An Experiment in Love. Hilary Mantel

as I did so not just the whisper of the fur against my hand but the sleekness of the silk that lined it. ‘I would kill for this coat,’ I said simply.

      ‘Oh, heavens!’ its mistress said. ‘Don’t murder me. Just borrow it. Any time.’

      ‘I couldn’t.’

      ‘Go on, try it.’ Lynette skipped across the room. The fox fur seemed to leap into her arms and nestle there. Julianne leant against the wall, amused. Lynette whisked my arms into the sleeves. Her supple hands—blue veins and ivory—swept the collar up to my throat. ‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ she said. ‘It suits you. Oh, Karina, don’t you think? Doesn’t it suit her? You’re taller, you see, you can carry it off. My father bought it for me, and I do like it, but I wonder if it makes me look like Baby Bear.’

      Karina stood by the window. Though it was dark outside the curtains were not yet drawn; we filled the central pane with our shadow selves, like actors on a lit stage, like lively ghosts tossing their arms and twirling in the void. I glanced into the window and saw Karina’s broad back, her neck bent like the neck of a toiling ox. Then I looked back into the room and saw her face, its flesh self not the shadow, and I saw—it is easy to persuade myself now, after the event—I saw her patient hatred take root.

      Lynette pounced on the kettle. ‘Coffee?’

      ‘Black,’ said Karina. ‘Please.’

      ‘Who got here first?’ Jule asked.

      ‘Oh, I did,’ Lynette said absently, stooping into the steam.

      ‘She left you the best bed, Karina,’ I said. ‘The best desk.’

      ‘Mm,’ Lynette said. She hummed to herself, spooning out instant coffee. The obvious bit of T. S. Eliot sprang to my mind. ‘Not much to do, is it, leave someone a bed? Are you going to have your coffee in your coat, Carmel dear?’

      I was staring at myself in the mirror. The fur felt alive around me; there was a faint, disturbing vibration beneath my skin, as if I had acquired another pulse.

      ‘A proper mannequin,’ Karina said. ‘Isn’t she?’

      ‘Yes, well, she has the figure for it,’ said Lynette. Her tone, very gently, rebuked Karina’s. She caught the coat as it slipped from my shoulders. ‘Modom must remember it’s here when she wants it,’ she said. She curtsied deeply, and cast a glance—abashed—at the wardrobe.

      ‘I told you,’ Karina said. ‘There’s no need to squash your stuff up like that. I’ve hardly got anything.’

      Karina’s suitcase was still fastened, standing against the wall by her bed. It was the kind of suitcase people from Curzon Street used to take to Blackpool, once a year during the fifties, with a whole family’s clothes inside. It had a check design, like a man’s loud suit, though the pattern was faded to fawn, as if summer by summer the rain had washed the colour out; its sharp metal corners were rusty.

      ‘You’re entitled to your space,’ Lynette insisted. She eased off the lid of the Bittermints. The happy aroma of good chocolate joined the other perfumes in the air.

      

      When autumn came to Curzon Street, the dead leaves blew uphill from the trees in the park, and my father coming home at half-past six brought in on his overcoat the smell of smoke and cold. Our last walk on the hills had been in September. My mother had strode ahead, her coat flapping, leaving my father to make some sort of conversation with me. I knew, though no one mentioned it, that we would not go walking next summer. Their quarrels had changed, and become quieter, more vicious. And I could not keep talking, talking and talking, poulticing the vast bleeding silence. Not without practice; not without a good deal of it.

      Karina and I came uphill from school, turned at the pub on the corner; it was half-past four and the street lamps were burning, half-aglow in a wet dusk. ‘Let’s talk like grown-ups,’ I said. ‘I’ll be Lady Smith.’ There was no picture of her on the sign but I thought I knew what she looked like. She would have a tailored costume, like our landlady’s. ‘You can be my husband,’ I told Karina. ‘You can be…’ I searched my inner catalogue of painted heads,’…you can be the Prince of Connaught.’

      ‘I don’t want to play it,’ Karina said.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘He has got a moustache.’

      ‘We can pretend that.’

      ‘What must I do then?’

      ‘It’s easy. You just talk. You say grown-up words.’

      Karina had a bag with her, a string bag stretched out with three large loaves. They were stacked one on top of the other, each with its crackling U-shaped top and its fragments splitting through the tissue paper like broken slate. She carried this bag slung over her shoulder, and it made her sway from side to side on the pavement, so that she would move a half-step towards me, a half-step away. ‘Pneumonia,’ I offered. I didn’t mind giving her a word to get her going.

      Karina looked sideways at me. ‘I am the Prince of Connaught. I have pneumonia.’

      I almost thumped her. ‘You’re not doing it proper.’ You have to be that person, I wanted to say to her, put their skin on your back. Grown-up words came bubbling into my mouth: rouge, piano stool, niece. I felt my face blossoming out, round as the full moon, and I smelt the fragrance of pink face powder: I had become Lady Smith. ‘I returned home last night,’ I enunciated carefully, ‘to find my favourite niece seated on the piano stool.’

      ‘Did she have pneumonia?’ Karina asked. Her voice was nothing like the Prince of Connaught’s: she wasn’t even trying. I thought, if I had scissors I could cut her string bag, and her loaves would tumble out and slide down the hill and then she’d catch it from her mother. But this was not the sort of thing I did to Karina, more the sort of thing she did to me. ‘Dumb insolence,’ she would sometimes say. ‘That’s bad. Very bad.’ It was a whole year since my run-in with Sister Basil; but Karina had appointed herself my spiritual guardian. ‘Did you say your morning prayers?’ she would ask me, when we met in the street at half-past eight. ‘What did you pray for?’

      I pictured the loaves picking up speed, losing their tissue paper and collecting dry leaves and bubble-gum wrappers, rolling in at the shop doorway and bouncing back on to the shelves.

      

      ‘Your father and me have been talking,’ my mother said.

      That woke me up. I’d never heard them talking. Not in months.

      My mother had just come in. She’d been out cleaning. Other cleaning women might come and go in an old coat and a turban, but my mother wore a coat that was no more than medium-old, and a proper scarf, and she put lipstick on, Tan Fantasy. Once when she was in a good mood she let me try it. People take you at your own valuation, she said. Always remember that.

      ‘Can I have a biscuit?’ I asked. I thought it might be better not to know what they had been talking about.

      ‘All right, but one, mind, or you’ll spoil your tea.’ For a moment she was diverted; then, unknotting her scarf, she said, ‘We’ve decided we’ll let you sit for the Holy Redeemer.’

      I had heard of the Holy Redeemer. It was an academy that Sister Basil often referred to, with a pious, grieving note in her voice, as if it were her land of lost content; though I am sure, now, that she had never set foot inside its portals. I said, ‘Sister Basil says the likes of us would never be fit for it in a thousand years.’

      My mother snorted. ‘Sister Basil? That old nanny goat? What does she know? If you can pass your scholarship you can go. Why shouldn’t you? But you have to take their entrance exam as well.’

      ‘Is that harder than my scholarship?’

      ‘Not so hard that you won’t manage it, if you apply yourself.’

      This was the usual thing. What I asked for was facts: what I got was a sermon.