Family Album Read Online Free Page A

called out, “Charles—they’re going.”
    Charles emerged from his study. Gina took a step forward, kissed him. “We’re off,” she said. “Traffic—Sunday evening. Don’t want to leave too late.”
    Charles accepted the kiss, patted her arm. “Good to see you other than on a screen. Not that I look at much TV—I prefer to read the news—but we catch you occasionally.” He held out his hand to Philip. “Nice to have met you . . . er. Hope I didn’t go on too much last night.” A quizzical glance. “Company can set me off.”
    Philip said that he had enjoyed their discussion.
    Alison was waving a piece of paper at Gina. “Addresses, dear. Everyone’s addresses—e-mail and otherwise—since you’re not sure if you’ve got them or not. Roger’s moved to a new hospital in Toronto. And Katie’s husband is being transferred to San Francisco—they’re so pleased. Clare’s touring at the moment with the dance company—in Japan; she sends such pretty postcards. So there’s only her Paris address. Sandra of course has her flat in Rome.”
    “And we think there is perhaps an Italian man,” said Ingrid.
    “Do we?” said Charles. “I have not been told this. Are his intentions honorable?”
    Alison laughed. “Really! Sandra is thirty-eight. I expect she can look after herself.”
    “No doubt. I was merely trying to be the responsible father. So there you are, Gina—that’s the rundown on the family. Global displacement, you note.”
    “We have still Paul,” said Ingrid.
    “And are so thankful that we do.” Alison embraced Gina, dabbed her face against Philip’s. “I wish you could have seen more of him but of course the Garden Centre calls. Have a good journey. Come again soon.”
    Philip drove, this time. As the car went through the gates he saw the group on the steps reflected in the driving mirror—Alison and Ingrid waving, Charles simply standing, the dog at his feet, tongue lolling. He thought they looked firmly set in some other time—about 1975, maybe—and said so, intending no criticism.
    “Seventy-seven, probably,” said Gina. “The summer of my eighth birthday.”
    Except that they are not, she thought. She saw her young mother, her young father. She saw everybody in another incarnation—Paul, Sandra, Katie . . . all of them. Aunt Corinna—she was there then too. Not set fast—moved on and away. Except that it is all still there also, going on just as it did. That day. Other days.

GINA’S BIRTHDAY PARTY
     
     
     
     
    C orinna sits on the terrace, and looks down into the garden. She has arrived late; the party is in full swing. Black mark for that, no doubt—perhaps canceling out the brownie points for being here. She is not Gina’s godmother—this is an atheistic household—but her “patron,” and patrons are required to attend birthdays. “Gina would be so hurt if you didn’t come”—which actually means that Alison would be so hurt.
    Children everywhere. The garden running with children. A display of Alison’s fecundity. Not quite all are hers, of course—there are visitors, Gina’s invitees. The family rule is that the birthday child alone is allowed guests, Corinna remembers, and a handful only, the family itself being so numerous. So Gina has the decreed smattering of friends.
    Alison is joyous, Corinna sees. The earth mother. Dressed by Laura Ashley, or perhaps robed would be a better word—an acreage of sprigged cotton, top to toe, nicely concealing the lack of figure. Could she be . . . ? Oh no, perish the thought. And the earth mother has provided—the kitchen table is testimony to her labors. Plate upon plate of tricksy little sandwiches, with identifying flags, bridge rolls, sausage rolls, tiny iced cakes in frilly cups, brandy snaps, chocolate biscuits, and jugs of apple juice and lemonade. And, in the middle, the Cake—eighteen inches in diameter at least, homemade down to the last piped rosette and the neat calligraphy: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GINA.