an act—maybe I could only stand him, or I should say love him, when he was being himself: that is, frankly selfish like a child, but also bewildered and mixed up like a child. Through irritation with him, I announced a decision I hadn’t made: “I never said I was giving the house.”
“No, but you will,” he assured me, as calm, warm, and confident as the director of a bank.
“I haven’t decided,” I said. I had already disengaged my arm from his, and I wouldn’t look at him but down at my own foot digging around in the soil.
“Harriet’s being tiresome,” Lindsay announced. I saw Manton give her arm a warning squeeze, and he went on talking to me, with perfect understanding: “I think after today we can decide.”
“Who’s we?” I said.
“Baby, you know you asked me to come here. You did consult me, sweet one. And why shouldn’t you,” he said. “It’s what I’m there for: when truly needed. I like to think that.” He made his sincere eyes at me; I continued to be irritated and yet involved with him—it was true, I had gone to him, and not for the first time either, when perplexed or in trouble. Though I always wondered afterward why I had gone to him, the fact was he never turned me away but was ready to listen and give his—usually useless—advice. He was, as he said, there.
He went on: “I know it’s not easy. I know how you love Propinquity. But it would be a magnificent gesture—and my Lord, how many of us are in a position even once in our lives to make such a gesture? I envy you. Both of you,” he said, turning to Lindsay so she wouldn’t feel left out. “I wish I had something to contribute to such a cause.”
But Lindsay’s mood had changed. Probably it was the bit about always being there—literally of course it couldn’t have been less true—anyway, her back was up. The moment of accord between them was over. She said “If you really want to contribute, you could always sell some stock.”
He ignored this with dignity and went on talking to me: “I know my little girl. She doesn’t care about owning anything; about owning a house. She’d give it away tomorrow.”
“Yes but I might want to give it away tomorrow to an orphanage. Or I might just want to keep it.”
“Why?” Lindsay said.
“Because,” I said.
It was getting more and more back to normal. We weren’t talking about the house but about ourselves—our own shortcomings. It usually happened to me when I was alone with either or both of them—that their inadequacies, as persons and as parents, overwhelmed me.
“You want to keep it,” Lindsay said, having had time to work herself up. “How do you think I feel? Who’s spent more time here, you or I? All our vacations—if we weren’t by the ocean somewhere, we were always here, my whole childhood, dammit: That means something.”
“You were lucky,” I said.
“You mean my mother was lucky, that she married my father and not someone like your father—”
“I thought we were going to talk nicely today,” Manton put in, still dignified.
“Yes we would, if you hadn’t happened to come here bringing Baby Doll.”
“Well,” Manton exhaled. “Is that what’s bugging you? Barbara being here?”
“Nothing is, as you put it, bugging me. Until this moment I was feeling happy and wonderful. It’s not every day that someone like the Rawul comes into your life and makes you want to do something—give up your house, or whatever. I really want to do that, but you make out as if it’s just—‘oh one of Lindsay’s big acts.’ Dragging me down; dragging everything down, as usual.”
“But why bring in Barbara?” Manton insisted, stamping his foot.
She stamped hers right back at him: “I didn’t—you did! And she doesn’t even have the decency to try to make herself pleasant but sulks around in her nightclothes, fighting with you. In my house. Under my roof. Naturally, I want to give it away—are you surprised that I’d want to have something better going on in it than you and Barbara?”
“For heaven’s sake, what are you talking about, it’s the first time we’ve even been here.”
“And the last! And the last!”
“I’m sorry,” Manton said to me. “Your mother is hysterical.”
He wasn’t sorry but rather pleased with himself, for keeping his temper; he wasn’t always so successful at it. But I felt sorry for her—she hadn’t meant to be this way, she hadn’t even meant to say anything about Barbara when she had entered this orchard, still feeling noble from the flag-raising ceremony.
I said to Manton, “I don’t know why you always have to get into a fight with her.”
“I!” he cried at that and put both his hands on his chest in sincere indignation. All his calm and poise were blown away. “I get in a fight! My Lord, didn’t you hear me, I was congratulating her. I was giving her my respect and esteem, and next thing I hear she’s running down Barbara!”
Lindsay put her hands on her ears and cried “Don’t mention her name in my house!”
Manton moaned, his hands over his eyes as hers were over her ears, and swayed to and fro in his despair.
It was at that moment, unfortunately, that Michael appeared in search of me. He gave one look—of disgust—and told me with his eyes to come away. I must say, I was glad to do so. When we were out of the orchard, he said “Why do you always get yourself into these situations with those two?” I had to laugh because it was true, I did. Michael had never done so. That look of disgust he had given them was, I’m afraid, his characteristic response to our parents, singly or together.
He had no interest in what the row had been about but said: “What shall we do? No one seems to want to go home.”
They stood dotted around the lawns, as if waiting for the next event. But nothing further had been planned; it had been assumed that, after the flag-raising ceremony, everyone would leave. No one had done so. The full light of afternoon had faded, trees and house looked softer, melting away into their own shadows. Crishi was coming toward us—smiling, his white shirt fresh and gleaming: “We’ll have to organize some party games,” he said. I thought he was joking, but not at all. We went in the barn where we collected a pile of old seed bags for a sack race; and then into the house, where Crishi set Mrs. Schwamm to hard-boil eggs for an egg-and-spoon race—she thought it was the funniest thing she had ever heard; she laughed till she choked. All the guests laughed too, when invited to participate; but Crishi cajoled, teased, and gently bullied them; he was the first to get into a seed bag and hopped up and down to show them how, not a bit afraid of appearing ridiculous. Led by bold Mr. McKimberley from the bank, a few of the local people climbed into the seed bags, laughing at themselves, a bit shamefaced; and when he had got them going, loudly applauding their skill and daring, Crishi whispered to me, “We’d better get some drink into them.” Back in the house, I got out Grandmother’s silver punch bowl, and Michael and I and Crishi and Mrs. Schwamm emptied bottles into it, not much caring what they were, almost daring each other on as we poured bourbon on brandy on wine on orange juice on vodka. Mrs. Schwamm was shrieking “But they’ll all be blotto!” in her Austrian accent—“That’s the idea,” Crishi said—and she was still shrieking as she helped us carry bowl and glasses out.
Everyone had joined in the games. Manton and Lindsay had emerged from the orchard and were watching the Rani, flushed and full-bosomed, hopping eagerly between Mrs. Pickles and Mr. McKimberley, all three intent on winning. When Mrs. Pickles came in first, the Rawul, who sat smilingly watching from the sidelines, applauded her with his hands held high in the air, softly clapping and calling out “Bravo.” Mrs. Pickles, scarlet with exertion and pleasure, said she had always been good at games, didn’t know what it was but ask anyone, when there were games, everyone knew Cindy Pickles would be first. The Rani