There was an awful silence. ‘I wouldn’t say anything more if I were you, Louisa,’ Miranda said, facing her cousin, her hands on her hips. ‘It’s not your house, it’s ours. You’re lucky to be here.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that.’

‘I’l speak to you how I like.’ Miranda was shaking, her voice low, bursting with venom. ‘You’l be sorry, Louisa. I tel you. Don’t – don’t cross me.’

There was a silence, and they were al stil , frozen to the spot, staring at each other, as if seeing each other for the first time.

Louisa broke the spel . ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ she said in a shaky voice, and turned back into her bedroom, Frank holding her hand. ‘Of al of this.’ She shut the door, leaving the others on the other side of it, Archie stil bleeding, Miranda gazing almost in astonishment at the closed door, and the other three standing there, unsure of what to do next.

The atmosphere was charged with tension, bursting out everywhere, as if it had final y found a release valve.

‘Let’s go,’ Jeremy said uncomfortably, handing Archie another tissue, and their strange procession trooped downstairs. ‘I think we should find

—’

‘Hel o?’ A thin, rather querulous voice came from the sitting room, and as they got downstairs a figure appeared in the hal way. ‘Hel o? Is anyone there?’

‘Oh, my God,‘ Jeremy whispered. ‘Jeremy? Is that you? My goodness, what on earth has been going on?’

‘Mother?’ Jeremy said, emerging into the hal way. ‘We weren’t expecting you til tea-time!’ He strode forward, a smile on his face.

Pamela James, Frances’s sister, was standing in the hal , holding a pair of immaculate white gloves. She offered her cheek to her son. ‘We left earlier, to avoid the traffic. Hel o, dear,’ she said. ‘Daddy’s just parking the car. Where is Frances? No use asking for Arvind, I suppose.’

She was like a figure from another world, in a deep fuchsia tweed suit and sensible black patent court shoes, her handbag tucked into the crook of her elbow. Her calm, rather distant gaze took in Cecily, Guy and Archie, a handkerchief pressed to his nose. ‘Again. Can someone explain what has been going on?’

Jeremy took charge. He said, ‘Archie walked into a door. I’m just going to get him cleaned up now, Mother. Cecily, why don’t you go and find Franty – Aunt Frances, I mean?’ Cecily nodded and ran towards the back staircase to her parents’ room.

‘Wel , it’s good to be here, even if no one seems prepared for our arrival,’ Pamela said, putting her gloves down on the table and looking around, while Archie, Jeremy and Miranda stood transfixed in the corridor. ‘It was a very long drive and I’m rather tired. Is lunch soon, do you know?’

‘I think so –‘ Jeremy said, and just then, much to their relief, Frances appeared. ‘Hel o, hel o,’ she said, rushing towards her sister, pushing her hair back up into her head-scarf. ‘Pamela, darling, how wonderful to see you. We weren’t expecting you til tea! You have made good time!’

‘Thank you,’ Pamela said. ‘Yes, we set out early. I hope this doesn’t throw your plans off.’ She pronounced it ‘orf’. ‘I did say we might be here for lunch.’

Frances waved her hands. ‘No, of course not! It’s wonderful to have you here.’ She linked her sister’s arm through hers and they stood there, both tal and similar in looks, but utterly different people: Frances barefoot in cropped trousers and a bil owing smock, a patterned scarf tying back her hair, glowing with sun and a smudge of paint on her shirt and her long slim neck: and Pamela, perfectly dressed, not a hair out of place even after a six-hour drive.

‘I’l go and help with the bags,’ said Guy, glad to have an excuse to disappear.

‘We’ve been overrun with young people,’ Frances told her sister. ‘Absolutely overrun with them. I’ve been feeling terribly old and dowdy, and now you and John are here, we can redress the balance.’ She smiled manical y at Pamela, as if she wasn’t sure who she was.

‘I hope the children have been behaving themselves,’ Pamela said. ‘That they’ve not been too much trouble.’

‘The children?’ Frances tugged at a blue glass necklace hanging round her neck. ‘Oh . . . goodness, no. They’re wonderful. Terrific to have them al here. And the Leightons are lovely boys. I think they’ve been getting along fine – I’m afraid we’ve been terribly lax hosts,’ she said, scratching her head and smiling vaguely as Guy reappeared, carrying two suitcases, fol owed by John James, who was taking off his driving gloves as he entered the house. ‘Ah, John, how lovely!’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I was just saying to Pamela, I’m sure the children have been getting up to al sorts of mischief. It’s a good thing you’re both here, I’m sure!’

Only then did she catch sight of Archie, and she ran her hand rather helplessly over her brow. ‘Goodness, Archie, you have been in the wars, darling.’

They were al silent. Pamela and John stood there, watching them. From upstairs came the sound of Louisa’s weeping.

‘Is that crying?’ Pamela said, as if she’d never heard it before.

‘Oh, dear,’ Frances said, looking almost annoyed. ‘What have you al been up to?’

‘You real y didn’t hear, did you?’ Cecily said quietly to her mother.

‘No,’ Frances said. ‘Have you al gone wild? Started beating each other up? Is this Lord of the Flies?’ She laughed, but it sounded odd, harsh.

‘What have we let ourselves in for, dear?’ John said, rocking on his feet. His face was stern; he was only partly joking.

There was no answer to this. The others were silent. Frances went over to the front door, pushing it shut. ‘Come in,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘I’l find out when lunch wil be ready. I’m sorry. Welcome, welcome.’

Chapter Eighteen

There would be no ‘Please Please Me’ blaring out of the sitting-room record player into the dining room now that Pamela and John were here, that much was obvious. There would also be no smoking after dinner, and Cecily would not be given her customary glass of wine. And there would be no lazing around on the terrace afterwards. Something in the atmosphere had shifted that day.

When Pamela and John came into the living room that evening, Guy was saying to Frances, ‘The Stratford by-election is soon, isn’t it? I bet old Macmil an must be terrified. The way things are going, that Monster Raving Loony party could win it, you know. They’ve certainly got my vote.’

‘I don’t think that’s a suitable subject for discussion,’ said Pamela, stopping in front of him. ‘And I don’t think one should refer to the Prime Minister of one’s country as “Old Macmil an”, Guy.’

Frances jumped up. ‘No, of course not,’ she said cravenly, shooting Guy a glance of apology. ‘Quite right. Jeremy, wil you get your mother a drink? Pam, wil you have a gimlet? Darling, that’s a beautiful dress, you put me quite to shame.’ She patted her sister’s arm and turned, catching sight of her daughters, who were looking bored on the sofa. ‘Miranda, Cecily, you look like vagrants,’ she said, her voice sharp. ‘Go and change, for God’s sake.’

Looking slightly surprised at her mother’s harsh tone, Cecily said, ‘But Mummy, Guy and I were picking the blackberries, you said it was al right.’

‘Not like that,’ Frances said. ‘Look at you.’ She waved a hand, encompassing her youngest daughter’s stained yel ow shorts and crumpled white cotton top. Cecily’s hair was in knots where the wind had caught it. ‘Guy changed, why on earth can’t you?’

Cecily turned to her, mystified. ‘Mother, you are very very annoying.’

‘Cecily!’ Pamela said, scandalised. ‘You shouldn’t talk to your mother like that.’

‘She is annoying,’ Cecily said. ‘In the mornings when she paints me she’s always trying to get me to be more ruffled up and dirty, and when I am, she tel s me to go and change! Come on, Miranda.’

‘I’m not changing,’ Miranda said. She crossed her arms and stared defiantly at her mother, thick hair tossed to one side, her rosebud lips pouting.

‘Oh, yes you are,’ Frances said, her voice quiet.

Miranda squared up to her. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to. And you know you can’t make me.’

She carried on staring at Frances, her jaw set, her eyes blazing. Cecily watched them.

‘Fine,’ Frances said eventual y, turning away from Miranda, but not before she’d given her a cold, hard look, quite chil ing. ‘How did you get that scratch on your cheek?’ she said suddenly. Miranda covered her face with her hand, blushing.

‘Did it myself,’ she mumbled. ‘Where’s Archie?’ Frances asked. ‘Early night,’ Guy said. ‘Stil a bit shaken.’ Frances looked as if she would ask something else, but then a voice behind her came from the corridor. ‘Ah. So, the outsiders are inside.’ Frances turned around grateful y.

‘He lives!’ she cried, trying to keep out the harshness she could hear creeping into her voice. ‘Darling, hel o. Get a drink. How’s your day been?’

‘Unpleasant,’ Arvind said. ‘Troubling. Disrupted.’

He advanced gingerly into the room; he was uneasy around his tal , brash, far too English sister-in-law.

Frances went over to him, smiling suddenly. ‘Poor darling,’ she said. ‘Have a gimlet. Thank you, Mary.’

‘Welcome,’ Arvind said, raising his glass to Pamela and John. They nodded politely.

Silence threatened to engulf the room. ‘How – how is your work going?’ John enquired, looking vaguely from Arvind to Frances, both of whose professions, if you could cal them that, were a source of mystery to him. John was a solicitor of the old school. Philosophers and painters were outside his remit but, unlike his wife, he thought you had to ask to find out.

Frances and Arvind looked at each other, like naughty children caught by a teacher.

‘You first,’ said Arvind. ‘Oh, wel . I’m preparing for a show, at the Du Val on Gal ery, in September,’ Frances said.

‘How interesting.’ John nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Frances smiled. ‘We’re having a party! They’re sending out invitations soon.’

John nodded again. ‘Delightful.’

There was an awkward pause. ‘Did you – did you hear about Ward taking an overdose?’ Miranda said. Her mother frowned.

‘They say he won’t make it through the night,’ Jeremy added.

‘This whole case,’ John said, shaking his head. ‘The state of the country after this trial is over – the damage wil be incalculable.’

Pamela nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I agree. Some of the details—!’ She shook her head.

Frances batted her husband playful y on the arm. ‘Go and see if Mary’s ready for us, wil you, darling?’

‘Of course!’ Arvind exclaimed with relief. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, exiting for the kitchen.

Guy was watching this exchange when a movement by the French windows caught his eye. Cecily had reappeared, in a simple black linen dress, her hair smooth and gleaming, her cheeks flushed. She was leaning against the door frame, staring at them, smiling, her eyes ful of tears.

‘Hey, I say.’ He went over and nudged her. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing!’ she said quickly, brushing away something on her cheek. ‘I’m just a bit tired. It’s almost too hot, isn’t it? There’s a storm coming, I think, there’s no breeze at al .’

Guy ignored this. ‘Cecily? What’s wrong?’

She smiled. ‘Darling Guy. Nothing. They’re so funny, my parents, that’s al . I don’t understand them. I look at them and I think I don’t real y know them at al . That must sound sil y.’

‘You never sound sil y,’ Guy said, his voice ful of warmth. ‘Trust me.’

‘You’re being nice.’ She turned to him, her face glowing, and Guy was taken aback; she was so beautiful in that moment, her clear coffee-coloured skin covered with a smattering of dark caramel freckles from the sun, her green eyes so dark they were almost black, and the evening breeze ruffling her hair. He caught his breath; the smel of lavender from the bushes next to them was almost intoxicating. She breathed in too, with a shudder. ‘I sometimes think I’m too emotional. Most of the girls at school, they’re quite happy to leave their parents and brothers and sisters behind, for months on end. And their homes. I hate it, you know. I love them and I love it here, it’s awful being away. And then I come back and I forget . . . how things are.’

He was touched. ‘Why don’t you tel them?’

Cecily shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, it’s good for me to toughen up, I’m sure. I just – I wish I didn’t feel things so much. Al the time.’

‘Such as?’

She stared at him. ‘I – I can’t say.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, Guy, I wish I could. To you of al people, I wish I could. But I can’t.’

‘It’s a good thing, feeling too much, Cecily,’ he said. ‘It means you care . . .’ He touched her bare arm and was surprised when she jumped.