Alberta Scrubb folded the magazine with an impatient sigh.
She was not entirely certain why she felt so ill at ease today, but the beige sitting room walls seemed almost to loom at her, threatening to envelop her in their paleness.
Perhaps that was just it- their paleness. Rarely had she ever left the sitting room walls without a painting; as a journalist she was generally well aware of the latest modern masterpieces, and was quick to inform Harold about which copies they should look into. Recently, however, she had found herself somewhat dissatisfied with the upcoming artists. Ellsworth Kelly, for example, was clearly talented, and his mastery of form and the way in which he challenged traditional concepts of art was intellectually marvellous, but when she had opened the latest Whitney Annual she had found herself feeling curiously empty.
Harold would know what to do, she would ask him when he came home. He was at a discussion forum at the London School of Economics regarding Hayek's shocking essay on "The Intellectuals and Socialism". It had caused quite a stir in the United States earlier in the spring, and had rankled not only herself and Harold, but several of Harold's associates. Saying that their Keynesian consensus was equivalent to a serfdom!- and painting intellectuals as being unfairly elevated for holding "progressive political views"! It was despicable, really. To an extent, Alberta wasn't entirely certain why there needed to be a debate about it.
Then again, perhaps there were other sides to the argument that she was unaware of. When Harold came home, he would explain everything. He was so wonderful at explaining things, Harold. It was a trait he had passed to their son, for which Alberta was exceptionally grateful.
See, Alberta? she heard his youthful voice say, so filled with confidence and authority. Only a child, but he possessed a level of statesmanship as he had pointed at his insect collection. This is the chi- she remembered how he had screwed his eyes up momentarily- chitinous exoskeleton. And since it's in three parts, there's the head, the thorax- and that's actually the abdomen! How eagerly he had poked and pointed, and how proud she had been of him, her knowledgeable son.
But even as she pride rose, a dark cloud rolled across and the light fluttered and faded.
How many years had it been since Eustace Clarence had shown her his insect collections? How many years had it been since the days when she never had to tell him to take his hands out of his pockets, or to stop leaning against door frames?
Eustace Clarence.
Why, oh why was he staying with the Pevensies? They were so common! Her brother had given Helen far too much sway with the children. Eustace was so much more than they were, and yet he was spending so much time with them! And the outcome! Slouched shoulders, hands in pockets, stories of adventures. Adventures! She and Harold had tried so very hard to teach Eustace Clarence how to be sensible, she had even been delighted when he had taken his interest in insects.
"You'll be a scientist yet, my son," she had said, and how he had beamed.
But that interest had died, long ago, had died from those months when she, in her charity, had taken Lucy and Edmund Pevensie into her home. And instead of hearing about wings, or the lengths of insects legs as proportionate to their bodies, she had been gifted by tales of a place called 'Narnia'. A creature- lion, tiger?- named 'Aslan'. Comments, stories, far too many mentions of that wretched Jill Pole!
There was nothing special in the girl. Even her name spoke volumes of her plainness. Eustace Clarence could do so much better than her!
"It's just a passing phase yet," Harold had told her, smiling. "Don't worry, he'll grow up. I did- and then I found you."
But to find, one would have to look first, she thought, and she knew that the Pevensies would not encourage her son to look further.
"Eustace's friend, Jill, she was marvellous, Aunt Alberta," she heard Edmund say on one of his visits, far too cheerfully, "When she heard that Eustace and I were at-"
Eustace and I.
They wouldn't even use his full name.
Not that she held anything against her nieces and nephews, not really. Peter was intelligent, and Edmund was reasonably gifted. She remembered the days when she had thought Edmund had showed a glimmer of the talent of her own Eustace Clarence- how long ago those days were, before that time of darkness and confusion and hatred. War changed everything.
As for the girls, Susan was simply far too flighty, and Lucy was so terribly immature. And then there was Jill Pole!
But then, she thought of Eustace Clarence once more, and she felt that glow rise in her heart.
He must feel it, too, she thought, my son- always my son.
And he would grow up, she was sure of it. Her pride and her joy, even through all those times of disappointment- he would stand up straight, and he would became a man as wonderful and assured as his father. This thing with the Pevensies- he was only young, after all.
Besides, Harold assured her that Jill Pole would fade away as the months passed and grew grey with age.
It was just as Alberta had settled into the lounge that the doorbell rang
A/N: Since Alberta is so progressive, it always struck me that she would be the sort to actively seek a job. I've based her character on Mary Heaton Vorse, an active voice for pacifism, socialism and women's suffrage. Ok, so MHV was an American, but I can totally see Alberta appreciating the progressiveness of American women, though she might disdain their culture as being vaguely plebian.
The Whitney Annual is a well established American art journal.
Lastly, a short explanation: I first wrote this fic when I was in yr 8. Looking back, I am dissatisfied with it, as I feel I did not understand Alberta's character enough to really explore issues of motherly grief, or the confusion and irritation of a non-Christian parent who loves but cannot fully understand their Christian child. I'm not saying that I understand these issues fully at this point, but through God's grace, I believe I understand them better. Anyhow, this storyline deserves better than my old, first version.
To all you beautiful reviewers from the first version, I saved a copy of your precious reviews. The time and care you put into providing such comments have been invaluable to my writing.
That said, new reviews would be lovely, as silver dragees on a cake. Just sayin' ;)