failed to add to it.
And yet on this particular day she was disappointing me. She did not look me in the face, and to my surprise there was no smile to show she was glad. She stared at the ground, scratching the soil with the hoe within an inch or two of her bare feet. Of course she did not know the extent of the tremendous relief in my mind, and so I was plainly expecting too much from her. But always before there had been the telepathy conveying the mood of our excitement. It was obviously not working on this occasion.
Suddenly she looked up, but instead of meeting my eyes she looked to one side. Something was wrong. Whenever Jane was confused her cheeks became like red berries and her eyes wandered in every direction except straight in front of her.
‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, Mr Tangye,’ and in a flash I knew my high excitement was about to disappear, ‘I’m leaving.’
I have sensed sometimes that someone who is working for me is thinking of going. There is a look about them, a slight casualness, a confidence towards me that they did not previously display. I am aware they are saying to themselves: ‘I’ve been here long enough. It’s time to move on.’ It’s a dying relationship between us, a product of ennui, the job has become dulled by the routine. I am therefore prepared.
But I was not by Jane.
‘Say that again.’ It was I who had now become flushed. I was thinking purely of myself. The thrill of overcoming our problem, the moment of celebration, was to be dissipated. Instead of relaxing for the first day in weeks, the weariness of the burden we had carried clear of our shoulders, here quickly was another to take its place.
‘You see, Mr Tangye,’ she said, and she had suddenly become animated, a bubbling enthusiasm which certainly had nothing to do with Minack, ‘Mum and I are going to Turkey.’
This was a surprise.
‘Yes,’ she said, and because I was showing interest her confidence was returning, ‘We’re going in a van with two friends, and camping all the way, and when we get to Turkey we’re going to live near Ankara, and grow our own vegetables, and spend our time digging for buried treasure.’
The programme was rushed out breathlessly and I would have laughed had it not been Jane who had spoken. True she used to have wild enthusiasms, but she was also so sensible. I respected her opinions. If she told me that a certain section of our work could be improved this way or that, I would generally have reason to agree with her. She thought out her work. She had a sense of responsibility. Had we gone away at any time and left her in charge I would never have worried. She was deliciously reliable.
‘I really don’t see how you can live on vegetables,’ I said, and there was a note of condescension in my voice, ‘after all, they take time to grow and what do you do in the meantime?’
My condescension was not as real as it sounded. I had a certain understanding for such a crazy idea. I had had so many myself which had been laughed at by outsiders. I was once fired as a columnist of a daily newspaper on a Wednesday, only to announce on the Thursday that I had resigned in order to go round the world. My friends at the time thought it was a complicated alibi to explain my dismissal. I knew better. I had an excuse to force myself into doing what I had always wanted to do.
Jane’s mind would always range widely. She could not always thin lettuces or pinch out tomatoes or enjoy the leisurely pleasure of a peasant girl. She was too intelligent ever to be cushioned against conflict. And her mother felt the same; she was alert to the knowledge that Jane looked for adventure however small might be its canvas. Why not give her a chance for a real adventure?
‘Oh, we’ve planned how to live in the meantime.’ She was returning my condescension in a way I had learned to associate with her. When in doubt she was most superior. She set out to swipe her opponent out of the arena by
And yet on this particular day she was disappointing me. She did not look me in the face, and to my surprise there was no smile to show she was glad. She stared at the ground, scratching the soil with the hoe within an inch or two of her bare feet. Of course she did not know the extent of the tremendous relief in my mind, and so I was plainly expecting too much from her. But always before there had been the telepathy conveying the mood of our excitement. It was obviously not working on this occasion.
Suddenly she looked up, but instead of meeting my eyes she looked to one side. Something was wrong. Whenever Jane was confused her cheeks became like red berries and her eyes wandered in every direction except straight in front of her.
‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, Mr Tangye,’ and in a flash I knew my high excitement was about to disappear, ‘I’m leaving.’
I have sensed sometimes that someone who is working for me is thinking of going. There is a look about them, a slight casualness, a confidence towards me that they did not previously display. I am aware they are saying to themselves: ‘I’ve been here long enough. It’s time to move on.’ It’s a dying relationship between us, a product of ennui, the job has become dulled by the routine. I am therefore prepared.
But I was not by Jane.
‘Say that again.’ It was I who had now become flushed. I was thinking purely of myself. The thrill of overcoming our problem, the moment of celebration, was to be dissipated. Instead of relaxing for the first day in weeks, the weariness of the burden we had carried clear of our shoulders, here quickly was another to take its place.
‘You see, Mr Tangye,’ she said, and she had suddenly become animated, a bubbling enthusiasm which certainly had nothing to do with Minack, ‘Mum and I are going to Turkey.’
This was a surprise.
‘Yes,’ she said, and because I was showing interest her confidence was returning, ‘We’re going in a van with two friends, and camping all the way, and when we get to Turkey we’re going to live near Ankara, and grow our own vegetables, and spend our time digging for buried treasure.’
The programme was rushed out breathlessly and I would have laughed had it not been Jane who had spoken. True she used to have wild enthusiasms, but she was also so sensible. I respected her opinions. If she told me that a certain section of our work could be improved this way or that, I would generally have reason to agree with her. She thought out her work. She had a sense of responsibility. Had we gone away at any time and left her in charge I would never have worried. She was deliciously reliable.
‘I really don’t see how you can live on vegetables,’ I said, and there was a note of condescension in my voice, ‘after all, they take time to grow and what do you do in the meantime?’
My condescension was not as real as it sounded. I had a certain understanding for such a crazy idea. I had had so many myself which had been laughed at by outsiders. I was once fired as a columnist of a daily newspaper on a Wednesday, only to announce on the Thursday that I had resigned in order to go round the world. My friends at the time thought it was a complicated alibi to explain my dismissal. I knew better. I had an excuse to force myself into doing what I had always wanted to do.
Jane’s mind would always range widely. She could not always thin lettuces or pinch out tomatoes or enjoy the leisurely pleasure of a peasant girl. She was too intelligent ever to be cushioned against conflict. And her mother felt the same; she was alert to the knowledge that Jane looked for adventure however small might be its canvas. Why not give her a chance for a real adventure?
‘Oh, we’ve planned how to live in the meantime.’ She was returning my condescension in a way I had learned to associate with her. When in doubt she was most superior. She set out to swipe her opponent out of the arena by
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