Free Family Album by Penelope Lively Page B

on tonight.”
    “I know. Half a dozen pheasants have died for this.” Gina hands Katie the bellows. “Here, you blow for a bit.”
    Katie squats by the fire. The logs flare up. “What do you do at the radio place?”
    “I chase fire engines,” says Gina. “Strictly local fire engines. I record outrage about the vandalism of park benches. I interview centenarians.”
    “Is it fun?”
    “You can certainly find some fun.”
    “You were always going to do something like that,” says Katie. “Remember the Allersmead Weekly Herald ?”
    Gina laughs. “Editor, lead writer, and reporter. The rest of you were hopeless. Lost interest after issue number one.”
    “You’re so lucky. I don’t know what I want to do.”
    “Don’t worry. Things have a way of simply happening.”
    “But suppose the wrong things happen.”
    “Evasive action,” says Gina. “Spot the dead end. Mind, I can talk. Some would say local radio is just that. I’m giving it one year.”
    “There are these postgraduate scholarships to America. I’ve been wondering.”
    “So go for it.”
    Katie sighs again, gets up. “I’d better do the flowers.”
    The fire is developing a heart. Gina puts on another log. In this suburban home, she tells the mike—no, in this suburban mansion a family is gathered for a sacred ritual, the celebration of the passage of time. Twenty-five years have been knocked on the head, twenty-five years are under the belt. Parents and children have come together to wonder at this amazing mastery of the calendar, to congratulate one another on having gotten older, on having refused to stay still. Animals have been sacrificed, there will be festive exchanges—not too much, let’s hope—there will be statements of individual beliefs and tastes—again, let’s hope no one overdoes it—the old home will echo with merriment and no doubt, frankly, the occasional discordant aside. Let’s talk to some of the key players . . .
    Clare comes in. “Look,” she says.
    Clare leans over backwards, drops her hands to the ground, and rests thus, a poised arch.
    “Fantastic,” says Gina.
    Clare straightens up. She lifts one leg up to the level of her shoulder, and holds her foot lightly in one hand.
    “Impressive.”
    Clare sits cross-legged by the hearth. “Have you ever heard of the Frankfurt Ballet?”
    “I’m afraid not.” Gina purses her lips, tilts her head to one side. “You’re a young student of dance, Clare,” she says. “Tell me, do you see yourself as the Sugar Plum Fairy or a member of Hot Gospel?”
    Clare giggles. “What’s the funny voice for?”
    “It’s an interview voice. Clare, as a sixteen-year-old mover and shaker, how would you change the world?”
    “I don’t believe you really ask people things like that.”
    “Sadly, no. I ask them if they’re in favor of a new bypass and how they feel about winning the dog show. With luck, you can slip in the occasional subversive item.”
    Clare gets up, does the splits, and rests thus on the hearth rug.
    “Don’t,” says Gina. “It makes me sore just to look at you.”
    Clare swings to her feet, wanders over to the window. “Here’s a car.”
    “Aha. Corinna and Martin.”
    “There’s been huge commotion about tonight.”
    “So it seems.”
    “Massive. Mum and Ingrid. Dad not. There’s a cake, silver things all over it. Mum was icing till midnight.”
    Gina pokes the fire, which is going nicely now. She stares through sparks into the shuddering red embers across which flit a procession of other cakes, other celebrations—the birthdays, the bonfire parties, the ceremonial cooking of two decades. The family that eats together stays together.
    The front door opens. Voices.
    “Come on,” says Gina, getting up. “We’d better do hostess stuff if Mum’s still upstairs.”

    “The fatted calf has been slain,” says Corinna as she opens the front door.
    “I could smell it from outside.”
    Martin follows her, carrying the bags. “I