yes. She works in a bank now.”
“Typical enough.”
“That seems to me a perfectly sensible thing to be doing at her age. And Marilyn’s married now, did you know?"
“Oh yes? And who did she marry?”
“I don’t remember what her husband does. I met him once. He seemed very pleasant.”
“I expect he’s a vicar or something like that.”
“Now, Niki, I really don’t see why you have t adopt this tone. The Morrisons have always been extremely kind to us.
Niki sighed impatiently. “It’s just the way they do things,” she said. “It makes me sick. Like the way they’ve brought up their kids."
“But you’ve hardly seen the Morrisons in years."
“I saw them often enough when I used to know Cathy. People like that are so hopeless. I suppose I ought to feel sorry for Cathy.”
“You’re blaming her because she hasn’t gone to live in London like you have? I must say, Niki, that doesn’t sound like the broadmindedness you and your friends seem so proud of.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. You don’t understand what I’m talking about anyway.” She glanced towards me, then heaved another sigh. It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, looking the other way.
I continued to stare at her for a moment. Eventually, I turned back to the window ledge and for some minutes worked on in silence.
“You know, Niki,” I said, after some time, “I’m very pleased you have good friends you enjoy being with. After all, you must lead your own life now. That’s only to be expected."
My daughter gave no reply. When I glanced at her, she was reading one of the newspapers she had found in the drawer.
“I’d be interested to meet your friends," I said. “You’re always welcome to bringany of them here.”
Niki flicked her head to prevent her hair falling across her vision, and continued to read. A look of concentration had appeared on her face.
I went back to my plant for I could read these signals well enough. There is a certain subtle and yet quiet emphatic manner Niki adopts whenever I display curiosity concerning her life in London; it is her way of telling me I will regret it if I persist. Consequently, my picture of her present life is built largely upon her letters, however—and Niki is very good about remembering to write—she mentions certain things she would never touch upon in conversation. That is how I have learnt, for instance, that her boyfriend’s name is David and that he is studying politics at one of the London colleges. And yet, during conversation, if I were even to enquire after his health, I know that barrier would come firmly down.
This rather aggressive regard for privacy reminds me very much of her sister. For in truth, my two daughters had much in common, much more than my husband would ever admit. As far as he was concerned, they were complete opposites; furthermore, it became his view that Keiko was a difficult person by nature and there was little we could do for her. In fact, although he never claimed it outright, he would imply that Keiko had inherited her personality from her father. I did little to contradict this, for it was the easy explanation, that Jiro was to blame, not us. Of course, my husband never knew Keiko in her early years; if he had, he may well have recognized how similar the two girls were during their respective early stages. Both had fierce tempers, both were possessive; if they became upset, they would not like other children forget their anger quickly, but would remain moody for most of the day. And yet, one has become a happy, confident young woman—have every hope for Niki’s future—while the other, after becoming increasingly miserable, took her own life. I do not find it as easy as my husband did to put the blame on Nature, or else on Jim. However, such things are in the past now, and there is little to be gained in going over them here.
“By the way, Mother,” said Niki. “That was you this morning, wasn’t it?”
“This
“Typical enough.”
“That seems to me a perfectly sensible thing to be doing at her age. And Marilyn’s married now, did you know?"
“Oh yes? And who did she marry?”
“I don’t remember what her husband does. I met him once. He seemed very pleasant.”
“I expect he’s a vicar or something like that.”
“Now, Niki, I really don’t see why you have t adopt this tone. The Morrisons have always been extremely kind to us.
Niki sighed impatiently. “It’s just the way they do things,” she said. “It makes me sick. Like the way they’ve brought up their kids."
“But you’ve hardly seen the Morrisons in years."
“I saw them often enough when I used to know Cathy. People like that are so hopeless. I suppose I ought to feel sorry for Cathy.”
“You’re blaming her because she hasn’t gone to live in London like you have? I must say, Niki, that doesn’t sound like the broadmindedness you and your friends seem so proud of.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. You don’t understand what I’m talking about anyway.” She glanced towards me, then heaved another sigh. It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, looking the other way.
I continued to stare at her for a moment. Eventually, I turned back to the window ledge and for some minutes worked on in silence.
“You know, Niki,” I said, after some time, “I’m very pleased you have good friends you enjoy being with. After all, you must lead your own life now. That’s only to be expected."
My daughter gave no reply. When I glanced at her, she was reading one of the newspapers she had found in the drawer.
“I’d be interested to meet your friends," I said. “You’re always welcome to bringany of them here.”
Niki flicked her head to prevent her hair falling across her vision, and continued to read. A look of concentration had appeared on her face.
I went back to my plant for I could read these signals well enough. There is a certain subtle and yet quiet emphatic manner Niki adopts whenever I display curiosity concerning her life in London; it is her way of telling me I will regret it if I persist. Consequently, my picture of her present life is built largely upon her letters, however—and Niki is very good about remembering to write—she mentions certain things she would never touch upon in conversation. That is how I have learnt, for instance, that her boyfriend’s name is David and that he is studying politics at one of the London colleges. And yet, during conversation, if I were even to enquire after his health, I know that barrier would come firmly down.
This rather aggressive regard for privacy reminds me very much of her sister. For in truth, my two daughters had much in common, much more than my husband would ever admit. As far as he was concerned, they were complete opposites; furthermore, it became his view that Keiko was a difficult person by nature and there was little we could do for her. In fact, although he never claimed it outright, he would imply that Keiko had inherited her personality from her father. I did little to contradict this, for it was the easy explanation, that Jiro was to blame, not us. Of course, my husband never knew Keiko in her early years; if he had, he may well have recognized how similar the two girls were during their respective early stages. Both had fierce tempers, both were possessive; if they became upset, they would not like other children forget their anger quickly, but would remain moody for most of the day. And yet, one has become a happy, confident young woman—have every hope for Niki’s future—while the other, after becoming increasingly miserable, took her own life. I do not find it as easy as my husband did to put the blame on Nature, or else on Jim. However, such things are in the past now, and there is little to be gained in going over them here.
“By the way, Mother,” said Niki. “That was you this morning, wasn’t it?”
“This
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