'I'm not an expert on him. At all. There are hundreds--'
He grins up. 'Experts write lousy scripts. One uses them to check. To interview, maybe. I'd much rather have someone who knows the essentials. Who's had to work things out for herself.'
Bel says, 'You're being offered a job.'
Peter says, 'Just an idea. Off the top of my head.'
Catherine in a panic.
'But I...'
Peter says, 'Seriously. If you'd like to come in and talk it over. Next time you're in town.' He feels in a back-pocket. 'And do tell me the name of that book of essays.'
'Mythologies.' She says it again, with the English pronunciation.
He writes it down in a little notebook. Catherine glances again at Bel, who has a dry air of amusement, approval, one cannot tell; then down again at Peter beside her.
'I really couldn't do it. I've never written a script in my life.'
'Script-writers are ten a penny. No problem.'
'What a horrid way to speak of the poor things,' says Bel; then idly, 'Of anyone, really.'
Bitch.
'I'm sorry. But I..
He puts the notebook back and shrugs.
'If you change your mind.'
'I honestly shan't.'
He opens his hands; and she looks at Bel, to let her know she at least partly inspired the refusal. But Be! is armoured bland. She urges Emma forward.
'Go on. Now.'
Emma goes diffidently beside Catherine, then leans forward and whispers in her ear.
'Now?'
The little girl nods.
'Emma, I don't know if I can think of one.'
'You can if you try.' She adds. 'Like last summer.'
'I'm out of practice.'
Bel says, 'She's found a secret place. You won't be overheard.'
'It's lovely. It's all secret.'
'Just you and me?'
The little girl nods, very emphatically. Then she whispers, 'Before Candy wakes up.'
Catherine smiles. 'All right.'
'Come on. You must be quick.'
She reaches for her Greek shoulder-bag, then stands and takes Emma's hand. The child leads her away behind the tree to the path they came by, then along it. Peter watches them disappear, a little glance at Bel, then down to the ground in front of him.
'Not exactly making a hit there, I'm afraid.'
'Oh good heavens, don't worry. She's a mass of defensive prickles at the moment. It was terribly kind of you to suggest it.'
'She'll go back to...?'
'I think so. When she's accepted what's happened.'
'Bloody awful,' says Peter.
'I suppose it is rather soon yet.'
'Yes of course.'
Paul begins to snore gently.
Bel murmurs, 'Drunken old sod.'
Peter grins, leaves a little silence. 'I hear there's quite a lot of stuff still to come. Paul said.'
'Yes. They hope enough for a final book.'
'Terrible.' He shakes his head. 'Someone like that. And like that.'
'They're always the most vulnerable, aren't they?'
He nods; then after a moment he shakes his head again. But now he glances round at the recumbent Sally, then down towards his son.
'Oh well. My celebrated intermittent father act.'
He pushes up on his knees, then stands, blows a little kiss down at Be!--super lunch--and goes down to where Tom is building his dam.
'I say, Tom, my God, that's absolutely splendid.'
Paul snorts in his sleep. Be! shuts her eyes, and dreams of a man she once knew, and wanted, but somehow never went to bed with.
The 'secret' place is not very far, a little way up the slope from the path to where a stray boulder has lodged apart from the rest of the herd. There is a deli in the scrub beyond it; a stony dip out of sight that catches the sun, with daisies and the bright blue spires of clary, some clover, a single red poppy.
'Emma, that's lovely.'
'Do you think they'll find us?'
'Not if we're quiet. Let's go and sit over there. Under the little tree.' She sits, the child kneels beside her, expectant. 'I tell you what. You pick some flowers. And I'll think of a story.'
Emma scrambles up. 'Any flowers?'
Catherine nods. She feels in her red bag for cigarettes; lights one. The child goes down into the sun on the floor of the little hollow, but looks back.
'About a princess?'
'Of course.'
Nothing comes; no ghost of even the simplest narrative; only the ghost of that last shattered island. A kindness, what else? Even if as much to Bel to her. And nothing, nothing, but flight. To childhood, the little feminine thing in her yellow shirt and white briefs, barelegged, gravely tugging at the recalcitrant flowers, being very good, silent, not looking, as if they are playing hide-and-seek; a game, not an art. One's little fair-haired niece, one's favourite, one's belief in innocence, soft skin, pursed mouth and candid eyes; whom one should love so much more than one did. That strange divide between young children and nonmothers; Sally, that gauche attempt to be unsexy, solicitous, nurselike. Why one really envied Bel. Evolution. One must not cry, one must concentrate.
If only. If only. If only. If only. If only.
'Are you ready, Kate?'
'Nearly.'
'I'm hot.'
'Come on then.'
And the child climbs the few feet to where Catherine sits in the shade beneath the thorn-tree, and kneels again with her flowers.
'They're nice.'
'The blue ones are horrid. They won't break.'
'Never mind.'
Emma picks at one of the unopened oxeye daisies, then looks up at Catherine; then down again.
'I don't like it when you're unhappy.'
'I don't like it either, Emma. But sometimes you can't help it.' The child stares at her draggle of flowers.
'I don't mind if you can't think of a story.' She adds, 'Not very much.'
'Just a little much?'
Emma nods, pleased with this gradation. A waiting silence. Catherine inhales smoke, breathes it out.
'Once upon a time there was a princess.'
And Emma moves, with the strange insistence of children that appropriate rituals should be observed; puts down the flowers, then crawls a foot forward and turns to sit beside Catherine, who puts her arm round her, draws her close.
'Was she pretty?'
'Of course. Very pretty.'
'Did she win beauty contepitions?'
'Princesses are too grand for beauty competitions.'
'Why?'
'Because they're for stupid girls. And she was a very clever girl.'
'Was she more cleverer than you?'
'Much cleverer than me.'
'Where did she live?'
'Just over the hill there. A long time ago.'
'Is it a true story?'
'Sort of true.'
'I don't mind if it isn't.'
Catherine throws the cigarette away; grasps at the only straw in sight.
'She was also very sad. Do you know why?' Emma shakes her head. 'Because she had no mummy and daddy. No brothers and sisters. Nobody.'
'Will it end happily?'
'We'll have to see.'
'I 'spect it will, don't you?'
This strange third world, beyond our powers. Catherine pats the little girl's side.
'One day she went on a picnic with all her brothers and sisters. And her mother and father, who were king and queen. They came here. Just where we are?' Emma nodded. 'But she was naughty, she thought she'd play a trick. She'd hide and make them all look for her. So she came where we're sitting now, and she sat down, but then it was so hot, so she lay down, and then she felt very sleepy.'
'She went to sleep.'
'And she slept and she slept and she slept. And when she woke up it was dark. All she could see were the stars. She called and called. But no one answered. She was very frightened. She called again, again. But it was too late,
they'd all gone home. All she could hear was the river. Laplaplaplaplap. Too late, too late, too late.'
'Didn't they look for her?'
'It all happened such a long time ago that people didn't know how to count. Can you imagine that? Even the king could only count to twenty. And they had twenty-three children. So they used to count to twenty and make a guess.'
'They missed her out.'
'So she was all alone.' And from nowhere, storied; granted a future, peripeteia. 'She tried to walk home. But she kept falling, she didn't know where she was in the dark. She wandered further and further away. The brambles tore her dress, she lost a shoe. She began to cry. She didn't know what to do at all.'
'Was she very frightened?'
Catherine pulls her niece a little closer. 'You can't imagine how frightened. And it wasn't any better when dawn came. Because then she found she was in a huge forest. Nothing but trees, endless trees.'
'Her mummy and daddy didn't know she was lost.'
'They did realize. That next morning. And they came looking for her. But she'd wandered so far away in the night. And all they found was the shoe she'd lost.'
'I 'spect they thought she was eaten by a wolf.'
'You are clever. That's exactly it. So they went away home, very sad. And there she was, miles away in the forest and all alone. Very hungry. But then suddenly she heard a voice. It was a squirrel--you know? He showed her where there were nuts to eat. Then there came a bear, but not a fierce bear, a nice cuddly bear, and he showed her how to make a little house and a bed of ferns. And then all sorts of other birds and animals came and helped her and showed her how to live in the forest.'
The little girl reached for Catherine's free hand, as if it were a toy. Her small fingers touched the silver wedding-ring, tried to turn it.
'Then what happened?'
'They made a kind of pet out of her. They brought her food and flowers and pretty things for her house. And taught her about the forest. And how there was only one bad thing in it. Do you know what that was?' Emma shakes her head. 'Men.'
'Why?'
'Because cruel men came in the forest and hunted the poor animals. They were the only kind of men they knew, you see. So they thought all men were cruel. And they told her she must run away and hide if she ever saw them. And she believed them. So she became very shy and timid as well.'
'Like a mouse.'
'Just like a mouse.' She runs fingers up Emma's yellow chest; who shivers and shrinks against Catherine's body. 'And that's how she lived. For years and years. Until she was a big girl.'
'How old was she?'
'How old do you want her to be?'
'Seventeen.'
Catherine smiles at the blonde head. 'Why seventeen?'
Emma thinks a moment, then shakes her head: she doesn't know.
'Never mind. That's exactly what she was. Then something extraordinary happened. She came to this very same place again, just where we're sitting, and it was another very hot day, just like today. And once again she went to sleep. Under this very tree.' Emma looks up, as if to remind herself that it is there. 'But when she woke this time, it wasn't night. It was still day. But even more terrible than before. Because all around her stood huge hunting dogs. Just like wolves. All growling and barking. There and there. And over there.' She gives a shiver against Emma's side; who doesn't respond. This is going too far. 'It was like a bad dream. She couldn't even scream out. But then something even worse appeared. Guess what?'
'A dragon?'
'Worse than that.'
'A tiger.'
'A man!'
'A hunting man.'
'That's what she thought. Because he was dressed like one. But really he was very sweet and gentle. And he wasn't old. He was her age exactly. Seventeen. But you remember she believed the animals. So even though she could see he was very gentle, she was very frightened. She thought he must kill her. Even when he called the dogs away. Even when he picked some flowers and brought them up here where she was lying and knelt and told her she was the most beautiful girl in the whole world.'
'She thought he was pretending.'
'She just didn't know. She wanted to believe him. But then she kept thinking of what her animal friends had said. So she just lay very still and said nothing.'
Now Emma moves, turns and twists and sinks back across her aunt's lap, staring up at her face.
'What happened next?'
'He kissed her. And suddenly she didn't feel frightened any more. She sat up, and took his hands, and began to tell him everything. How she didn't know who she was, she'd forgotten her name. Everything. Because she'd been so long in the forest with the animals. And then he told her who he was. He was a prince.'
'I knew.'
'That's because you're clever.'
'Is it the end?'
'Do you want it to be?'
Emma shakes her head firmly. She watches her aunt's face almost as if the prince and princess as well as phonemes might come from her mouth. The process. One does not have to believe stories; only that they can be told.
'The prince said he loved her, he wanted to marry her. But there was a problem. Because he was a prince, he could only marry a princess.'
'But she was a princess.'
'She'd forgotten. She didn't have pretty clothes. Or a crown. Or anything.' She smiles. 'She hadn't any clothes at all.'
'None!'
Catherine shakes her head.
Emma is shocked. 'Not even...?' Catherine shakes her head again. Emma bites her mouth in. 'That's rude.'
'She looked very pretty. She had lovely long dark brown hair. Lovely brown skin. She was just like a little wild animal.'
'Didn't she get cold?'
'This was summer.'
Emma nods, a little puzzled by this anomalous departure, but intrigued.
'So. In the end the prince had to go away, feeling very sad that he couldn't marry this beautiful little girl with no clothes.
And she was in tears because she couldn't marry him. So here she was, crying and crying. Then suddenly there was a hoot. ToowhitawoO. From just up there. In the tree.'
Emma cranes her head, then stares back at Catherine.
'What was it?'
'You know what it was.'
'I've forgotten.'
'An owl. An old brown owl.'
'I knew really.'
'Owls are very clever. And this was the oldest, cleverest owl of them all. He was really a magician.'
'What did he say?'
'Toowhitawoo, toowhitawoo, do-on't... yoo-ou... cry.'
Emma grins. 'Say it again. Like that.'
Catherine says it again. 'Then he flew down beside her and told her what he could do. By magic. To be a princess you also have to live in a palace? Well. He could give her pretty clothes. Or he could give her a palace. But he couldn't give her both things at the same time.'
'Why couldn't he?'
'Because magic is very difficult. And you can only do one piece of magic at a time.' Emma nods. 'All she thought about was seeing the prince again. So she begged the owl to give her the pretty clothes. One second she had nothing. The next she had a beautiful white dress and a crown of pearls and diamonds. And trunks and trunks of other clothes and hats and shoes and jewellery. Horses to carry them. Servants and maids. Just like a real princess. She was so happy that she forgot about the palace. She jumped on her horse and galloped away to the castle where the prince lived. And at first everything went marvellously. The prince took her to meet the king and queen, who thought she was very beautiful and must be very rich. With such lovely clothes and everything else. They said at once that the prince could marry her. Just as soon as they had visited her palace. She didn't know what to do. But of course she had to pretend she had a palace. So she invited them for the next day. Then they all dressed up and went out to see her palace. She told them exactly where to go. But when they got there... it was mad.'
'There wasn't any palace.'
'Just a rotten
old bare field. All muddy and damp. And there she stood in the middle of it, in all her lovely clothes.'
'They thought she was silly.'
'The prince's father was very, very angry. He thought it must be some stupid joke. Especially when she curtseyed and said, Welcome to my palace, your majesty. The princess was so frightened, she didn't know what to do. But the owl had told her the magic word that would turn her clothes into a palace.'
'Tell me.'
'It was his call backwards. Woo-a-whit-too. Can you say it?' The little girl grins and shakes her head.
'She could. So she said it. And there in a flash was a beautiful palace. Orchards and gardens. But now she hadn't any clothes. Not a stitch. And you ought to have seen the faces of the king and queen. They were so shocked. Like you just now. How most terribly rude, said the queen. What a shameless girl, said the king. And the princess was in despair. She tried to hide, but she couldn't. The servants started laughing, and the king got madder and madder, and said he'd never been so insulted. The poor girl lost her head. She wished back all her clothes again. But then the palace disappeared, and they were back in the wretched old field. The king and queen had had enough. They told the prince she was a wicked witch, and he must never, never see her again. And then they all rode away, leaving her in tears.'
'Then what happened?'
The oriole whistles down in the trees by the river.
'I haven't told you the prince's name. It was Florio.'
'That's a funny name.'
'It's very old.'
'What was her name?'
'Emma.'
Emma wrinkles her nose. 'That's silly.'
'Why?'
'I'm Emma.'
'Why do you think Mummy and Daddy called you Emma?' The little girl thinks, then gives a shrug: strange aunt, strange question.
'I think it was because of a girl in a story they read.'
'The princess?'
'Someone a little like her.'
'Was she nice?'
'When you got to know her.' She prods Emma's tummy. 'And when she didn't keep asking questions.'
Emma wriggles. 'I like questions.'
'Then I'll never finish.'
Emma covers her mouth with a grubby hand. Catherine kisses a finger and sets it between the watching eyes on her lap. The oriole whistles, closer, their side of the river now.