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When Will There Be Good News?
Kate Atkinson
*
Chapter I
In the Past.
Harvest.
THE HEAT RISING UP FROM THE TARMAC SEEMED TO GET TRAPPED between the thick hedges that towered above their heads like battlements.
'Oppressive,' their mother said. They felt trapped too. 'Like the maze at Hampton Court,' their mother said. 'Remember?'
'Yes,' Jessica said.
'No,' Joa
'You were just a baby,' their mother said to Joa
The little road (they always called it 'the lane') snaked one way and then another, so that you couldn't see anything ahead of you. They had to keep the dog on the lead and stay close to the hedges in case a car came out of nowhere'. Jessica was the eldest so she was the one who always got to hold the dog's lead. She spent a lot of her time training the dog, 'Heel!' and 'Sit!' and 'Come! 'Their mother said she wished Jessica was as obedient as the dog. Jessica was always the one who was in charge. Their mother said to Joa
The bus dropped them on the big road and then carried on to somewhere else. It was 'a palaver' getting them all off the bus. Their mother held Joseph under one arm like a parcel and with her other hand she struggled to open out his newfangled buggy. Jessica and Joa
'Your father's country fucking idyll,' their mother said as the bus drove away in a blue haze of fumes and heat. 'Don't you swear,' she added automatically, 'I'm the only person allowed to swear.'
They didn't have a car any more. Their father (,the bastard') had driven away in it. Their father wrote books, 'novels'. He had taken one down from a shelf and shown it to Joa
Their father was called Howard Mason and their mother's name was Gabrielle. Sometimes people got excited and smiled at their father and said, 'Are you the Howard Mason?' (Or sometimes, not smiling, 'that Howard Mason' which was different although Joa
Their mother said that their father had uprooted them and planted them 'in the middle of nowhere'. 'Or Devon, as it's commonly known,' their father said. He said he needed 'space to write' and it would be good for all of them to be 'in touch with nature'. 'No television!' he said as if that was something they would enjoy.
Joa
The first thing their father did when they moved to Devon was to buy six red hens and a hive full of bees. He spent all autumn digging over the garden at the front of the house so it would be 'ready for spring' . When it rained the garden turned to mud and the mud was trailed everywhere in the house, they even found it on their bed sheets. When winter came a fox ate the hens without them ever having laid an egg and the bees all froze to death which was unheard of, according to their father, who said he was going to put all those things in the book ('the novel') he was writing. 'So that's all right then,' their mother said.
Their father wrote at the kitchen table because it was the only room in the house that was even the slightest bit warm, thanks to the huge temperamental Aga that their mother said was 'going to be the death of her'. 'I should be so lucky,' their father muttered. (His book wasn't going well.) They were all under his feet, even their mother.
'You smell of soot,' their father said to their mother. 'And cabbage and milk.'
'And you smell of failure,' their mother said.
Their mother used to smell of all kinds of interesting things, paint and turpentine and tobacco and the Je Reviens perfume that their father had been buying for her since she was seventeen years old and 'a Catholic schoolgirl', and which meant 'I will return' and was a message to her. Their mother was 'a beauty' according to their father but their mother said she was 'a painter', although she hadn't painted anything since they moved to Devon. 'No room for two creative talents in a marriage,' she said in that way she had, raising her eyebrows while inhaling smoke from the little brown cigarillos she smoked. She pronounced it thigariyo like a foreigner. When she was a child she had lived in faraway places that she would take them to one day. She was warm-blooded, she said, not like their father who was a reptile. Their mother was clever and fu
The argument about who smelled of what wasn't over apparently because their mother picked up a blue-and-white-striped jug from the dresser and threw it at their father, who was sitting at the table staring at his typewriter as if the words would write themselves if he was patient enough. The jug hit him on the side of the head and he roared with shock and pain. With a speed that Joa
When Joa
'Electricity's off,' she said, without taking her eyes off the book. On the other side of the wall they could hear the horrible animal noises that meant their parents were friends again. Jessica silently offered Joa
When the spring finally came, instead of planting a vegetable garden, their father went back to London and lived with 'his other woman' -which was a big surprise to Joa
Although now there was only one person in the marriage, their mother still didn't paint.
They made their way along the lane in single file, 'Indian file', their mother said. The plastic shopping bags hung from the handles of the buggy and if their mother let go it tipped backwards on to the ground.
'We must look like refugees,' she said. 'Yet we are not downhearted,' she added cheerfully. They were going to move back into town at the end of the summer, 'in time for school'.
'Thank God,' Jessica said, in just the same way their mother said it.
Joseph was asleep in the buggy, his mouth open, a faint rattle from his chest because he couldn't shake off a summer cold. He was so hot that their mother stripped him to his nappy and Jessica blew on the thin ribs of his little body to cool him down until their mother said, 'Don't wake him.'