Free The Echoing Stones by Celia Fremlin Page B

had to contend with all these things, and also with a childhood of bombs, evacuation and food-rationing – then, of course, a major row would develop. “Whinging about the War!” Flora would accuse “Your generation seem never to have come out of their Anderson shelters, or even to have stuck their heads out far enough to have a peek at the modern world!” and if he then tried to explain to her, quietly, what it had been like, she would laugh that loud, affected laugh of hers and become even more sarcastic; downright rude, sometimes, to such an extent that there would be no option but to reprove her. Which of course would at once cast him in the rôle of tyrannical father, chauvinist pig and monster of sexist oppression.
    Arnold was determined, on this occasion, to avoid provoking this all-too-familiar scene. After all, here she was, she had come to see him of her own accord. It would be a shame to let the whole thing degenerate intoa dreary family wrangle. The important thing was to keep off controversial subjects; but since Flora had this unhappy knack of turning every subject into a controversial subject, he felt quite at a loss.
    Hence the silence brooding between them, broken only by occasional uneasy platitudes. What could Pauline be thinking now, he wondered, as she whisked by with her trays of food and observed them facing each other in glum silence across the blue and white check cloth and the plate of untouched Fancies? Perhaps he should have revealed to her that his sullen companion was only his daughter and not a spectacularly unsuccessful pick-up. That he was a failed parent, not a failed Lothario. Which was the least humiliating of the two rôles?
    Nibbling at his Chocolate Coconut Fancy – after all that effort it wasn’t even very nice, much too sweet, and kind of scented – Arnold ventured an occasional glance across the table, trying to assess, since he dared not ask her, what she was here for ? What was her motive for turning up like this? Simple daughterly concern for her father’s welfare? This seemed out of the question, and so Arnold did not waste any speculation on it. Money, then? This was what had mostly brought her home in the past: getting behind with her rent, or missing-out on her Social Security benefits on account of some anomaly in her situation beyond the range of any ordinary person’s I.Q. Or, sometimes, she would turn up because she was homeless – thrown out of somewhere, or not allowed back into somewhere, because she’d fallen-out with somebody. Something sordid, anyway, the contemplation of which made Arnold miserable. Had Flora’s periodic financial crises been due to wild spending-sprees, or crazy holidays at the ends of the earth, it wouldn’t have been nearly so bad. He wouldn’t have minded having a daughter like that.
    Cautiously, under warily-raised eyelids, he looked atthe daughter he had got and was filled with dread. If she’d been thrown out of the squat, or the squat had disintegrated under the weight of its own squalor, then she’d be looking for a roof over her head. His roof. But for how long? Just for the night or – here his heart missed a beat – was she planning to come and live here?
    The possibility that this might actually be the case filled him with panic. How on earth was he going to cope with his job as well as with Flora permanently in the flat?
    An enormous sadness swept over him. This was his daughter, for heaven’s sake! Why could he not be feeling (as surely a father should feel) thank goodness she’s come! Now I shall get some help, some sympathy, and above all another pair of hands!
    If only he had a daughter about whom he could feel like that. “It’s too much for you, Daddy,” this fantasy daughter would have exclaimed. “You must let me help you. I could come down every weekend, get the Tea Room properly organised … make batches of cakes and scones for the whole week. I could serve the teas on Saturdays when you’re so busy.