A Suitable Vengeance

She bent over the garment. It was oddly folded to accommodate the three holes. “He was a contortionist in his sleep?”


St. James chuckled. “Better yet a liar awake. He stabbed himself and made the holes later.” He caught her yawning. “Am I boring you, Helen?”

“Not at all.”

“Late night in the company of a charming man?”

“If only that were true. I’m afraid it was the company of my grandparents, darling. Grandfather blissfully snoring away during the triumphal march in Aida. I should have joined him. No doubt he’s quite spry this morning.”

“An occasional bow to culture is good for the soul.”

“I loathe opera. If they’d only sing in English. Is that too much to ask? But it’s always Italian or French. Or German. German’s the worst. And when they run about the stage in those funny helmets with the horns…”

“You’re a Philistine, Helen.”

“Card-carrying.”

“Well, if you’ll behave yourself for another half hour, I’ll take you to lunch. There’s a new brasserie I’ve found in the Brompton Road.”

Her face came to life. “Darling Simon, the very thing! What shall I do next?” She looked round the lab as if seeking new employment, an intention that St. James ignored when the front door slammed and a voice called his name.

He shoved away from the worktable. “Sidney,” he said and walked to the door as his sister came dashing up the stairs. “Where the hell have you been?”

She came into the lab. “Surrey first. Then Southampton,” she replied as if they were the most logical destinations in the world. She dropped a mink jacket onto a stool. “They’ve got me doing another line of furs. If I don’t get a different assignment soon I don’t know what I’ll do. Modelling the skins of dead animals lies somewhere between absolutely unsavoury and thoroughly disgusting. And they continue to insist I wear nothing underneath.” Leaning over the table, she examined the pyjama top. “Blood again? How can you endure it so near to lunchtime? I haven’t missed lunch, have I? It’s hardly noon.” She opened her shoulder bag and began to dig through it. “Now where is it? Of course, I understand why they insist on some naked skin, but I’ve hardly the bosom for it. It’s the suggestion of sensuality, they tell me. The promise, the fantasy. What rubbish. Ah, here it is.” She produced a tattered envelope which she handed to her brother.

“What is it?”

“What I’ve spent nearly ten days getting out of Mummy. I even had to trail along to David’s for a week just so that she’d know I was determined to have it.”

“You’ve been with Mother?” St. James asked incredulously. “Visiting David in Southampton? Helen, did you—”

“I phoned Surrey that once, but there was no reply. Then you said not to worry her. Remember?”

“Worry Mummy?” Sidney asked. “Worry Mummy about what?”

“About you.”

“Why would Mummy worry about me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Actually, she thought the idea was absurd, at first.”

“What idea?”

“Now I know where you get your general poopiness, Simon. But I wore her down over time. I knew I should. Go on, open it. Read it aloud. Helen shall hear it as well.”

“Damn it, Sidney. I want to know—”

She grabbed his wrist and shook his arm. “Read.”

He opened the envelope with ill-concealed irritation and began to read aloud.

My dear Simon,

It appears I shall have no rest from Sidney until I apologise, so let me do so at once. Not that a simple line of apology would ever satisfy your sister.

“What is this, Sid?”

She laughed. “Keep reading!”

He went back to his mother’s heavily embossed stationery.

I always did think it was Sidney’s idea to open the nursery windows, Simon. But when you said nothing upon being accused of having done so, I felt obliged to direct all the punishment towards you. Punishing one’s children is the hardest part of being a parent. It’s even worse if one has the nagging little fear that one is punishing the wrong child. Sidney has cleared all this up, as only Sidney could do, and although she had begun to insist that I beat her soundly for having let you take her punishment all those years ago, I do draw the line at paddling a twenty-five-year-old woman. So let me apologise to you for placing the blame on your little shoulders—were you ten years old? I’ve forgotten—and I shall henceforth direct it towards her in an appropriate fashion. We have had a rather nice visit, Sidney and I. We spent some time with David and the children as well. It’s made me quite hopeful that I shall soon see you in Surrey. Bring Deborah with you if you come. Cotter telephoned cook with the word about her. Poor child. It would be good of you to take her under your wing until she’s back on her feet.

Love to you,