Free Havisham: A Novel by Ronald Frame Page B

vintage Bordeaux). A pokerwork box containing ivory dice and several decks of playing cards was missing, a minor loss, but I thought it significant. He goaded the guard dogs, and I wondered if that was because he watched dogs turned against each other for amusement.
    A curfew was set.
    ‘In my own home?’ Arthur objected. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
    ‘You’ve got an answer for everything,’ my father said.
    ‘And if I forget?’
    ‘I shall regard forgetfulness as disobedience.’
    Arthur’s response was to emit through his teeth a long, dying whistle.
    Bolts were attached to the doors, to enforce the rules. Arthur tried climbing in through the windows, until the shutters were fastened by bars. He attempted to bribe the more gullible of the housemaids to let him in, but on the second occasion he was sick in the hall before falling heavily on the staircase; he was too drunk to get up, and my father found him there in the morning, in a sot’s thick sleep.
    ‘Say something to him, sister.’
    ‘Say what to whom?’
    ‘“Oh father of ours, forgive Arthur. It’s just high spirits. Don’t keep him short.”’
    ‘I’ll do no such thing.’
    ‘No, I didn’t think you would. Selfish bitch.’
    ‘You disgust me.’
    ‘Always taking his side. What else should I expect?’
    ‘Don’t blame me .’
    ‘Dead against me, aren’t you?’
    ‘You’re an enemy to yourself. No one could do it better.’
    ‘ You told him. “No more cash.” It was you .’
    ‘My father can make his own mind up.’
    ‘Whisper-whisper in his ear.’
    ‘You’re revolting.’
    ‘You’ve put him up to this.’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re –’
    ‘“Make Arthur a pauper.” As if I don’t deserve the ready. Every bloody farthing.’
    ‘You’re a savage.’
    ‘And you’re a liar. A creeping Judas.’
    ‘I’m a Havisham.’
    ‘But so am I.’
    ‘How do I know that?’
    His face darkened. His features set to the hardness of mica.
    ‘Well, I don’t, do I?’ I looked away. ‘Your father could be any Tom, Dick or –’
    I didn’t see until it was too late, his hand taking aim, then swinging out at me.
    Where did that strength come from?
    He caught me full across the face. I felt – I distinctly felt – the sharp edge of his signet ring, tearing my skin. The stinging pain.
    I doubled over with the hurt. A gash on my cheek was oozing sticky blood.
    White flares dropped in front of my eyes; the floor ran away from me. I thought I was on the point of passing out. I closed my eyes and concentrated on not fainting, not fainting.
    I was left slumped over the banister. I had a presentiment he was gone, and wouldn’t be back for a while.
    When I’d found a mirror I saw my face burning red, I had a cut on my cheek, and the first bruises were already spreading.
    *   *   *
    My father had the brutal evidence in front of him.
    ‘This is your brother’s doing?’
    ‘Not my brother,’ I told him.
    My mouth was swollen. I had to slowly shape words to come out, woolly approximations to words.
    But I didn’t need to tell him, anyway, that a real brother would not have done such a thing.
    *   *   *
    I had to wait until my face started to heal before I could leave.
    My father had collected an inventory of complaints. I anticipated the trouble there would be once I was safely away.
    Sally comforted me. She listened to my tales about Arthur, and didn’t defend him; she was careful about criticising him directly, out of her own mouth, as if she felt she might be speaking out of turn. She sat with me in the garden. I described goings-on at Durley Chase, and I regaled her with it all. The tableaux, the masques. The sights of Bath and Cheltenham. W’m’s mysterious preoccupations. My encounters with the stranger, Mr Compeyson.
    ‘He sounds quite a familiar stranger.’
    ‘It’s a small world,’ I said.
    ‘Of course it is!’
    I laughed with her, and even though it hurt my face, I couldn’t stop