the window of the dining room. There she saw Mrs Cutler, watchful and pinched once again, her chestnut lights faded, her lipstick incarnadine. Behind her stretched a day already full of instant coffee.
Mrs Cutler raised her thumb. Ruth could not make out the words she was mouthing. Her throat ached, her eyes burned with loneliness. She waved. Mrs Cutler threw open the window.
‘Keep in touch,’ she shouted, thinly, so as not to attract the attention of the neighbours. Ruth could barely hear her. ‘Make the most of it,’ yelled Mrs Cutler, getting into the spirit of the thing. ‘Go on, Ruth don’t hang about.’ She raised her thumb again. ‘Never say die!’ And she slammed down the window.
12
Ruth woke up, sat up, and eased herself into another day in the rue des Marronniers. She reached for her notebook and wrote down her dream, having read in a magazine that this was therapeutic. The dream, as usual, had been disagreeable. She had been waiting in a freezing cold bed-sitting room, painted white, for her examination results. She knew, with a deep and ancient inner conviction, that all the other rooms in the house were heated, and all the other occupants were in receipt of good news. Before she could be moved to begin her usual mild protest against this state of affairs, she was translated to Brussels, where an enormous hunger overcame her. She was so busy bolting down coffee and rolls that she could not spare the time to entertain her companion, a person of indeterminate sex with grey hair. She awoke, bewildered, in the knowledge that she had been left alone at the café table while her companion set off with purposeful gestures to cross a small wood or garden thickly carpeted with fallen leaves. This dream had been in colour. Rather like a film.
In contrast to her dream, the sepia light that strained to get through the barred window of her room on the sixth floor in the rue des Marronniers reduced her life to monochrome. She still could not believe that anyone had consigned her to this place when she had committed no crime. Although Rhoda and Humphrey Wilcox had been severe and owlish enough to inspire a certain discomfort,
she had liked their bright chintzy flat and had looked forward to leading a quiet life there. Rhoda had given her a cup of tea and a very small biscuit, had steered her towards the eighty-year-old Humphrey who was sitting, tortoise-like, in his armchair, and had left her to do something in the kitchen. Ruth had been aware that this was the equivalent of one of those country house weekends at which you are assessed for your suitability to occupy a minor but significant post in the Civil Service. Ignoring Humphrey’s hand, which strayed towards her knee and rested there, ignoring his insistence on speaking French – he wrote his biographies under the pseudonym of Maurice de Grandville – she listened for twenty minutes to his disquisition on the life of the Duchesse de Berry, and would have listened longer had they both not become aware of Rhoda, returned from the kitchen, and standing with folded arms by the door. Humphrey removed his hand, which was pale and humid, like that of a poulterer.
‘Humphrey has quite taken to you,’ said Rhoda. ‘I think it will be all right to let you have the room, although Humphrey sometimes meditates up there. You do know about maids’ rooms, don’t you?’
Ruth shook her head. ‘I only know they’re usually on the top floor.’
‘At one time all the servants in the building had the top floor to themselves. No servants now, of course, but there is a staircase outside the kitchen door which they all used when they started work in the mornings. So much more civilized than having them living in.’
She led Ruth, with her suitcase and her typewriter, out through the kitchen door, up the staircase, and along an endless prison corridor which appeared to have small cells opening off it at regular intervals. She fitted a large iron key into an obdurate
Mrs Cutler raised her thumb. Ruth could not make out the words she was mouthing. Her throat ached, her eyes burned with loneliness. She waved. Mrs Cutler threw open the window.
‘Keep in touch,’ she shouted, thinly, so as not to attract the attention of the neighbours. Ruth could barely hear her. ‘Make the most of it,’ yelled Mrs Cutler, getting into the spirit of the thing. ‘Go on, Ruth don’t hang about.’ She raised her thumb again. ‘Never say die!’ And she slammed down the window.
12
Ruth woke up, sat up, and eased herself into another day in the rue des Marronniers. She reached for her notebook and wrote down her dream, having read in a magazine that this was therapeutic. The dream, as usual, had been disagreeable. She had been waiting in a freezing cold bed-sitting room, painted white, for her examination results. She knew, with a deep and ancient inner conviction, that all the other rooms in the house were heated, and all the other occupants were in receipt of good news. Before she could be moved to begin her usual mild protest against this state of affairs, she was translated to Brussels, where an enormous hunger overcame her. She was so busy bolting down coffee and rolls that she could not spare the time to entertain her companion, a person of indeterminate sex with grey hair. She awoke, bewildered, in the knowledge that she had been left alone at the café table while her companion set off with purposeful gestures to cross a small wood or garden thickly carpeted with fallen leaves. This dream had been in colour. Rather like a film.
In contrast to her dream, the sepia light that strained to get through the barred window of her room on the sixth floor in the rue des Marronniers reduced her life to monochrome. She still could not believe that anyone had consigned her to this place when she had committed no crime. Although Rhoda and Humphrey Wilcox had been severe and owlish enough to inspire a certain discomfort,
she had liked their bright chintzy flat and had looked forward to leading a quiet life there. Rhoda had given her a cup of tea and a very small biscuit, had steered her towards the eighty-year-old Humphrey who was sitting, tortoise-like, in his armchair, and had left her to do something in the kitchen. Ruth had been aware that this was the equivalent of one of those country house weekends at which you are assessed for your suitability to occupy a minor but significant post in the Civil Service. Ignoring Humphrey’s hand, which strayed towards her knee and rested there, ignoring his insistence on speaking French – he wrote his biographies under the pseudonym of Maurice de Grandville – she listened for twenty minutes to his disquisition on the life of the Duchesse de Berry, and would have listened longer had they both not become aware of Rhoda, returned from the kitchen, and standing with folded arms by the door. Humphrey removed his hand, which was pale and humid, like that of a poulterer.
‘Humphrey has quite taken to you,’ said Rhoda. ‘I think it will be all right to let you have the room, although Humphrey sometimes meditates up there. You do know about maids’ rooms, don’t you?’
Ruth shook her head. ‘I only know they’re usually on the top floor.’
‘At one time all the servants in the building had the top floor to themselves. No servants now, of course, but there is a staircase outside the kitchen door which they all used when they started work in the mornings. So much more civilized than having them living in.’
She led Ruth, with her suitcase and her typewriter, out through the kitchen door, up the staircase, and along an endless prison corridor which appeared to have small cells opening off it at regular intervals. She fitted a large iron key into an obdurate
Similar Books
