‘What a sweet boy you are,’ says Mr Mussey to Martin, rubbing his head. ‘Do you see that, darling? He’s actually thinking of someone else.’
‘Just as well.’ Mrs Mussey piles carrots onto her plate. ‘If you don’t dig in quick here, William dear, this lot will strip the table bare before you’ve located your cutlery.’
She has silver-streaked blonde hair that hangs down beyond her shoulders, scruffy and slightly matted, as if it could be home to an exotic bird. She sticks out her bottom lip to blow strands of it away from her face. Her flesh looks firm under her floating floral dress, no mound at her middle. When she leaps up from her seat and strides across the kitchen to get the pepper, he notices her calves flexing and thinks he wouldn’t be surprised were she to hurdle the table.
A few mouthfuls in, William dares to look at Isobel and Imogen. They have inherited their mother’s blonde hair, except theirs is sleek and straight. Their limbs are long and golden and William struggles not to stare; partly because they are stunning and he doesn’t get to look at girls very often, but also because, apart from his father and uncle, they are the first set of identical twins he’s been able to have a good look at. He won’t be able to tell them apart away from the table, where Imogen is opposite Martin and Isobel is opposite him, but as Richard and Martin insult each other, Isobel often meets his eye and smiles easily at him, whereas Imogen seems to avoid it – which is what he’d do if he was being stared at by a stranger. Isobel seems keener to follow the conversation and chip in, whereas Imogen goes for long periods concentrating on her food, occasionally pushing her silky curtain of hair over her shoulder. William also notices how the sisters glance at each other at the same time, raise their eyebrows in exactly the same way, and his favourite bit is when Imogen reaches over and pulls Isobel’s hair out of the way before it trails in the gravy. Isobel carries on as if she’d done it herself. He finds that very satisfying.
He glances at Mr Mussey, who’s watching him with a light smile on his face. William feels himself blush and concentrates on Edward, who is wishing that chickens had four legs. He’s conscious he should join in the conversation; he hasn’t said a word yet. They’ll think he’s an idiot or rude. He promises himself at the next silence, he’ll ask a question. Twice he has taken a breath, but then someone else bursts in and it’s rare that only one person is talking.
Eventually, there’s a significant pause and he says, much too loud and fast, ‘How was the Boxing Day Play?’
After all the over-talking, interrupting, laughing, there’s a united snapping of attention. Everyone’s looking at him and it’s completely silent. He’s said something wrong.
‘Didn’t Martin tell you?’ Imogen eventually says.
He glances at Martin who is grinning with food-filled cheeks.
‘I wanted to surprise him,’ Martin says.
‘We postponed it,’ says Richard, reaching for more chicken. ‘Till tomorrow, so you could be in it.’
Wrapped up in coats and scarves, William and Martin are sitting in adjacent apple trees with their legs dangling over the unkempt grass. The darkness is softened by light from the kitchen. Surrounded by an old brick wall with eight apple trees, two cherry trees and a pear tree, the garden is like something out of a picture book.
‘I’m worried I won’t be any good – in the play.’ William rubs his finger along the fissured tree bark. He adjusts his position to ease the pressure of his waistband, which has been digging into his middle since the second helping of apple pie.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Martin says, emitting a cloud of breath. ‘Aren’t you pleased?’
‘Yes,’ William says, ‘and petrified.’
Martin laughs. ‘There won’t be any cousins, so it won’t be quite such a big deal.’
‘Oh!’
‘They came on Boxing Day. They’re back in London now.’
William doesn’t mention his surprise at Flo, or how pretty his sisters are; he doesn’t want to discuss any of it, he just wants to enjoy it. And anyway, he is so touched that this big, sophisticated family would rearrange things just for him, he would probably cry if he opened his mouth.
Evelyn wouldn’t like the sprawling clothes on the landing, or the old newspapers scattered across the sitting room, or the splats of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror, but William loves the idea that style and elegance don’t depend on cleanliness.