In a Good Light by Clare Chambers Read Free Book Online Page B

come to tea and got an electric shock from one of our loose light switches. She had cried so much that Mum had to take her home early. The invitation was never returned and the experiment wasn’t repeated.
    In return for considerable latitude in the matter of dirt, disorder and noise, we were expected to observe three general rules: we were not to moan; we were not to be bored; we must share everything and hoard nothing. Although we were rarely told off and never smacked, there existed a powerful deterrent to misbehaviour in the form of Mother’s patiently delivered lectures. She would sit the offender down and explain, at great length and in fine detail, the historical, moral and sociological reasons why certain actions were undesirable, citing many examples, and alluding frequently tothe Less Fortunate.
    The Less Fortunate were often a spectre at our feasts, and were sometimes there in person. Since the house was large, and our parents had philanthropic tendencies, the spare rooms would occasionally be offered as temporary accommodation to the homeless of the parish, visiting clergy, or young offenders at the end of their stretch.
    The most recent lodger was a plump teenager called Cindy, who was having ‘problems at home’, the details of which were known only to Mum and Dad. She was introduced to visitors, for tact’s sake, as our au pair, although she never lifted a finger in the house, and seldom climbed out of bed. She passed most of the days in her room listening to Capital Radio, making the odd foray into the kitchen to raid the fridge. Sometimes she let me perch on the window sill and watch her applying her make-up, from a staggering array of bottles and tubes, ranged in height order on the dressing table. She had tan foundation to cover her red cheeks, and red blusher to paint them back on again, lipsticks in every colour including black; a whole paint palette of eyeshadows, and a tiny brush and comb for eyebrows. For someone who never went out, she spent an awful lot of time on grooming. Her knowledge of the subject was encyclopaedic, and she enjoyed nothing more than passing on her wisdom to a novice. The relative merits of block or wand mascara, and the difference between cream and powder blusher were secrets I would never hear from my mother’s unpainted lips. Mother was evidently less impressed with Cindy than I was: one afternoon I caught the tail-end of one of her famous lectures. They were in the kitchen; Mother was tending a pan of blackberry jam; Cindy was staring at her with her painted peacock’s eyes, bottom lip drooping, in an attitude of helplessness.
    â€˜The point is, Cindy,’ Mother was saying, dripping hot jelly onto a plate and prodding it with her finger, ‘by sitting around here all day listening to pop music you aren’t really fulfilling your potential, are you?’
    Cindy’s bottom lip, glossed to a high shine with Midnight Cherry, drooped still further.
    â€˜You mustn’t let the terrible experience you’ve had ruin the rest of your life. It’s never too late to make amends. You have talents . . .’ Mother snapped off the gas under the preserving pan. ‘You mustn’t let them go to waste.’
    â€˜I don’t think I’ve got any talents,’ Cindy said.
    â€˜Nonsense. Of course you have.’ Mother set to writing labels for the jam jars.
Bramble – September ’73
.
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜Well . . .’ A frown gathered on Mother’s brow, then she spotted me eavesdropping from the doorway. ‘What are you doing skulking there, young lady?’ she demanded.
    â€˜I smelled something nice.’ I pointed at the stove where the jam sat resting. ‘Is that for us?’
    â€˜No.’
    Of course it wasn’t. On the rare occasions our kitchen was filled with appetising smells, the end product of all this baking, bottling and preserving never ended up in our