principle she held dear, reached into her canvas hold-all and produced a bottle of gin.
Helen turned to her, with her beautiful smile restored.
‘Molly, my darling, you are an angel. Always were. Never jealous or ratty. Not even when I had that little affair with Eric.’
Molly had not known about this. She had trusted her late husband implicitly. But she was a sensible woman; she saw in Helen’s face the end of many love affairs. We shall none of us ever make love again, she thought, and did not much care. Life had not been too harsh. The sea would still be there at the end. She was nearly ready.
But Helen, she saw, would be taken unawares.
11
Ruth, trying to put her notes into some kind of order, realized that the days were getting shorter. She could no longer walk in the evenings. Leaves were being raked and burnt in back gardens; from midday to three in the afternoon the sun still blazed and clothes felt too heavy. Then the brightness went out of the air; the light, with infinite slowness, receded into a greyish mist; the smoke rose from the gardens and drifted round the trees. As dusk came down, late roses startled with the intensity of their colour.
Ruth, in her bedroom, struggled with
Modeste Mignon
, in which all the vices turn out to be virtues. Mrs Cutler, at the kitchen table, studied her horoscope in the evening paper. The flat was clean, the store cupboard provisioned. In Ruth’s wardrobe hung a new blue dress in which she planned to take Paris by storm, for had not Balzac laid that obligation upon her? Her ticket was booked, Humphrey and Rhoda Wilcox alerted. She was in two minds about going. Oakwood Court was now so peaceful that she felt she might work here quite as well as in the Wilcoxes’ maid’s room. The quality of life had improved quite a bit. Mrs Cutler was now watching cookery programmes on afternoon television, but as she never wrote down the recipes there was little chance of her ever reproducing them. She regarded them as pure entertainment, in the same way as she sat through programmes about woodland predators or crime on the
streets of New York.
‘The kitchens they must have,’ she marvelled. ‘And fancy eating all those courses at one meal.’
They had both benefited greatly from the holiday in Hove.
It was therefore with something like dismay that they became aware that the surge of the lift and the noise of its doors slamming meant that George and Helen were home.
Their eyes met over the kitchen table. Neither moved. Cautiously, Mrs Cutler diminished the volume of her transistor radio. In the hall voices were raised, lights switched on, and a stumbling struggle, in which cases were dropped or even dragged, dominated the whine of bullets from the detective play to which they were listening.
‘Never again,’ they could hear Helen groaning, ‘never again.’
Reaching out a hand, Mrs Cutler turned off the radio and they both, resignedly, got to their feet.
‘It was ghastly,’ said Helen the following morning from her bed, although she seemed quite cheerful. ‘Sitting in that dog kennel all day with the monsoon blowing and Molly’s cooking sticking permanently in one’s teeth. Why are vegetarians so unreasonable?’
George and Ruth and Mrs Cutler had reassembled in the bedroom, which had resumed its air of disorder and permanence. Suitcases had been opened but not unpacked. An open bottle of nail varnish, its brush already stiff, added a strong smell to the already stale air. Helen wore her denim cap, her nightdress, and a cardigan, and was lighting one cigarette from the stub of another. George lined up the pair of shoes from which Helen had thankfully removed her feet the previous evening. After a moment’s hesitation he threw them under the bed. Ruth observed him as he picked minute pieces of fluff
from the sleeve of his jacket. He seemed quieter than usual.
Ruth thought that something in her parents had changed but could not identify the change. Physically, they
Helen turned to her, with her beautiful smile restored.
‘Molly, my darling, you are an angel. Always were. Never jealous or ratty. Not even when I had that little affair with Eric.’
Molly had not known about this. She had trusted her late husband implicitly. But she was a sensible woman; she saw in Helen’s face the end of many love affairs. We shall none of us ever make love again, she thought, and did not much care. Life had not been too harsh. The sea would still be there at the end. She was nearly ready.
But Helen, she saw, would be taken unawares.
11
Ruth, trying to put her notes into some kind of order, realized that the days were getting shorter. She could no longer walk in the evenings. Leaves were being raked and burnt in back gardens; from midday to three in the afternoon the sun still blazed and clothes felt too heavy. Then the brightness went out of the air; the light, with infinite slowness, receded into a greyish mist; the smoke rose from the gardens and drifted round the trees. As dusk came down, late roses startled with the intensity of their colour.
Ruth, in her bedroom, struggled with
Modeste Mignon
, in which all the vices turn out to be virtues. Mrs Cutler, at the kitchen table, studied her horoscope in the evening paper. The flat was clean, the store cupboard provisioned. In Ruth’s wardrobe hung a new blue dress in which she planned to take Paris by storm, for had not Balzac laid that obligation upon her? Her ticket was booked, Humphrey and Rhoda Wilcox alerted. She was in two minds about going. Oakwood Court was now so peaceful that she felt she might work here quite as well as in the Wilcoxes’ maid’s room. The quality of life had improved quite a bit. Mrs Cutler was now watching cookery programmes on afternoon television, but as she never wrote down the recipes there was little chance of her ever reproducing them. She regarded them as pure entertainment, in the same way as she sat through programmes about woodland predators or crime on the
streets of New York.
‘The kitchens they must have,’ she marvelled. ‘And fancy eating all those courses at one meal.’
They had both benefited greatly from the holiday in Hove.
It was therefore with something like dismay that they became aware that the surge of the lift and the noise of its doors slamming meant that George and Helen were home.
Their eyes met over the kitchen table. Neither moved. Cautiously, Mrs Cutler diminished the volume of her transistor radio. In the hall voices were raised, lights switched on, and a stumbling struggle, in which cases were dropped or even dragged, dominated the whine of bullets from the detective play to which they were listening.
‘Never again,’ they could hear Helen groaning, ‘never again.’
Reaching out a hand, Mrs Cutler turned off the radio and they both, resignedly, got to their feet.
‘It was ghastly,’ said Helen the following morning from her bed, although she seemed quite cheerful. ‘Sitting in that dog kennel all day with the monsoon blowing and Molly’s cooking sticking permanently in one’s teeth. Why are vegetarians so unreasonable?’
George and Ruth and Mrs Cutler had reassembled in the bedroom, which had resumed its air of disorder and permanence. Suitcases had been opened but not unpacked. An open bottle of nail varnish, its brush already stiff, added a strong smell to the already stale air. Helen wore her denim cap, her nightdress, and a cardigan, and was lighting one cigarette from the stub of another. George lined up the pair of shoes from which Helen had thankfully removed her feet the previous evening. After a moment’s hesitation he threw them under the bed. Ruth observed him as he picked minute pieces of fluff
from the sleeve of his jacket. He seemed quieter than usual.
Ruth thought that something in her parents had changed but could not identify the change. Physically, they
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