this? When the woman stood up, her son ran joyfully down the path, jumped with both feet into a wide puddle and stomped like a demented elf. Augusta imagined the spray from the child’s frenzied feet, saw the mother’s shoulders shaking.
She wondered if it took a special skill to care for things, a gene that she’d been born without, the same way she’d always been terrible at maths. Perhaps this disconnect wasn’t such a bad thing. It allowed her to see what was good for people when they couldn’t see it themselves. Frances, for example. She had taken one look at the poor girl at the awards ceremony and knew what she needed. A bit of adventure. A sense of purpose in her life. Frances had seemed wild-eyed, expectant, a rabbit who could be lured easily into a trap. Not a trap , Augusta corrected herself. A safe harbour.
“— and did I tell you about the old girls down the hall who have taken up together? Laura and Corinne, they were in rep in Edinburgh, known each other for years, but only in their ninth decades have they decided to walk the path of Sappho. I suppose it’s no wonder, considering they’ll get no cock from the old boys around here. My dear, are you even listening?”
Augusta drew herself away from the scene outside. “I was going to ask your advice.”
Alma leaned forward, blue eyes wide. “You’re not back on the opium?”
“No, darling, there’s no opium involved.”
“Is it work, then? I fear it’s a desert out there, for women like us. Though of course you’re still lovely as ever, my dear.”
Augusta raised an eyebrow. “I do own a mirror, you know. Anyway, it’s been worse. There are enough odds and ends to keep me in fags.” There was nothing more dreary than tales from the coal face of middle-aged anxiety. She lied smoothly: “I’m doing some worthy thing for Channel 4. I’m the wife of a Q.C. who’s secretly running an Albanian sex-trafficking ring from the garden shed.”
Alma sniffed. “Not exactly Middlemarch , is it? Still, you need to keep your oar in.”
Augusta shifted in her chair. Why were old people’s homes so hot? She fanned herself with an ancient copy of The Stage .
After a minute she said, “I suppose I’m asking about the past. Family, you know. Those things.”
“Oh, my dear,” Alma said, putting out her cigarette in a saucer at her elbow. “I’m not sure I’m the one to ask about family. You might have better advice from a cat.”
“That’s exactly the reason I wanted to talk to you.” Augusta stood, and put her palms against the cool window. She could barely make out the figures on the common now; the mother and child were gone. “I’d get a sermon from anyone else. Some treacly nonsense about the importance of keeping people close. You, darling,” she put a hand on Alma’s shoulder, “you’re my vinegar.”
“I shall take that as a compliment. All right; I’m prepared to cleanse.”
Augusta turned to the window again. “I’m thinking about taking a trip to California.”
“Ah.”
“You do know why I need to go?”
“Of course I know.”
“Well, for God’s sake then, help me. A good idea or no?”
Alma regarded her for a moment. “At the risk of sounding gnomic, my dear, I should think you won’t know till you get there. Possibly not even then.”
Or possibly not ever , Augusta thought. “All right,” she said, and bent toward her old friend to cup her face. “I’ll think about it. If I go, I’ll drop you a line.”
“Drop me a line?” said Alma, pushing her away. “My dear, I’m on Skype.”
fourteen
Across the street, two drunks throttled each other in the doorway of the Twelve Pins. Once the scene would have filled Frances with horror, but now she watched from her kitchen table, numb. She could call the police, but she only had a few pounds’ credit left on her mobile. BT had cut off her landline the week before.
It was freezing in her flat. Every time she approached the thermostat she pictured a
She wondered if it took a special skill to care for things, a gene that she’d been born without, the same way she’d always been terrible at maths. Perhaps this disconnect wasn’t such a bad thing. It allowed her to see what was good for people when they couldn’t see it themselves. Frances, for example. She had taken one look at the poor girl at the awards ceremony and knew what she needed. A bit of adventure. A sense of purpose in her life. Frances had seemed wild-eyed, expectant, a rabbit who could be lured easily into a trap. Not a trap , Augusta corrected herself. A safe harbour.
“— and did I tell you about the old girls down the hall who have taken up together? Laura and Corinne, they were in rep in Edinburgh, known each other for years, but only in their ninth decades have they decided to walk the path of Sappho. I suppose it’s no wonder, considering they’ll get no cock from the old boys around here. My dear, are you even listening?”
Augusta drew herself away from the scene outside. “I was going to ask your advice.”
Alma leaned forward, blue eyes wide. “You’re not back on the opium?”
“No, darling, there’s no opium involved.”
“Is it work, then? I fear it’s a desert out there, for women like us. Though of course you’re still lovely as ever, my dear.”
Augusta raised an eyebrow. “I do own a mirror, you know. Anyway, it’s been worse. There are enough odds and ends to keep me in fags.” There was nothing more dreary than tales from the coal face of middle-aged anxiety. She lied smoothly: “I’m doing some worthy thing for Channel 4. I’m the wife of a Q.C. who’s secretly running an Albanian sex-trafficking ring from the garden shed.”
Alma sniffed. “Not exactly Middlemarch , is it? Still, you need to keep your oar in.”
Augusta shifted in her chair. Why were old people’s homes so hot? She fanned herself with an ancient copy of The Stage .
After a minute she said, “I suppose I’m asking about the past. Family, you know. Those things.”
“Oh, my dear,” Alma said, putting out her cigarette in a saucer at her elbow. “I’m not sure I’m the one to ask about family. You might have better advice from a cat.”
“That’s exactly the reason I wanted to talk to you.” Augusta stood, and put her palms against the cool window. She could barely make out the figures on the common now; the mother and child were gone. “I’d get a sermon from anyone else. Some treacly nonsense about the importance of keeping people close. You, darling,” she put a hand on Alma’s shoulder, “you’re my vinegar.”
“I shall take that as a compliment. All right; I’m prepared to cleanse.”
Augusta turned to the window again. “I’m thinking about taking a trip to California.”
“Ah.”
“You do know why I need to go?”
“Of course I know.”
“Well, for God’s sake then, help me. A good idea or no?”
Alma regarded her for a moment. “At the risk of sounding gnomic, my dear, I should think you won’t know till you get there. Possibly not even then.”
Or possibly not ever , Augusta thought. “All right,” she said, and bent toward her old friend to cup her face. “I’ll think about it. If I go, I’ll drop you a line.”
“Drop me a line?” said Alma, pushing her away. “My dear, I’m on Skype.”
fourteen
Across the street, two drunks throttled each other in the doorway of the Twelve Pins. Once the scene would have filled Frances with horror, but now she watched from her kitchen table, numb. She could call the police, but she only had a few pounds’ credit left on her mobile. BT had cut off her landline the week before.
It was freezing in her flat. Every time she approached the thermostat she pictured a
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