Remember Me by Fay Weldon Page A

the old days, when such things were plentiful and cheap; neither liking nor wanting it, she gave it to Jarvis on his thirty-second birthday) and served on to crazed blue and white plates, each one older than the century by far; and after the Brie; and after wine, and more wine; Lily leads the way to the drawing room.
    What is it that Margot is whispering in Lily’s ear? Lily is confused. The little girl’s room? She can’t be asking for the bathroom, surely: Margot works here. But no, Margot wants to pop up to Hilary’s room to say good night. A little girl? Is Hilary really a little girl? Hilary looms enormous in Lily’s mind—a giantess, rather than a child.
    ‘Pop up, by all means,’ says Lily in her husky voice. The word, repeated, sounds foolish as Lily had supposed it would. ‘She’s dying to show someone her new haircut. Such a relief, after all that bushy doormat! One can actually see her face.’
    ‘If that’s a desirable end,’ says Jarvis, in the disparaging tone fathers often adopt towards their daughters, as if the better to ward off incestuous notions, but in Jarvis’s case it is more sincere than most. Jarvis has had more than enough to drink. So has Jamie. Philip has not. He fidgets: he looks at his watch surreptitiously. Lamb gives him indigestion. The vinaigrette in the salad made him cough and splutter.
    Margot goes up to Hilary: up the pale carpeted stairs. Does she remember going up them once, long ago, with Jarvis? No.
    Hilary sleeps on a camp-bed in Jonathon’s room. The spare room, after all, is kept for guests, and if Jonathon is wakeful, it is simple and easy for Hilary, sleeping next to him, to soothe, change and comfort him; and means that Lily doesn’t have to disturb Jarvis’s essential, money-making sleep by waking herself.
    Hilary is awake when Margot opens the door; she is leafing through Jonathon’s ABC books, by the ineffectual light of a pink bulb in a little pottery night-light. Jonathon sleeps with his head cradled in his arms and his bottom in the air. Margot and Hilary whisper.
    ‘Have they left any pudding?’ demands Hilary.
    ‘Lemon mousse? Yes. Why, will you have it for breakfast?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How’s your hair?’ enquires Margot.
    ‘Don’t look at it. It’s horrible,’ says Hilary. ‘I can’t go out of the house for at least six weeks.’
    ‘You’ll feel better about it in the morning,’ says Margot.
    ‘I’ll have to, won’t I. Mum will hate it. Her hating it is going to be worse than me hating it. I’ll have both to put up with: it’s always the way. You’d think mothers would be a help, but they’re not.’
    ‘She might think it suited you short. She might be quite pleased.’
    ‘How can she be? It was Lily’s idea. Mum rang Lily this afternoon and asked me to phone back before five. Lily didn’t give me the message until half past. So when I rang she wasn’t there. Lily forgot. Well, she was busy. She had to stuff wodges of mince and herbs into the middle of that bit of meat. Did Mum say where she was going? She never goes out.’ Hilary sounded anxious.
    ‘No, she didn’t,’ says Margot.
    ‘Renee says she took the car,’ goes on Hilary. ‘I hate her driving that thing. It isn’t safe. And where did she go? Why didn’t she tell me? I don’t like sudden things.’
    Jonathon stirs and whimpers in his sleep. Sleeping, he makes the same noises as does Hilary’s guinea pig, awake.
    ‘Doesn’t Jonathon look nice when he’s asleep?’ says Hilary, fondly. ‘Mum doesn’t like Jonathon. Not that she’s ever seen him. She says he sounds spoilt to her. So one way and another I don’t say much about here, when I’m there, if you see what I mean. You do look nice, Mrs Bailey.’
    ‘I thought I looked rather ordinary.’
    ‘That’s what’s nice. I have a great craving for ordinary things in my life.’
    ‘You’d better go to sleep now,’ says Margot.
    ‘Thank you for coming,’ says Hilary, as Margot goes. ‘I am glad