Authors: Ramsey Campbell
I seem to glimpse an answering movement beyond a bush at the far end of the wall. No doubt a bird is hiding in the foliage, since the twins pop their heads up much closer. Their small plump eight-year-old faces are gleeful, but there’s no need for me to feel they’re sharing a joke only with each other. Then Geraldine cries “Peep.”
Like a chick coming out of its shell, as Auntie Beryl used to say. I can do without remembering what else she said, but where has Geraldine learned this trick? Despite the August sunshine, a wind across the bay traces my backbone with a shiver. Before questioning Geraldine I should usher the children across the junction, and as I plod to the corner I wheeze “Hold my—”
There’s no traffic up here. Nevertheless I’m dismayed that the twins dash across the side street and the next one to the road that begins on the summit, opposite the Catholic church with its green skullcap and giant hatpin of a cross. They stop outside my house, where they could be enjoying the view of the bay planted with turbines to farm the wind. Though I follow as fast as I’m able, Gerald is dealing the marble bellpush a series of pokes by the time I step onto the mossy path. Catching my breath makes me sound harsh as I ask “Geraldine, who taught you that game?”
She giggles, and so does Gerald. “The old woman,” he says.
I’m about to pursue this when Paula opens my front door. “Don’t say that,” she rebukes him.
Her face reddens, emphasising how her cropped hair has done the reverse. It’s even paler by comparison with the twins’ mops, so that I wonder if they’re to blame. Before I can put my reluctant question, Gerald greets the aromas from the kitchen by demanding “What’s for dinner?”
“We’ve made you lots of good things while you’ve been looking after grandpa.”
The twins don’t think much of at least some of this, although I presume the reference to me was intended to make them feel grown-up. They push past their mother and race into the lounge, jangling all the ornaments. “Careful,” Paula calls less forcefully than I would prefer. “Share,” she adds as I follow her to the kitchen, where she murmurs “What game were you quizzing them about?”
“You used to play it with babies. I’m not saying you. People did.” I have a sudden image of Beryl thrusting her white face over the side of my cot, though if that ever happened, surely I wouldn’t remember. “Peep,” I explain and demonstrate by covering my eyes before raising my face above my hand.
Paula’s husband Bertie glances up from vigorously stirring vegetables in the wok he and Paula brought with them. “And what was your issue with that?”
Surely I misunderstood Gerald, which can be cleared up later. “Your two were playing it,” I say. “A bit babyish at their age, do you think?”
“Good Lord, they’re only children. Let them have their fun till they have to get serious like the rest of us,” he says and cocks his head towards a squabble over television channels. “Any chance you could restore some balance in there? Everything’s under control in here.”
I’m perfectly capable of cooking a decent meal. I’ve had to be since Jo died. I feel as if I’m being told where to go and how to act in my own house. Still, I should help my remaining family, and so I bustle to the lounge, where the instant disappearance of a channel leaves the impression that a face dropped out of sight as I entered. Gerald has captured the remote control and is riffling through broadcasts. “Stop that now,” I urge. “Settle on something.”
They haven’t even on the furniture. They’re bouncing from chair to chair by way of the equally venerable sofa in their fight over the control. “I think someone older had better take charge,” I say and hold out my hand until Gerald flings the control beside me on the sofa. The disagreement appears to be over two indistinguishably similar programmes in which vaguely Oriental cartoon animals batter one another with multicoloured explosions and other garish displays of power. I propose watching real animals and offer a show set in a zoo for endangered species, but the response makes me feel like a member of one. My suggestion of alternating scenes from each chosen programme brings agreement, though only on dismissing the idea, and Geraldine capitulates to watching her brother’s choice.
The onscreen clamour gives me no chance to repeat my question. When I try to sneak the volume down, the objections are deafening. I don’t want Paula and her husband to conclude I’m useless—I mustn’t give them any excuse to visit even less often—and so I hold my peace, if there can be said to be any in the room. The cartoon is still going off when we’re summoned to dinner.
I do my best to act as I feel expected to behave. I consume every grain and shoot and chunk of my meal, however much it reminds me of the cartoon. When my example falls short of the twins I’m compelled to encourage them aloud—“Have a bit more or you won’t get any bigger” and “That’s lovely, just try it” and in some desperation “Eat up, it’s good for you.” Perhaps they’re sick of hearing about healthy food at home. I feel clownishly false and even more observed than I did over the television. I’m quite relieved when the plates are scraped clean and consigned to the dishwasher.
I’d hoped the twins might have grown up sufficiently since Christmas to be prepared to go to bed before the adults, but apparently holidays rule, and the table is cleared for one of the games Gerald has insisted on bringing. Players take turns to insert plastic sticks in the base of a casket, and the loser is the one whose stick releases the lid and the contents, a wagging head that I suppose is meant to be a clown’s, given its whiteness and shock of red hair and enlarged eyes and wide grin just as fixed. I almost knock the game to the floor when one of my shaky attempts to take care lets out the gleeful head, and then I have to feign amusement for the children’s sake. At first I’m glad when Gerald is prevailed upon to let his sister choose a game.
It’s Monopoly. I think only its potential length daunts me until the children’s behaviour reminds me how my aunt would play. They sulk whenever a move goes against them and crow if one fails to benefit their twin, whereas Beryl would change any move she didn’t like and say “Oh, let me have it” or simply watch to see whether anyone noticed. “Peep,” she would say and lower her hand in front of her eyes if she caught us watching. My parents pretended that she didn’t cheat, and so I kept quiet, even though she was more than alert to anyone else’s mistakes. Eventually I try conceding tonight’s game in the hope the other adults will, but it seems Paula’s husband is too much of a stockbroker to relinquish even toy money. The late hour enlivens the twins or at any rate makes them more active, celebrating favourable moves by bouncing on the chairs. “Careful of my poor old furniture,” I say, though I’m more dismayed by the reflection of their antics in the mirror that backs the dresser, just the top of one tousled red head or the other springing up among the doubled plates. I’m tired enough to fancy that an unkempt scalp rendered dusty by the glass keeps straying into view even while the twins are still or at least seated. Its owner would be at my back, but since nobody else looks, I won’t. Somewhat earlier than midnight Bertie wins the game and sits back satisfied as the twins start sweeping hotels off the board in vexation. “I think someone’s ready for bed,” I remark.
“You go, then,” says Gerald, and his sister giggles in agreement.
“Let grandpa have the bathroom first,” says their mother.
Does she honestly believe I was referring to myself? “I won’t be long,” I promise, not least because I’ve had enough of mirrors. Having found my toothbrush amid the visiting clutter, I close my eyes while wielding it. “Empty now,” I announce on the way to my room. In due course a squabble migrates from the bathroom to the bunks next door and eventually trails into silence. Once I’ve heard Paula and her husband share the bathroom, which is more than her mother and I ever did, there are just my thoughts to keep me awake.
I don’t want to think about the last time I saw Beryl, but I can’t help remembering when her playfulness turned unpleasant. It was Christmas Eve, and she’d helped or overseen my mother in making dozens of mince pies, which may have been why my mother was sharper than usual with me. She told me not to touch the pies after she gave me one to taste. I was the twins’ age and unable to resist. Halfway through a comedy show full of jokes I didn’t understand I sneaked back to the kitchen. I’d taken just one surreptitious bite when I saw Beryl’s face leaning around the night outside the window. She was at the door behind me, and I hid the pie in my mouth before turning to her. Her puffy whitish porous face that always put me in mind of dough seemed to widen with a grin that for a moment I imagined was affectionate. “Peep,” she said.
Though it sounded almost playful, it was a warning or a threat of worse. Why did it daunt me so much when my offence had been so trivial? Perhaps I was simply aware that my parents had to put up with my mother’s sister while wishing she didn’t live so close. She always came to us on Christmas Day, and that year I spent it fearing that she might surprise me at some other crime, which made me feel in danger of committing one out of sheer nervousness. “Remember,” she said that night, having delivered a doughy kiss that smeared me with lipstick and face powder. “Peep.”
Either my parents found this amusing or they felt compelled to pretend. I tried to take refuge in bed and forget about Beryl, and so it seems little has changed in more than sixty years. At least I’m no longer walking to school past her house, apprehensive that she may peer around the spidery net curtains or inch the front door open like a lid. If I didn’t see her in the house I grew afraid that she was hiding somewhere else, so that even encountering her in the street felt like a trap she’d set. Surely all this is too childish to bother me now, and when sleep abandons me to daylight I don’t immediately know why I’m nervous.
It’s the family, of course. I’ve been wakened by the twins quarrelling outside my room over who should waken me for breakfast. “You both did,” I call and hurry to the bathroom to speed through my ablutions. Once the twins have begun to toy with the extravagant remains of their food I risk giving them an excuse to finish. “What shall we do today?” I ask, and meet their expectant gazes by adding “You used to like the beach.”
That’s phrased to let them claim to have outgrown it, but Gerald says “I’ve got no spade or bucket.”
“I haven’t,” Geraldine competes.
“I’m sure replacements can be obtained if you’re both going to make me proud to be seen out with you,” I say and tell their parents “I’ll be in charge if you’ve better things to do.”
Bertie purses his thin prim lips and raises his pale eyebrows. “Nothing’s better than bringing up your children.”
I’m not sure how many rebukes this incorporates. Too often the way he and Paula are raising the twins seems designed to reprove how she was brought up. “I know my dad wouldn’t have meant it like that,” she says. “We could go and look at some properties, Bertie.”
“You’re thinking of moving closer,” I urge.
Her husband seems surprised to have to donate even a word of explanation. “Investments.”
“Just say if you don’t see enough of us,” says Paula.
Since I suspect she isn’t speaking for all of them, I revert to silence. Once the twins have been prevailed upon to take turns loading the dishwasher so that nothing is broken, I usher them out of the house. “Be good for grandpa,” Paula says, which earns her a husbandly frown. “Text if you need to,” he tells them.
I should have thought mobile phones were too expensive for young children to take to the beach. I don’t want to begin the outing with an argument, and so I lead them downhill by their impatient hands. I see the scrawny windmills twirling on the bay until we turn down the road that slopes to the beach. If I don’t revive my question now I may never have the opportunity or the nerve. “You were going to tell me who taught you that game.”
Gerald’s small hot sticky hand wriggles in my fist. “What game?”
“You know.” I’m not about to release their hands while we’re passing a supermarket car park. I raise one shoulder and then the other to peer above them at the twins. “Peep,” I remind them.
Once they’ve had enough of giggling Geraldine splutters “Mummy said we mustn’t say.”
“I don’t think she quite meant that, do you? I’m sure she won’t mind if you just say it to me when I’ve asked.”
“I’ll tell if you tell,” Gerald informs his sister.
“That’s a good idea, then you’ll each just have done half. Do it in chorus if you like.”
He gives me a derisive look of the kind I’ve too often seen his father turn on Paula. “I’ll tell mummy if you say,” he warns Geraldine.
I mustn’t cause any more strife. I’m only reviving an issue that will surely go away if it’s ignored. I escort the twins into a newsagent’s shop hung with buckets and spades and associated paraphernalia, the sole establishment to preserve any sense of the seaside among the pubs and wine bars and charity shops. Once we’ve agreed on items the twins can bear to own I lead them to the beach.
The expanse of sand at the foot of the slipway from the promenade borders the mouth of the river. Except for us it’s deserted, but not for long. The twins are seeing who can dump the most castles on the sand when it starts to grow populated. Bald youths tapestried with tattoos let their bullish dogs roam while children not much older than the twins drink cans of lager or roll some kind of cigarette to share, and boys who are barely teenage if even that race motorcycles along the muddy edge of the water. As the twins begin to argue over who’s winning the sandcastle competition I reflect that at least they’re behaving better than anybody else in sight. I feel as if I’m directing the thought at someone who’s judging them, but nobody is peering over or under the railings on the promenade or out of the apartments across it. Nevertheless I feel overheard in declaring “I think you’ve both done very well. I couldn’t choose between you.”