expensive seats, at 12 shillings each. He refused to allow me to pay for mine. The recital began at half-past. Moiseiwitsch played divinely. I have never heard Chopin played with such feeling. The Prelude in A-flat major was particularly moving. I distinctly saw Major Serridge touch his eyes with his handkerchief.
When it was over we stood for a moment outside the hall. It was a dank, foggy evening but I felt as if I was floating on air. He said, "After music like that, we should by rights have moonlight and roses." The more I get to know him, the more I realize how sensitive he is. I was quite happy to catch a bus home but this time he positively insisted on hailing a taxi. At the Rushmere, he took me up to the door and thanked me for a wonderful evening. As we said goodnight, I fancy he gave my hand a little extra pressure.
This morning, imagine my surprise when I found an envelope waiting at my breakfast table. A Valentine!! A day early, but never mind! Of course I don't know who it was from, but I can't help wondering.
Who else could it be?
On Saturday afternoon, Mr. Howlett came to Bleeding Heart Square with a young assistant, a hungry-looking man who stared at Lydia as though he would have liked to devour her. Mr. Serridge had arranged for them to move the furniture from the cellar into Mr. Wentwood's flat.
Mr. Howlett was out of uniform. His brown canvas coat deflated him and made him ordinary. Nipper followed the men into the house. He sniffed Lydia's ankles and would only leave her alone when Mr. Howlett kicked him aside. Afterward, he tried to make friends with Mrs. Renton but she pushed him away.
"I don't like dogs," she said. "Stupid animals. Watch he doesn't bring mud in the house or scratch the paint."
Howlett and his assistant tramped up and down the stairs between the cellar and the attic flat. Nipper followed them from floor to floor, his claws scratching and rattling on the linoleum and the bare boards.
The furniture was old, dark and heavy. The men swore at the weight of it. They rammed a chest of drawers against the newel post on the first-floor landing and left a dent in the wood nearly half an inch deep. It was quite good furniture too, Lydia noticed, old-fashioned and gloomy but rather better than the pieces in her father's flat. Perhaps it was a sign that Mr. Serridge valued Mr. Wentwood more than Captain Ingleby-Lewis.
Mr. Serridge supervised the work. Pipe in mouth, he wandered from attic to cellar. Lydia, as she passed to and fro between the kitchen, her bedroom and the sitting room, found him staring at her on several occasions. It was unsettling, but not in the usual way when men stared at her. It seemed to her that there was nothing lustful in his face, at most a look of curiosity and concentration, as if he were trying to work out a mathematical problem in his head.
Once or twice, he nodded to her and said, "All serene, Mrs. Langstone?"
Later that day, a smell of liver and onions spread through the hall and up the stairs.
"That smells good," Howlett said to Mrs. Renton as he came down the stairs for the last time with the dog at his heels. "I wish I had that waiting at home for my tea."
"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride," Mrs. Renton said. "Good evening, Mr. Howlett."
He grunted. The front door banged behind him, the hungry-looking assistant and Nipper. Mrs. Renton glanced at Lydia, who was coming downstairs with the rubbish.
"Anyway," she said in a confidential whisper, "it's not liver I'm cooking. It's Mr. Serridge's heart. Shame to waste it."
Lydia disliked Sundays. She did not believe in God but she had endured for most of her life the necessity of paying her respects to him at least once a week. The Langstones, of course, were churchgoers. When they were in Gloucestershire, they attended church with the same unthinking regularity with which they voted Conservative or complained about their servants. Marcus's mother said the Langstones were obliged to set an
When it was over we stood for a moment outside the hall. It was a dank, foggy evening but I felt as if I was floating on air. He said, "After music like that, we should by rights have moonlight and roses." The more I get to know him, the more I realize how sensitive he is. I was quite happy to catch a bus home but this time he positively insisted on hailing a taxi. At the Rushmere, he took me up to the door and thanked me for a wonderful evening. As we said goodnight, I fancy he gave my hand a little extra pressure.
This morning, imagine my surprise when I found an envelope waiting at my breakfast table. A Valentine!! A day early, but never mind! Of course I don't know who it was from, but I can't help wondering.
Who else could it be?
On Saturday afternoon, Mr. Howlett came to Bleeding Heart Square with a young assistant, a hungry-looking man who stared at Lydia as though he would have liked to devour her. Mr. Serridge had arranged for them to move the furniture from the cellar into Mr. Wentwood's flat.
Mr. Howlett was out of uniform. His brown canvas coat deflated him and made him ordinary. Nipper followed the men into the house. He sniffed Lydia's ankles and would only leave her alone when Mr. Howlett kicked him aside. Afterward, he tried to make friends with Mrs. Renton but she pushed him away.
"I don't like dogs," she said. "Stupid animals. Watch he doesn't bring mud in the house or scratch the paint."
Howlett and his assistant tramped up and down the stairs between the cellar and the attic flat. Nipper followed them from floor to floor, his claws scratching and rattling on the linoleum and the bare boards.
The furniture was old, dark and heavy. The men swore at the weight of it. They rammed a chest of drawers against the newel post on the first-floor landing and left a dent in the wood nearly half an inch deep. It was quite good furniture too, Lydia noticed, old-fashioned and gloomy but rather better than the pieces in her father's flat. Perhaps it was a sign that Mr. Serridge valued Mr. Wentwood more than Captain Ingleby-Lewis.
Mr. Serridge supervised the work. Pipe in mouth, he wandered from attic to cellar. Lydia, as she passed to and fro between the kitchen, her bedroom and the sitting room, found him staring at her on several occasions. It was unsettling, but not in the usual way when men stared at her. It seemed to her that there was nothing lustful in his face, at most a look of curiosity and concentration, as if he were trying to work out a mathematical problem in his head.
Once or twice, he nodded to her and said, "All serene, Mrs. Langstone?"
Later that day, a smell of liver and onions spread through the hall and up the stairs.
"That smells good," Howlett said to Mrs. Renton as he came down the stairs for the last time with the dog at his heels. "I wish I had that waiting at home for my tea."
"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride," Mrs. Renton said. "Good evening, Mr. Howlett."
He grunted. The front door banged behind him, the hungry-looking assistant and Nipper. Mrs. Renton glanced at Lydia, who was coming downstairs with the rubbish.
"Anyway," she said in a confidential whisper, "it's not liver I'm cooking. It's Mr. Serridge's heart. Shame to waste it."
Lydia disliked Sundays. She did not believe in God but she had endured for most of her life the necessity of paying her respects to him at least once a week. The Langstones, of course, were churchgoers. When they were in Gloucestershire, they attended church with the same unthinking regularity with which they voted Conservative or complained about their servants. Marcus's mother said the Langstones were obliged to set an
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