window of light which, thrown by a passing car, went round the bedroom walls and disappeared. The Parnells often forgot to draw their curtains, for they did not object to the light in the morning, but tonight Finola crept out of bed and padded over to the window to close them. A little snow was falling, and melting on the pavements; there would be no dirty covering of white tomorrow.
Finola made her way through the warm dark to bed, climbed in and just touched Gerard’s shoulder, but she did not go back to cuddling him. She wrapped her arms about herself and worked her head into the pillow in an attempt to fall asleep. There passed through her mind images from her childhood, and images of Gerard and his passionate morality, which sometimes lulled her, and sometimes brought her into sudden wakefulness.
She imagined herself sitting in the kitchen corner at Bramham Gardens, reading Ivanhoe and chewing one of her plaits as Alice and Anatole and their friends Kate, and Christopher Tuskin, and Augustus and Clementina argued about cubist painters, and eating in Paris, and sex. There had never been a time when Finola had not known all about sex, and the knowledge had not always been agreeable. Thisbrought her back to Gerard, and the change in her circumstances, and her children, and the death of nearly all her parents’ old friends, and Gerard again, and the corner of his dressing-room where there was a prie-dieu and a crucifix. She always avoided looking at this corner, as though it were a secret diary which might contain unpleasant things about herself.
Finola now sat up in bed again. The night before, Gerard had disappeared to his dressing-room after telling her about how he had been obliged to walk all the way from the station at Chalcot St Anne to the estate office with his hat pulled over his eyes, to see Darcy and hear about Constance, who had refused to see him. Finola had been angry; she had only been able to say that it was all a great deal worse than The Spoils of Poynton. Gerard had not read the book; he never read novels and could not understand them.
Finola knew that she should have comforted him, and should not have behaved in what she called in her head a vulgar way, as though she had been cheated. She did not know now precisely what it was she hoped a move to Combe Chalcot could give them, when they already had a comfortable independence.
Gerard rolled over and moaned slightly, and Finola turned for a moment to look at his dim shape. She remembered his coming down for dinner, and saying as she looked up from her tapestry and they exchanged strong cold glances: ‘I’ve been thinking upstairs, Finola. I know now – I know there is no real reason, nothing which would morally justify me in making her leave the house or give up any of the things she wants. It’s only for her lifetime – I cannot force her.’ Pause. ‘I do know she is trying to bully me, but I know it would really be worse, it would be weaker in a real sense, not to give way to her about this. That is, I mean that –’
‘She’s in the wrong,’ Finola had said, interrupting as soon as Gerard began to have difficulties.
‘I know, but I can’t be in the wrong too. I must havesomething to comfort me!’ He had smiled. ‘My dear, do you understand? Do I disappoint you very much?’
After this, she had behaved just as she ought. When Gerard had come from a successful examination of his conscience, he always wanted to make love.
As she looked at Gerard now, she decided that she could not say she thought him weak, but only annoyingly superior to herself. He even thought himself worldly, and was in many ways so firm. Finola thought how hard she was, the same troubled but conventional little person she had felt herself to be before she joined the Wrens: it was this in part which was keeping her awake. She had decided to go down to Combe Chalcot tomorrow or the next day, and this was a great worry because she had feared for seven years that
Finola made her way through the warm dark to bed, climbed in and just touched Gerard’s shoulder, but she did not go back to cuddling him. She wrapped her arms about herself and worked her head into the pillow in an attempt to fall asleep. There passed through her mind images from her childhood, and images of Gerard and his passionate morality, which sometimes lulled her, and sometimes brought her into sudden wakefulness.
She imagined herself sitting in the kitchen corner at Bramham Gardens, reading Ivanhoe and chewing one of her plaits as Alice and Anatole and their friends Kate, and Christopher Tuskin, and Augustus and Clementina argued about cubist painters, and eating in Paris, and sex. There had never been a time when Finola had not known all about sex, and the knowledge had not always been agreeable. Thisbrought her back to Gerard, and the change in her circumstances, and her children, and the death of nearly all her parents’ old friends, and Gerard again, and the corner of his dressing-room where there was a prie-dieu and a crucifix. She always avoided looking at this corner, as though it were a secret diary which might contain unpleasant things about herself.
Finola now sat up in bed again. The night before, Gerard had disappeared to his dressing-room after telling her about how he had been obliged to walk all the way from the station at Chalcot St Anne to the estate office with his hat pulled over his eyes, to see Darcy and hear about Constance, who had refused to see him. Finola had been angry; she had only been able to say that it was all a great deal worse than The Spoils of Poynton. Gerard had not read the book; he never read novels and could not understand them.
Finola knew that she should have comforted him, and should not have behaved in what she called in her head a vulgar way, as though she had been cheated. She did not know now precisely what it was she hoped a move to Combe Chalcot could give them, when they already had a comfortable independence.
Gerard rolled over and moaned slightly, and Finola turned for a moment to look at his dim shape. She remembered his coming down for dinner, and saying as she looked up from her tapestry and they exchanged strong cold glances: ‘I’ve been thinking upstairs, Finola. I know now – I know there is no real reason, nothing which would morally justify me in making her leave the house or give up any of the things she wants. It’s only for her lifetime – I cannot force her.’ Pause. ‘I do know she is trying to bully me, but I know it would really be worse, it would be weaker in a real sense, not to give way to her about this. That is, I mean that –’
‘She’s in the wrong,’ Finola had said, interrupting as soon as Gerard began to have difficulties.
‘I know, but I can’t be in the wrong too. I must havesomething to comfort me!’ He had smiled. ‘My dear, do you understand? Do I disappoint you very much?’
After this, she had behaved just as she ought. When Gerard had come from a successful examination of his conscience, he always wanted to make love.
As she looked at Gerard now, she decided that she could not say she thought him weak, but only annoyingly superior to herself. He even thought himself worldly, and was in many ways so firm. Finola thought how hard she was, the same troubled but conventional little person she had felt herself to be before she joined the Wrens: it was this in part which was keeping her awake. She had decided to go down to Combe Chalcot tomorrow or the next day, and this was a great worry because she had feared for seven years that
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