Free Mr Wrong by Elizabeth Jane Howard Page B

luck,’ she thought. ‘I
have the only thing that matters: what everybody in the world will pray for, pretend about, emulate and envy. I’m so lucky I can put up with anything: I can wait.’
    At the bottom of the steps she turned to him.
    ‘We’ll have a lovely refreshing bathe and a delicious picnic.’
    He managed a watery smile. ‘Good old Ruth,’ he said again.
    Julie thought her father looked positively
down
trodden when he joined them. Her mother’s face had a calm, almost serene appearance. She had been getting at Daddy, no doubt. Although
Daddy was (obviously) frightfully intelligent, there was also something pathetic about him. Christine had said that women sometimes got horrible during the Change of Life. Poor Dad.
    ‘I’ll race you, Dad, to the other side,’ she said encouragingly. ‘It’s hardly cold at all, when you’re used to it.’
    He did not answer at once, and she looked quickly at him to see that he was all right. He was fine – he was only looking at Christine.
    Christine lay, looking fabulous, on her towel spread upon the uneven rocks with her Greek bag as a pillow. She had not bathed yet; all the ghastly things she had told Julie from Jasper’s
letter must have upset her. ‘I’d be crying buckets if I was her,’ Julie thought. But she had not cried at all, had explained all about how one had to be objective and it was all
experience. Now her father was saying:
    ‘I thought I’d like to have a look at the
pont
before a swim. Christine? Would you like to have a go?’
    Before Christine could reply, Julie exclaimed:
    ‘I’d love to, Daddy.’
    Without looking at her, he said irritably: ‘You’re wet. I don’t want to wait ages while you dry and change.’
    Christine had sat up, and was pulling on her jeans. Now she smiled at Daddy.
    ‘I’d simply adore to come,’ she said.
    After her father and Christine had left, her mother, without a word, handed her a cigarette, and then, after she had lit it, said:
    ‘Let’s have our fags and then a swim.
Then
we’ll have lunch, and if you feel like it, you and I might go up on the aqueduct. I’d love you to tell me about
it.’
    Julie, who had felt horribly outside and snubbed, felt tears pricking her eyes again, so she simply nodded. Then she thought that Dad might be more
interesting
, but perhaps Ma was nicer.
It must be awful not to have anything exciting to look forward to, and she really couldn’t help her age . . .

WHIP HAND
    ‘She’s ever so natural, as you can see.’ Mrs Bracken recrossed her legs so that Mr Big (as she privately called each film-director she encountered) could see
her ankles to better advantage. ‘Has simply no idea that she’s not like other children.’
    They both looked at Mrs Bracken’s daughter, who stood at the far end of the huge room, biting her nails with such furtive virtuosity that Ted Strong – the director – wondered
whether she had had more years of practice at that (and everything else) than Mrs Bracken claimed.
    ‘Fern! Come over here, dear. Say good morning to Mr – Mr Strong in French.’
    ‘Bonjour.’ Fern advanced in tiny steps towards Mr Strong: when she reached him, she curtsied and repeated: ‘Bonjour, M’sieur.’ She wore red tights and a navy-blue crocheted tunic that suggested a smock. A dwarf pregnant would be the heraldic term. Her flaxen hair flowed down her
back, and her patent-leather strap shoes were rounded childishly at the toes. Her ears were pierced and adorned with tiny little golden balls. ‘Comment ça va?’ she piped. ‘No natural, she,’ Ted thought wearily, and came back at once to the watchful dragon Mum. He was used to them: he had made commercials for telly and there was a constant need for
children.
    ‘She can get along in five languages, can do ballet, tap dance,
or
modern dance. She has appeared since the age of three. She’s eight, now, and of course, I’ve never
neglected her education. She photographs quite beautifully, but