Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,160

sharpish, I’ll get your father up here to tan your backside.”

“I don’t care,” I said, still trying to twist away. But my mother had grown stronger from all her home repairs and gardening; it was impossible for me to shake free.

“Oh, you will bloody care,” she said, tugging me upward. “Or I’ll slap you myself.” She shook my arm so that I flopped about like something without substance.

“All right, all right,” I said. She loosened her grip, and I was finally able to pull away.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Come on, then.”

“I’m not going to get dressed in front of you,” I declared. “I’m not a child anymore, you know.”

“Well, you’re not too old to get a damn good hiding. So don’t you forget that!” She stalked to the door, but turned around before she left.

“Ten minutes and I want you downstairs,” she said, stabbing a finger in my direction. “Otherwise, I’ll be back.”

I HAD HEARD THE wind while I was in my bedroom, and I knew it was loud, but when I entered the kitchen I realized that it was far stronger than I’d thought. Through the window, I could see the big marquee tent moving like something breathing, its sides billowing out, drawing inward, then bulging out again. The ropes that attached it to the stakes were pulled taut, as if in a tug-of-war with the wind. The plants my mother had put out in the garden lurched, like frenzied dancers, the colorful heads of all the pansies dipping toward the ground and then, hurled upward by a sudden gust, flapping down again. The bare branches of the elms slashed the air like whips.

“There’s going to be a storm,” I said, plunking myself down at the kitchen table across from my mother. She was sitting, pen in hand, frowning over the seating plan for the wedding reception. She’d drawn it out on the back of a length of wallpaper. There were teacups on either side holding the paper down.

“No, there isn’t.” She looked up at me, irate.

“Yes, there is.” I leaned across the table and scowled at her. I hated her for bullying me out of bed and forcing me into the blaze of daylight. If she was going to pull me from my little envelope of safety, I wanted to tear her out of the one she’d constructed for herself.

“I don’t know, Ev,” Mabel said. She stood over a couple of pans on the cooker, one of them sizzling and spitting. The smell of frying sausages filled the room. “Maybe Jesse’s right.” She waved a spatula toward the window. “Them’s real dark clouds out there. I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re in for some rain. I watched the weather forecast on the telly a couple of days ago, and it said it was going to be quite nice, but … Well, maybe we should listen to the forecast now.”

“There’s no use in listening to them,” my mother snapped. “What do they know? They’re always getting it wrong. Trust me, Mabel,” she said, vehemently scribbling across her seating map, “it’s only a bit of unsettled weather. By tomorrow the sun will come out and everything will be fine.”

I laughed, but my mother ignored me and continued her writing. I felt an itching urge to snatch the pen from her grasp.

“I just wish Frank and Ted were back,” Mabel said. “Frank said they were only going to run a couple of errands. I hope nothing’s happened. There’s too many bleeming accidents on all these little country roads.” She pressed her lips into a firm, thin line and turned back to the cooker, where she began to prod agitatedly at the contents of the pans.

Just then I caught some movement in the window and I looked over to see my father staggering across the garden, a wavering stack of plates in his arms. The strands of hair he usually combed over his bald patch were being blown into his eyes, and the oversized parka he wore flapped about him like something feral. The way he leaned and battled the gusts seemed almost comical; it made me think of a chalky-faced mime artist pretending to walk into the wind.

“It is really windy out there,” I said, enunciating each of my words.

“It’s just a strong breeze, that’s all,” my mother countered, crossing out a name and writing in another one in its place. As soon as she’d spoken, we heard the sound of something loud and metallic clatter away from