The Hungry Ghosts. Anne Berry
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Alice has been worse than ever. Fancy that silly Mr Esmond trying to tell me what Alice has been getting up to. As if I didn’t know.I live with her.Alice’s bad behaviour is part of our daily routine in our flat on The Peak, I’m afraid. Doesn’t he realise that if I could have waved a magic wand and put her right, I would have done it years ago. She’s unmanageable. And he’s out of his depth, though he probably doesn’t realise it. Of course he is. Most people are with Alice. Why Ralph can’t accept there’s a problem I do not know. He’s blind to it, and nothing I do or say or even show him makes any difference. Of course I told him about Alice’s latest debacle, about being summoned to the school, about her playing truant. His rejoinder—she was going through a rough patch. Well, if she is, it has lasted fourteen years.
In any case it’s not just Alice’s scenes I’m concerned about now. She’s infected my son, she’s infected Harry with her spleen. He used to be such a nice boy, so good-natured and malleable. I need a drink. I know it’s early, that the children aren’t even home from school yet, but I need to speak to Ralph tonight. I can’t put it off any longer. One drink won’t do any harm. I’ll fetch it myself. I won’t ask one of the amahs to pour it for me. They’re so mean with the measures. I wish this damn bar door wouldn’t make such a loud noise each time you slide it open. It doesn’t seem to matter how careful I am.
‘It’s all right, Ah Lee. I’m fine thank you. Mrs Safford fine, okay? I don’t need any help. Not just now.You carry on with the ironing.’
Snooping about. She might spend half her life giggling, but I’ve noted those sharp, calculating eyes of hers. I know how these servants gossip.That’s the trouble with having servants. No privacy. Nowhere is sacred. Damn. No ice. I just can’t face going into the kitchen to get some. How many times have I told her to keep the bucket topped up each day? I’ll have another word. Ah! That’s better. Never mind about the ice. I’ll take it into the bedroom. Shut the door. Give myself space to plan what I’m going to say to my husband. In here the sun has been beating down on the bed for most of the day.The purple satin quilt cover is baking hot. I’ve kicked off my shoes and I’m sprawling out, letting my bare feet slide. The glossy fabric is so slippery. Its touch burns.And the whisky—that burns too.The wound has been cauterised, the flow stemmed. Now I can cope.
Alice has rubbed off on Harry. He is following her bad example, mirroring it. And he’s grown, well…fat. Harry has become fat.
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