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. Abruptly he moved back, smashing his glass into the fire. ‘I beseech you in the bowels of Christ to remove this interloper.’ The man edged towards the door, someone else filled the space at Patrick’s side. Patrick frowned. ‘Eleanor. Read me something beautiful,’ he growled, and her low voice fell into the silent room:
‘The sigh that heaves the grasses
Whence thou wilt never rise
Is of the air that passes
And knows not if it sighs.
‘The diamond tears adorning
Thy low mound on the lea,
Those are the tears of morning,
That weeps, but not for thee.’
Va Va hung around at the top of the stairs, peering through the banisters. A fat man lurched into the hall. He opened the front door and peed noisily and long into the garden. Va Va clenched her fists around the banisters and scowled. ‘How dare he? We don’t even know him.’
Liza’s son Dominic, Va Va’s half-brother, shuffled ponderous and sideways out of the Drinking Room; his face was puffy and sentimental with drink. ‘You should be in bed, Gabriella, this is grown-ups’ time.’ He raised his glass to his lips and crashed headlong to the floor. Va Va held her breath, waiting for someone to come. The Drinking Room was loud with laughter. No one came. She tiptoed down the stairs. Dominic smelt stale and boozy, his nose was pleated red against the tiles. He was breathing. ‘Not dead,’ she thought. ‘It serves him right.’
Now Patrick was singing, his empty glass a microphone held under his chin. Va Va’s eyes pinched with tiredness; she longed for them all to go to bed, to go away and make the house safe again. She sat on the stairs and listened.
‘The train don’t stay love
It goes straight through
And now it’s gone love
And so are you
‘Build me a castle
Forty feet high
So I can see her
As she goes by
‘Bird in a cage love
Bird in a cage
Dying for freedom
Ever a slave.’