulk on to the arm of a chair. She gazed round at all of us, eyes wide, face pulled into sensitive mode.
‘Now I want you all to listen to me. I have spoken to your mother, and although she never complains – dear Eleanor, she is a saint – I know she is desperately worried about money.’
Flook sighed and got up to refill his mug. He frowned into the fireplace. ‘Why isn’t Mum involved in this conversation?’ he asked.
Trixie blinked several times. ‘She’s too embarrassed, actually.’ She sighed. ‘She’s hiding in the loo, if you must know.’ Trixie laughed and looked round at us expectantly. None of us responded. She continued, ‘Anyway. It’s time you all helped your parents a bit. They’ve helped you, and now you are grown-up and earning money you can afford to let go of the selfishness of youth.’
Dan and Poppy hissed venom towards her and she acknowledged them with a nod. ‘You two could give up your pocket-money and stop scrounging cigarettes, but I know you aren’t earning. And of course Dan’s leg is a dreadful worry for her.’
‘It’s not much fun for me either,’ said Dan.
Trixie coughed. ‘Va Va, Brodie and Flook can each give ten pounds a week.’
There was a long silence. Brodie stared at Trixie, his gaze steady, forcing her to look back at him. She lowered her eyes. ‘I know you think I shouldn’t interfere, but I don’t care, it has to be said.’
I couldn’t decide if I hated her more for her ham-fisted approach or for being right. Anyway, I hated her.
‘Thank you for your lecture.’ Brodie walked towards the door. ‘I’m going to talk to Mum about it. We will do what she wants us to, not what you tell us to.’ He paused before leaving the room. ‘And why are you wearing that ridiculous thing on your head?’
Trixie reached up and felt her drooping antennae. She gasped and laughed, eyes snapping shut, mouth gaping wide as hilarity bowled through her. Silent, treading softly, curving round her like cats shrinking from water, we all left the room.
Mum was crying in the kitchen. ‘I told her not to. I begged her not to,’ she wept, ‘but Trixie insisted. I am sorry, all of you. Just ignore her.’
Hooting guffaws still issued from the playroom. Brodie shut the door. ‘Mum, you should have told us. We don’t mind. It’s just being told by her.’
Mum blew her nose. ‘Well, every little helps,’ she managed to say.