Thanks to a smidgen of subsidence – barely noticeable unless you know to look, and our family has always been very good at papering over the cracks – drinks placed on tables in this room tend to slide right off. My mother used to say it was why the whole family drank too much – always having to hold their glasses for fear of breaking them – but I don’t think that’s the reason. Some people drink to drown their sorrows; others drink so they can swim in them.
We sit in an awkward but well-practised silence, and I notice they both take a few sips of their drinks before attempting any further conversation. The branches of our family tree all grew in different directions, and it’s best to avoid the stormy subjects that might make them bend or break. I smile politely and try to forget all the years when my dad didn’t speak to me, didn’t visit me in hospital as a child, or behaved as though I was already dead. I pretend not to remember the birthdays he forgot, or the Christmases when he chose to work instead of coming home, the countless times he made my mother cry, or the night I heard him blame their divorce on me and my broken heart. Just for now, while we wait for the others to get here, I pretend that he is a good father and that I am the daughter he wanted me to be.
I don’t have to pretend for long.
My eldest sister is the next to arrive, the clever one, who saved me from drowning when she was ten. Rose is beautiful, intelligent, and damaged. She is five years older and almost a foot taller than I am. We have never been close. It isn’t just her height that makes it difficult to see eye to eye with my sister, and it isn’t the age gap either. Other than the same blood running through our veins, we simply don’t have very much in common.
Rose is a vet and has always preferred the company of animals to people. Her clothes are as sensible as the woman wearing them: a striped Breton top beneath a tailored jacket teamed with smart （extra-long） jeans. She looks older than her thirty-four years. Her long chestnut hair is tied off her face in a neat ponytail, and her fringe is too long – as though she is trying to hide behind it. We haven’t spoken since before she got married. We both know why.
Families are like snowflakes: each and every one is unique.
Rose is happier to see the dog than she would ever be to see me or Dad, so once again, Poppins gets all the attention. My eldest sister came here alone this weekend; I suppose we all did. Rose’s marriage lasted less than a year, and she threw herself into her work and opening her own veterinary practice after that. Even as a child she was determinedly conscientious; the straight-A student who put the rest of us to shame. Rose has always had a thirst for knowledge that no amount of learning could quench. Dad calls her Dr Doolittle, because he thinks she only talks to animals these days. He might be right. Rose fetches herself a large glass of water from the kitchen, then perches on the edge of the pink sofa, next to my father, still wearing her jacket, as though she hasn’t made up her mind whether to stay.
The sea is already starting to restitch itself across the causeway by the time the others arrive. While my father uses punctuality as kindness, my mother uses lateness to offend. Nancy Darker divorced our dad over twenty years ago, but she kept his name, and kept in close contact with his mother. She has travelled down from London with my fifteen-year-old niece, and Lily – her favourite daughter. They have always been close and still spend a lot of time together. Lily is the only one of us to furnish our parents with an elusive grandchild; I don’t imagine there will be any more.
When my mother looks in my direction, I feel cold. She is a woman who never hides her seasons; she is winter all year round. Nancy looked so much like Audrey Hepburn when we were growing up that I sometimes thought it was her on TV, when she made us watch those black-and-white films over and over. She is still a very beautiful and graceful woman, and looks considerably younger than her fifty-four years. She wears her hair in the same black bob as always, and still looks, walks and talks like an out-of-work film star. The fur coat and costume jewellery aren’t the only things about my mother that are fake.
The fact that she could have been an actress – if she hadn’t accidentally become a parent – is something she frequently reminds us all of, as though her failed ambitions are our fault. But in many ways, I suspect some level of parental resentment is normal, even if rarely spoken about. Doesn’t everyone wonder who they might have been if they weren’t who they were?
The divorce settlement was generous, but dried up once we had all fled the nest. I don’t understand where my mother gets her money from now, and I know better than to ask. She has made a part-time career out of competitions – entering every one she sees on daytime TV. Perhaps because of the sheer number she enters, she sometimes wins, but it can be dangerous to celebrate luck as success. Nancy has always been the puppeteer of our family, pulling all our strings in such a subtle fashion, we didn’t notice when our thoughts were not our own.