Free Family Album by Penelope Lively Page A

dinner—a thousand dinners—fends off the dog, which threatens her skirt with dirty paws, and Charles comes out of his study.
    “Hi, Dad,” says Sandra. “Happy anniversary.”
    Charles appears to consider this. “Ah. Yes. Much is being made of it.”
    “Of course. An event. Is everyone here yet?”
    “The front door has been active. I have not counted.”
    “Dad,” says Sandra, “you are out to lunch, as usual.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    Sandra shrugs. “An expression. You’re not entirely . . . with it.”
    “I apologize,” says Charles. “In fact, I was about to go up and put on a clean shirt in honor of the occasion.”
    “Good idea,” says Sandra. She is thinking that a new shirt would be appropriate. That blue thing with the frayed button-down collar dates from when she was about ten. Does he even own a suit?
    Charles is in no hurry. He eyes her. “How much are you paid?”
    Sandra is affronted. “No way am I telling you.”
    “My interest is purely academic. I am writing about economic expectations. What people feel themselves to be worth. What are you worth, then?”
    “About thirty K,” says Sandra crisply. This is significantly more than her present pay packet.
    Charles raises an eyebrow. “Impressive. You can buy a university lecturer for that, I believe. Remind me how old you are?”
    “Oh, Dad . . .” cries Sandra.
    The kitchen door opens and here is Alison.
    “Oh . . . Sandra dear. I thought it might be Paul. We’re a bit worried that he . . .”
    The front door now. It swings open, and frames Gina.
    “Gina dear . . .” says Alison. Her voice falls away.

    Mum is in a tizz. Dad is not. Sandra has blond highlights and a pricey-looking car.
    Gina closes the door behind her and is digested into Allersmead. Clare shimmies down the stairs. Katie’s voice sounds from the kitchen, and Roger’s, interrupted by Ingrid, who is saying something about laying the table now. Gina holds out her bunch of lilies to Alison, and at the same moment spots Sandra’s bouquet on the hall table. Upstaged. Wouldn’t you know?
    “Oh, goodness,” says Alison, vaguely. “And you too, Sandra! How lovely. I must put them in water right away. You’re both in your own rooms, of course, but remember you’re sharing the bathroom with Corinna and Martin. I hope they won’t be late—the pheasants have to come out of the oven by eight-thirty. And Paul . . . At the worst I suppose we’ll have to start without him. He didn’t seem able to say definitely about coming and he hasn’t rung again. I think I’ll just pop up and change before Corinna gets here. Ingrid has been having a struggle with the sitting-room fire—would you have a look at it, one of you?”
    Alison goes upstairs, followed by Charles. Sandra and Gina contemplate each other.
    “I’m not much good at fires,” says Sandra with a silky smile. She too heads upstairs, bag in hand.
    Gina goes into the sitting room where the fireplace sullenly smolders. Once, she sent a letter to Father Christmas asking him to bring her a real typewriter. He did not comply, any more than God attended to her request that Sandra be transferred to another family; these failures induced a permanent skepticism about the powers of vaunted agencies. The United Nations can also fail to deliver, one has observed.
    She adds some kindling to the sulky flames, applies the bellows, and coaxes forth a gush of flame. She sits back on her heels, watching.
    Katie comes into the room. “Can you remember where the flower vases are? Mum’s told me to do them.”
    “Top shelf of the pantry cupboard.”
    Katie sits down on the fireside stool. “Mum was in tears, when I arrived.”
    “Why?”
    “Don’t know. Dad didn’t seem to be anywhere and there’s a fuss about Paul.”
    Gina pokes a log. Sparks fly up. “Fingers crossed,” she says.
    “What?”
    “Just—I wouldn’t bet on Paul, one way or another.”
    “Oh dear.” Katie sighs. “Mum’s rather set her heart