Family Album Read Online Free

where a bolt on the inside of the door seems to suggest a certain fortress attitude. The kitchen is of course vibrant with references—the mugs, the handiwork—and if we climb the stairs we find the measurement wall at the far end of the landing. Here are six columns, with meticulous pencil marks alongside each—a column for each child, with a horizontal line marking the child’s height at each birthday. Gina at six tops Paul at the same age, but Paul then rushes upwards, and outstrips everyone by sixteen, after which the record ceases. Katie seems always to have been the runt, while Clare’s teenage growth spurt is remarkable. The deep bottom drawer of a huge tallboy close by contains the dressing-up clothes—a morass of cowboy outfits, witch’s cloaks, tutus, masks, policeman’s helmets, animal costumes, and an assortment of adult discards by way of spangly dresses, shawls, junk jewelry, and a battered top hat.
    Each bedroom can be seen to be scarred, on close inspection. In one, someone has drawn a row of rudely naked figures under the windowsill, where you would only find them if you were looking hard. In another, there are ink blotches on the ceiling—an interesting achievement. It is clear that redecoration has never been a high priority at Allersmead. The master bedroom is shabby, with plum velvet curtains faded on the folds to beige, and a carpet with patches worn to the backing. There is a vast four-poster bed—the site, it must be supposed, of all that impressive procreation. And there is a cupboard in the wall, full of the parental clothes, a place of darkness and long shadowy shapes—scary, indeed—into which once upon a time people pushed one another and shut the door upon the screams.
    The cellar. At one side of the house there is a flight of steps leading down to a black door. The key is in the lock—an immense iron key. Turn it, open the door, and you are in a dank, dark semisubterranean space lit by a couple of murky windows high up at ground level. The cellar has a damp brick floor and, against one wall, a huge wine rack in which presumably the Edwardian haute bourgeoisie once stored their tipple. Elsewhere there are wooden shelves crammed with detritus of one sort or another—moldy cardboard boxes, rusty tools, an old mattress, cobwebbed milk bottles and jam jars, a bucket without a handle, a gas mask, a birdcage, some tin trays. In one corner stands a defunct lawn mower, apparently welded to the ground. Along one wall a packing case and a doorless cupboard have been turned into what seems like improvised housing, and above them there is a board with a wavering chalked scrawl. Headings—FORFITS and PENALTYS—and beneath them names and numbers: PAUL 5, GINA 4, SANDRA 5 . . . PAUL 1, GINA 2 . . . CLARE 16. Something went on here, once.

    “What happens in the cellar?” inquires Philip, eyeing that door.
    Gina shrugs. “Black beetles. Spiders. Cellar life.”
    They are wandering in the garden, after lunch—after too much lunch. Roast leg of lamb, mint sauce, roast potatoes, broad beans—the works. Rhubarb crumble with cream. Cheese board for any survivors.
    “Shall we think about going home soon?” says Gina.
    Philip considers. “Of course, there is a sense in which you are at home.”
    “I am talking about the flat.”
    He puts his arm around her. “I know you are. Joke. Of a kind. All the same, say what you like, your mother is a crack cook. OK, let us get ourselves together. Do you want to take those newspapers back? Your father would no doubt use them.”

    Philip carried down their bags. Gina was in the hall with Alison and Ingrid. Alison was saying that it had been so good to meet Philip, and they must come again soon. Gina was saying yes, sure, of course, trouble is I never know when I’ll have to be off somewhere. Ingrid had put beans, carrots, lettuce, herbs into a carrier bag: “The lettuce you must eat this evening, while it is fresh. The herbs put in water.”
    Alison