Free You Must Be Sisters by Deborah Moggach Page A

composed amidst the smoke, the sunlight slanting through the window on to her hair, her legs crossed in instinctive refinement. Her eyes, bright and interested, rested on each of the faces around her. Oh why couldn’t she, Laura, be more sorted-out and just accept her fondly, without being so damned complicated about it?
    She took a sip of cider, half of her tugging one way, half the other. Holly, she suddenly realized, was like this, too. Boarding-school had made two people of Holly; there was a Cliffdean one and a Harrow one. On the last day of the Christmas holidays the Harrow Holly had drained away; visibly it had drained away – Laura had watched, fascinated. By the time Holly had changed into her starchy school uniform, Sketchley labels still safety-pinned to the hem, the Harrow Holly had gone, leaving her face polite and absent. She had remained thus in limbo throughout the car journey across London and into Victoria Station. And there on the platform the absent face became inhabited again by a new Holly, the Cliffdean one. Her parents hugged her but her eyes had sought those of her friends, giggly friends wearing unbecoming school hats. And, unlocked by the sight of these faces, curious new words had appeared on Holly’s lips, words like ‘cripes’ and ‘nutcase ’. Laura smiled. She wasn’t alone in this, then.
    ‘Anyone you know here, darling?’ called her mother.
    ‘There’s somebody I’d like you to meet,’ she answered. ‘Can’t see him, though.’
    Her mother scanned the crowd. ‘Tall? Short? What’s he like, darling?’
    Before Laura could reply her father said: ‘There’s somebody over there, Laura. He’s looking at you.’
    ‘Is it him?’ asked her mother. Laura craned over the heads.
    And saw him. Sweat broke out all over her body. It was John.
    Her mother smiled. ‘Yes, he’s looking very curious.’ Laura saw with horror that her mother was giving him an encouraging smile. Oh, it was dreadful. How could she ever introduce them? It was unthinkable. The very idea made the sweat turn cold. The combination of him and her parents was too grotesque to contemplate. The innocent questions!
    Perhaps he’d forgotten who she was; after all, she hadn’t exchanged a word with him since that awful episode, though the Bosch book had been wordlessly returned to her pigeonhole. But no – he was easing his way towards them.
    ‘Got your shoes on today?’ he asked, half smiling.
    Laura stared at him, mind busy. What was it he’d said about silly little girls running about barefoot?
    John’s smile lingered. His chin was still stubbly; at any other moment she would have wondered how he managed to keep it like that, neither bearded nor shaved. Then thank goodness he left.
    Her parents looked surprised. ‘What was that about, then?’ asked her father.
    ‘Oh …’ Her mind raced. Then she had a brainwave. ‘Oh, we, er, had a sort of barefoot race across the Downs once.’
    Her parents laughed, pleased. Relief spread over all three of them.
    ‘What
fun
you have!’ said her mother. Her father smiled. The grey stomach had been forgotten, at last.
    And why not, thought Laura. Far better like this.
    Though they hadn’t seen Mike, there was less reason for his presence now so Laura didn’t make them wait for his arrival. Instead they wandered round Clifton, had some lunch and then returned to Hall, a slumbering Sunday-afternoon place. Passing the dining-room, Laura remembered her homesickness that first night . Never would she confess such a thing to her parents! Anyway, by now it was cured. Time had cured it, sheer familiarity had made it nothing more nor less than tame.
    ‘Look, darling,’ said her mother. ‘Supper’s laid.’
    Branston Pickle and Salad Cream jars stood bunched in the exact centre of each table. Sunday nights meant cold meat and lettuce. ‘Isn’t it nice, to have everything done for you!’
    ‘No, it isn’t. I’m grown up now.’
    ‘Darling, don’t be silly.’
    Laura