The War Between the Tates [antikvár]

March 20. A cold spring morning. It rained last night, perforating the crtisted snow of the Tates' front lawn, and everything is wet and glitters: the fine gravel of the drive, the ice in the ditch beside it, the bare elm twigs out-side the bathroom window. The sun shines sideways at the house, brilliantly, impartially. Seeing it through the kitchen window when she comes down to make breakfast, Erica Tate feels her emotional temperature, which has been unnaturally low of late, rise several degrees. 'Tomorrow's the beginning of spring,' she says to Jeffrey Tate, aged fifteen, as he stumbles into the room fastening his shirt. 'What's for breakfast?' 'Eggs, toast, jam-' 'Any sausages?' 'No, not today.' Erica tries to keep her voice cheerful. 'There's never anything to eat in this house,' Jeffrey complains, falling heavily into his chair. Suppressing several possible answers to this remark, Erica sets a plate before her son and turns towards the stairs. 'Matilda! It's twenty minutes to eight.' 'All right! I heard you the first time.' 'Look at that sun,' Erica says to her daughter a few minutes late. 'Tomorrow's the first day of spring.' No reply. Erica sets a plate in front of Matilda, who will be thirteen next month. 'I can't eat this stuff. It's fattening.' 'It's not fattening, it's just an ordinary breakfast, eggs, toast - Anyhow, you're not fat.'