further assistance from him; the house could burn down for all he cared! She supposed she’d have to go and see for herself — someone had to.
Throwing a dressing-gown round her shoulders Pol hurried out on to the landing and twitched back the curtain. It was dark outside, the moon eclipsed by scurrying clouds, but through the darkness, light from Bet’s kitchen streamed out across the yard — she was home. Thank God for that! No sound of voices, either, so she couldn’t have asked him in; one must be grateful for small mercies.
Pete was snoring when she got back into bed. It was no good, if he was going to make that sort of noise she’d have to take a sleeping pill ...
Nell also heard the car. She’d like to have woken Bernie to tell him, but unfortunately they weren’t on speaking terms. There had been a slight incident earlier in the evening when, with some abandon, she’d kicked off her shoes and danced with a young man Bernie had described later as a half-witted Hooray Henry, and she’d not unnaturally taken exception. Anyway, what was wrong with being a Hooray Henry — at least this one had nice manners and could dance, which was more than you could say for Bernie ...
Diz heard nothing. He lay on his back, dead to the world, a bowl placed strategically beside his bed, the alcoholic excesses of his evening forgotten in insensibility.
Chapter Seven
‘Stand clear of the gates,’ the familiar robot voice intoned as the lift at Hampstead tube station began its slow, creaking journey to the surface with Bet the only passenger. She felt a little self-conscious, and was glad to escape at the top into the roar of the traffic grinding up Heath Street. It was a bright, windy day nearly two weeks after the Westover party and Bet was on her way to visit Miles’s grave.
Not that he would have approved, he’d always wanted to be cremated. But when the time came she’d pleaded with him to change his mind, unable to bear the thought of his body being hygienically reduced to ashes, and too weak for further argument, he’d given in. Anyway, he’d said, smiling a little at the feeble joke, it would be nice to have Hugh Gaitskell as a neighbour, at least they’d been on the same side.
Turning up Church Street, a gust of wind caught her hair, blowing it across her face so that for a moment she couldn’t see. She shivered, tightly clutching the carefully wrapped spring flowers she had picked from the garden that morning before catching the train. ‘Buy some lucky heather, dearie?’ the gypsy woman at the cemetery gates called after her, ‘you have a lucky face.’ She’d said the same thing, Bet remembered, on the day of Miles’s funeral.
His grave, when she found it, looked just like any other; the headstone was a bit newer, that was all. Miles Desmond Brandon , beloved husband of ... But of course Miles wasn’t there, was he, he never had been. Feeling self-conscious again, she knelt down on the damp grass, and placing her flowers neatly beside the headstone, closed her eyes. But it was no good, all she could think of was that she was kneeling on something sharp, and that when she got up her skirt would have a damp stain on the front. She shifted uncomfortably and suddenly, inside her head, heard Miles’ voice — the one he used when he was laughing at her. ‘Darling, you’re such an ass sometimes — no need for all this ... ’ She opened her eyes and found a large, hairy, surprised-looking dog squatting on his haunches beside her. ‘Roddy, come here at once!’ A woman’s voice, sharp with embarrassment. ‘Don’t be such a bloody nuisance.’ The dog took one more look at Bet, then bounded away. He was a young dog, joyous, full of life and curiosity. Bet stood up, smiling foolishly to herself, and brushed the grass from her skirt, then turned, and picking her way carefully through the forest of white headstones, slowly retraced her steps to the cemetery gates.
There was nothing for
Throwing a dressing-gown round her shoulders Pol hurried out on to the landing and twitched back the curtain. It was dark outside, the moon eclipsed by scurrying clouds, but through the darkness, light from Bet’s kitchen streamed out across the yard — she was home. Thank God for that! No sound of voices, either, so she couldn’t have asked him in; one must be grateful for small mercies.
Pete was snoring when she got back into bed. It was no good, if he was going to make that sort of noise she’d have to take a sleeping pill ...
Nell also heard the car. She’d like to have woken Bernie to tell him, but unfortunately they weren’t on speaking terms. There had been a slight incident earlier in the evening when, with some abandon, she’d kicked off her shoes and danced with a young man Bernie had described later as a half-witted Hooray Henry, and she’d not unnaturally taken exception. Anyway, what was wrong with being a Hooray Henry — at least this one had nice manners and could dance, which was more than you could say for Bernie ...
Diz heard nothing. He lay on his back, dead to the world, a bowl placed strategically beside his bed, the alcoholic excesses of his evening forgotten in insensibility.
Chapter Seven
‘Stand clear of the gates,’ the familiar robot voice intoned as the lift at Hampstead tube station began its slow, creaking journey to the surface with Bet the only passenger. She felt a little self-conscious, and was glad to escape at the top into the roar of the traffic grinding up Heath Street. It was a bright, windy day nearly two weeks after the Westover party and Bet was on her way to visit Miles’s grave.
Not that he would have approved, he’d always wanted to be cremated. But when the time came she’d pleaded with him to change his mind, unable to bear the thought of his body being hygienically reduced to ashes, and too weak for further argument, he’d given in. Anyway, he’d said, smiling a little at the feeble joke, it would be nice to have Hugh Gaitskell as a neighbour, at least they’d been on the same side.
Turning up Church Street, a gust of wind caught her hair, blowing it across her face so that for a moment she couldn’t see. She shivered, tightly clutching the carefully wrapped spring flowers she had picked from the garden that morning before catching the train. ‘Buy some lucky heather, dearie?’ the gypsy woman at the cemetery gates called after her, ‘you have a lucky face.’ She’d said the same thing, Bet remembered, on the day of Miles’s funeral.
His grave, when she found it, looked just like any other; the headstone was a bit newer, that was all. Miles Desmond Brandon , beloved husband of ... But of course Miles wasn’t there, was he, he never had been. Feeling self-conscious again, she knelt down on the damp grass, and placing her flowers neatly beside the headstone, closed her eyes. But it was no good, all she could think of was that she was kneeling on something sharp, and that when she got up her skirt would have a damp stain on the front. She shifted uncomfortably and suddenly, inside her head, heard Miles’ voice — the one he used when he was laughing at her. ‘Darling, you’re such an ass sometimes — no need for all this ... ’ She opened her eyes and found a large, hairy, surprised-looking dog squatting on his haunches beside her. ‘Roddy, come here at once!’ A woman’s voice, sharp with embarrassment. ‘Don’t be such a bloody nuisance.’ The dog took one more look at Bet, then bounded away. He was a young dog, joyous, full of life and curiosity. Bet stood up, smiling foolishly to herself, and brushed the grass from her skirt, then turned, and picking her way carefully through the forest of white headstones, slowly retraced her steps to the cemetery gates.
There was nothing for
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