Free A Stitch in Time by Penelope Lively Page B

that. There’s so many of them, and they all talk at once. It makes me nervous. But I think I want to go.
    â€œRemember to say thank you for having me.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou’ve got your comb in your pocket?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIf you feel sick in the car, tell Mrs Lucas.”
    No, thought Maria. In front of them all? Do you really think I would? Die, quietly, just like that, is what you’d have to do.
    â€œHave a lovely day.”
    Over at the hotel (having had to wait, alone and conspicuous, pink to the roots of the hair, in the hall until noticed) she found that the Lucas families were neither ready nor decided about what they were going to do. For the next half-hour there was a fever of dressing children, sending Martin to find other children who had strayed away somewhere, looking for things that had got lost, and arguing about where they should go. Two girls jumped up and down, without stopping for an instant, shouting, “We want to go to the fun-fair! We want to go to the fun-fair!” Above this Martin’s mother administrated.
    â€œWhat do you mean, you haven’t got a dry T-shirt? There must be one. Then wear one of Jane’s.”
    I’ve never worn somebody else’s clothes, thought Maria. That’s one of the lots of things I haven’t ever done in my life. A picture of her own clothes came before her eyes, laid out clean on the chair at the end of her bed every night ready for the next morning, the dirty ones taken away to be washed.
    â€œThere’s stock-car racing at Beaminster,” said Martin. He had said it three times already, but without much conviction, as though aware that it was a hopeless case.
    â€œWe want to go to the fun-fair!”
    â€œThen look under the bed for them. James – come here!”
    â€œBeach! Beach, beach, BEACH! ”
    â€œSusie, do your hair.”
    â€œFun-fair!”
    â€œB EACH !”
    â€œNo, you can’t have a lolly now.”
    â€œI can’t find my shoes.”
    â€œOh… SUGAR …” said Martin in sudden rage. He went and stood staring morosely into the garden.
    â€œI think,” said Martin’s aunt, “that the visitor should be allowed to choose. What would you like to do, Maria?”
    â€œB EACH !”
    â€œF UN-FAIR ! F UN-FAIR !”
    â€œAll right. That’s enough. Leave her alone,” said Mrs Lucas. “James, don’t keep pulling her jersey like that.” From under a heap of dirty nappies, toys and wet bathing things she pulled a local newspaper. “Blandford Forum Gymkhana – God, no! Flower Show at Child Okeford – not with this lot, thank you very much. Motor CycleScramble…” (“Yes, great, let’s get going then…” said Martin, but in the tones of one who knows there is no hope.) “…Horse Show, Pottery Exhibition… Here, what about this, then? ‘Medieval Fayre. Spend a day in the fifteenth century at lovely Kingston Peverell Manor… Jousting, Archery, Ox-roast, Medieval Banquet, Minstrels. And many other attractions, including Produce Stall and Teas. Entrance 25p. By kind permission of Sir John and Lady Hope-Peverell.’ How about that?”
    â€œCan we joust?”
    â€œI want an ox.”
    â€œOh, no,” said Martin wearily, “not a stately home…”
    Maria knew what he meant. She was herself something of an expert on stately homes. Mr and Mrs Foster enjoyed a drive to such places on a Sunday afternoon: it got you out of London, you saw the countryside (conveniently displayed, neither muddy nor cold, on the other side of the car windows) and you were taking an interest in history. Such outings could do you nothing but good. Maria had trundled obediently, at one time or another, up the stairs and through the rooms of Knole, Woburn, Blenheim, Hampton Court, Longleat and many another. Sometimes there were lions or dolphins, and sometimes