Free House of the Hanged by Mark Mills

epileptics.
    â€˜Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those extreme types calling for compulsory sterilization, although it seems to have worked a treat in the United States and Germany.’
    â€˜Be careful what you say. Lucy is young and therefore liable to go up like straw if she doesn’t agree with you.’
    Lucy bristled. ‘I didn’t realize you’d been won over to the cause.’
    Mother fired back a pinched smile that said: You’re on your own, darling.
    â€˜What’s there to disagree with?’ Barbara blundered on. ‘John Maynard Keynes, George Bernard Shaw, even the Cambridge Union . . . all have come out in favour of voluntary sterilization.’
    â€˜Oh, that makes it all right, does it? The so-called intelligentsia are for it.’
    â€˜Something has to be done. A biological disaster is looming. Reckless breeding by the “social problem group” is leading to an irreversible degeneration of the racial stock. The very future of civilization is at stake.’
    Lucy fought hard to restrain herself. ‘I know some who would say that civilization has considerably more to fear from the self-interest and prejudice of the privileged classes.’
    â€˜When she says “some” she means her godfather,’ chipped in Mother. ‘She likes to parrot his opinions.’
    â€˜I happen to agree with some of them,’ retorted Lucy.
    â€˜You mean Tom?’ exclaimed Barbara. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think so. I talked with him last night at some considerable length on the subject.’
    â€˜And what did he say?’
    Barbara Chittenden hesitated. ‘Well, not very much, as it happens. Although, I think I can safely say he was persuaded of my argument.’
    Lucy found that hard to believe. ‘Oh really?’
    â€˜Absolutely. He said that up until now he had never been fully convinced of the grave threat posed to society by the mentally deficient.’
    Mr Chittenden erupted in a loud guffaw, and Mother only just managed to contain her own laughter.
    â€˜What, Harold?’
    Mr Chittenden, still heaving in his chair, waved her question away.
    â€˜Ignore him,’ said Barbara. ‘He’s an archaeologist. All he cares about is stones and bones.’
    The little dinner for four hadn’t been the most propitious start to the holiday, but at least it meant that things could only get better. The Chittendens would be leaving immediately after breakfast, motoring west to Spain, and Leonard would be back from Cannes in time for lunch. He liked to sneak off there from time to time with Yevgeny for a round or two of golf at the Old Course, and his return would offer a welcome buffer against Mother, who was on particularly malicious form right now.
    The barbed and belittling comments were coming thick and fast, rising to a peak, the usual prelude to one of their explosive confrontations. This would be followed by a tearful reconciliation, which in turn would give way to a lengthy period of calm. Then gradually the comments would begin to intrude again – a small note of criticism here, a gentle reprimand there – the heat building once more by barely perceptible degrees.
    This was the fixed pattern of their relationship, the drearily predictable cycle into which they had settled, though not by mutual consent. Lucy dreamed of an alternative future, one without the endless round of highs and lows, of war and peace. Tom was less hopeful. He had never known Mother to be any different, and not just with Lucy. They all suffered the same treatment at her hands. It was the price you paid for being loved by her.
    â€˜It’s not so bad. You cry in her arms, you laugh in her arms, and every so often you scream blue murder at each other. I’d take that any day over the indifference I knew as a child.’
    Leonard had found his own way of dealing with it, somehow managing to remain immune to her moods. Things