Really hungry, Mummy.”
“You’re always hungry,” Viola said brightly, trying to show by example that it was not always necessary to whine. “Try saying, ‘Mum! I’m hungry, is there anything to eat, please?’ What would Mr. Manners think?”
Mr. Manners, whoever he was, dogged Sunny’s life, especially when it came to food.
Everything Sunny said came out as a complaint, Viola thought, his name an ironic soubriquet if ever there was. She was continually trying to get him to take a more cheerful tone. “Put a sparkle on it!” she would say, making jazz hands and an exaggerated happy face. When she was at school, at the Mount in York, they had a drama teacher who used to do this. The girls thought it was a ridiculous idea, but now Viola could see the value of sounding chirpy even when you didn’t feel like it. You were more likely to get what you wanted, for one thing. And for another, your mother wouldn’t want to strangle you every five minutes. Not that she followed her own advice. It was a long time since Viola had put a sparkle on anything. If ever.
“I’m hungry,” Sunny said more vehemently. He had a way of baring his teeth when he was angry that was horrible. He was a biter, too, when he really got going. Viola still shrank in horror from the memory of the visit they had made to her father last year, trekking north for Sunny’s birthday. No Dominic, of course, he didn’t do stuff like family. “Family?” her father puzzled. “He doesn’t do ‘stuff’ like family? But he has a family. You. His children. Not to mention his own family.” Dominic was “estranged” from his parents, something Teddy had a lot of trouble with.
“No, I mean traditional stuff,” Viola said. (Yes, “stuff” is a very overused word in Viola’s vocabulary.) If he hadn’t been the father of her children, Viola might have admired Dominic for the way he was so easily able to absolve himself of all obligation simply by asserting his right to self-fulfilment.
Sunny had already been working himself up to a tantrum by the time he was helped by his grandfather to blow out the candles on his cake. Viola had made the cake that morning in her father’s kitchen and then pricked out “Happy Birthday, Sunny” in Smarties on the top of it, but with so little skill that her father thought it was Bertie who had done the decoration.
“When are we going to have the cake?” Sunny whined. He had had to suffer (they had all had to suffer) his way through a stodgy wholemeal macaroni cheese that Viola had made, which was not birthday fare as far as Sunny was concerned. And besides, it was supposed to be his cake.
“Mr. Manners wouldn’t like to hear that tone,” Viola said.
Who was this Mr. Manners, Teddy wondered? He seemed to have usurped parental authority.
Viola cut the cake and placed a slice in front of Sunny, who then, for no reason that Viola could discern, shot forward like a viper and bit her forearm. Without thinking, she slapped his face. The shock catapulted him into silence, a second stretched to infinity, as the room held its breath, waiting for the apoplectic shrieking to begin. As it duly did.
“Well, he hurt me,” Viola said defensively when she saw the look on her father’s face.
“He’s five years old, for God’s sake, Viola.”
“He has to learn to control himself.”
“So do you,” her father said, picking up Bertie as if she might be in need of protection from further maternal violence.
“Well, what did you expect?” Viola said sharply to Sunny, masking the shame and remorse she felt at her own deplorable behaviour. The shrieking had turned now into howling, fat tears of anguish and distress smearing Sunny’s already chocolate-caked face. She tried to pick him up, but as soon as she put her arms around him and lifted him his body spasmed into a rigid board that made him impossible to hold on to. When she put him back on the ground he started to kick her.
“You cannot go around kicking and biting people and not expect consequences,” Viola said, as prim as an old-fashioned nanny, betraying no sign of the messy stew of emotions that occupied her insides. She could feel a demon writhing inside her. The demon often spoke through the pruny lips of Prim Nanny. Mr. Manners took a timid back seat to Prim Nanny.
“Yes, I can!” Sunny roared.
“No, you can’t,” Prim Nanny said calmly, “because a big policeman will come to the house and take you away to prison and lock you up for years and years.”
“Viola!” her father said. “For God’s sake, get a grip. He’s a little boy.” He held out a hand to Sunny and said, “Come on, let’s go and find you a sweetie.”