"You are not coming, George, and that's my last word on the matter. I can't think of anything worse than being lumbered with one's younger brother." The remark was made with the lofty disdain often assumed by the eldest in the family, which Arthur was.
"I'm to meet Toby and Rupert and one or two other fellows from the university and the last thing we want is a crowd of kids-"
"I'm not a crowd of kids, you daft beggar," George said hotly. "There's only one of me and I'm sixteen. You're only a year older and you know that Papa likes us to go about together."
"I don't give a damn what Papa likes." There was a concerted gasp from the group of young people who were sprawled about the living-room as the last desperate words exploded from between the lips of the first speaker and he himself had the decency to look somewhat shamefaced.
"Sorry, papa," he mumbled, though Papa wasn't present, and the rest of them sighed in relief. They all loved their father dearly and would not willingly upset him but it was very plain Arthur Tooley was quite resolute in his intention not to give way on this one. He was mad about anything mechanical in this era of the burgeoning growth of the motor car and the aeroplane, particularly the aeroplane which was why he was furiously determined to go and watch the spectacle of Lady Margarine, an acrobat performer. And he didn't want the embarrassment of dragging his sibling with him. Even one brother was out of the question.
They were devoted to one another, the Tooleys, all seven of them, and would have fought to the death to protect one another from outside danger but that didn't mean they didn't have frequent disagreements, violent flare-ups among themselves which often led to hot words, since they were all quick-tempered and strong-willed.
They were handsome, tall, with the warm colouring they had inherited from their father, glossy hair the colour of treacle toffee streaked with copper when the sun caught it, eyes glowing a rich honey brown, the amber of their skin seeming to speak of warmer climes than that of the north.
Their mother, who was small, fair and blue-eyed often remarked that had she not herself given birth to them she might have believed they were not related to her at all. At least one of them might have favoured her, she told them, as though it were some fault in them that they were the spit of their father.
It was perhaps for this reason that she has borne seven of them before giving up hope that she might, if she was persistent and patient enough, hold in her arms a child who looked like her. John, who was eleven, was her last gasp, her husband whimsically remarked, and he was as dark as the others.
The seven of them lolled in various postures about the room, which was furnished comfortably, if in the slightly old-fashioned manner of the late Victorian era current when Edwin and Mary Tooley were married just eighteen years ago.