Free The Rain Before it Falls by Jonathan Coe Page A

something of my parents’ disappointment and pessimism must have communicated itself to me. I have a distant memory of the conversation over Sunday lunch that day; or rather, not of the conversation itself, but of the mood it created, in me and in the house. Ivy and Beatrix had driven over from Shropshire that morning. This was a great treat for me, something I had been looking forward to for weeks. Beatrix and I had been writing to each other, writing every few days, but had seen each other very infrequently. I no longer have her letters, sadly, and as to whether she kept any of mine, I have no idea. Goodness knows what she must have made of them, anyway. I should imagine she found them very childish. Hers, at this time, were displaying ever more adult preoccupations: she was starting to write about clothes, make-up, boys – things which were of no interest to me whatsoever. (And still aren’t, I have to say.) Nonetheless, I treasured these letters because she was writing them, and anything that interested Beatrix – even when it involved such ineffably boring topics – was somehow touched with magic and excitement. Really, I was just thrilled that she wanted to be in any kind of communication with me: she could have been copying out lists of names from the telephone directory, and I would have devoured her letters with the same breathless eagerness as soon as they dropped on to our doormat. As for seeing her in person, this was a rare treat. We had not even visited Warden Farm at Christmas, this year, for some reason, but today Ivy had decided to drive over to Birmingham – quite an adventure for her – in order to see her sister (my mother), and she was going to bring Beatrix with her so that she and I could spend a few hours together. The fact that the pool at Row Heath was frozen over made the treat all the more delicious. The two of us could go ice-skating in the afternoon, after lunch.
    And so Ivy and my mother stayed indoors all that afternoon, drinking tea and catching up on the family gossip, while my father took us to the recreation ground. It was a ten-minute walk from our house, the pavements glistening with ice, Bonaparte panting and straining at the leash. Ivy had not, at first, wanted him to go with us. No doubt she would have preferred to have him sprawled out on her lap all afternoon. It was only after Beatrix had implored her, at great length, that she relented. I think it was the first time that she had ever been allowed to take him out for a walk by herself.
    Oh – I haven’t described the front ‘layer’ of the picture yet, have I? That is to say, the figures of Beatrix and myself, standing in the foreground. Well, we are leaning into one another, with our arms linked. There is a noticeable difference in height: I am standing on the left-hand side of the picture and I only come up to her shoulders. My head is slightly tilted, not quite resting upon her shoulder. My attitude might almost be described as coquettish, my eyes flirting with the camera, playing up to my father, but only in the most childish and artless of ways, whereas Beatrix, gazing directly into the lens, is smiling with a directness and an earnestness that is both mature and… well, and a little disturbing, now that I look at it. She is challenging the camera, trying to force some kind of response from it. Or perhaps the challenge is directed at my father himself. Whatever her object, anyway, the difference between us – in maturity and temperament – is every bit as visible as the difference in height. And yet Beatrix was still a child: I must remember that. What happened, in the few minutes after this photograph was taken, happened to a child. To an adult, perhaps it would have seemed ludicrous, or would at least have had a ludicrous side to it. To Beatrix, it was simply a tragedy.
    It can be described very quickly: everything happened in an instant. Beatrix now decided that it was time for Bonaparte to have some proper