world.’ With tender condescension they recalled the nineteen-twenties and the gay and gentle girlishness of their natures then.
Muriel began to feel energy and optimism, as the holidays and the wedding grew nearer. She worked to bring to life one imagined scene, the beginning of peace for her; foresaw Hester and Hugh going down the steps to the car – ‘She was married from my house,’ she would tell people.
‘She was like a daughter to me’ – and when the car had gone (for ever, for ever) down the drive, she and Robert would turn and go up the confetti-littered steps to begin their new – or, rather, their
old
– life, together and alone.
She worked on the wedding and discussed it incessantly. ‘Suppose it rains!’ Robert said abruptly one night. Muriel was sitting up in bed while he undressed. She was brushing her hair and at his words parted it from her face, looked up at him in perplexity. ‘Are you angry about it, then?’
‘Angry? I only said “Suppose it rains!”’
‘You sounded so sarcastic.’
He got into bed and closed his eyes at once. Smoothing her hair back, she dropped the brush to the floor and put out the light. ‘You do love me, Robert?’ she asked in her meekest voice.
‘Yes, dear.’
‘You aren’t still angry with me about Hester? It has turned out well in the end for her.’
‘I hope so.’
‘He will be very good to her, I am quite sure.’
‘Yes, I am sure, too. Good-night, Muriel.’
‘Good-night, Robert.’
He turned over and seemed to fall asleep: yet she doubted if he did so, and lay and listened for a long while to his regular, unbroken breathing. Once, to test him, she touched him gently with the back of her hand, but he did not turn to her as years ago he would have done. ‘I cannot make him come to me,’ she thought in a panic. ‘I cannot get my own way.’ She became wide awake with a longing for him to make love to her; to prove his need for her; so that she could claim his attention; and so dominatehim; but at last wished only to contend with her own desires, unusual and humiliating as they were to her. She lay close to him and masked her shame with a pretence of sleep. When he did not, would not, stir, her tenderness hardened to resentment. She raised herself and looked down at him. His profile was stern; his hair ruffled; he breathed steadily. ‘He cannot be asleep,’ she thought, as she bent over him, put her cheek to his brow, no longer dissembling or hiding her desire.
His stillness defeated her and after a while, hollowed and exhausted by her experience, she turned away and lay down on her side, listening to her thunderous heart-beat, feeling giddy. ‘If I could be young again!’ she thought. ‘If I could be young!’
Two thrushes were singing in the garden before she fell asleep. The night had dishevelled her, her hair was tangled on the creased pillow, her body damp in the hot bed. But in her dreams, a less disordered Muriel took command. She dreamed that she was making Hester’s wedding cake – white and glistering it rose before her, a sacrificial cake, pagoda-shaped in tier on tier, with arcades of sugar pillars, garlanded friezes. Delicate as hoar-rimed ferns she made the fronded wreaths of flowers and leaves. It blossomed as she worked her magic on it with the splendid virtuosity of dreams. ‘Yes, that is how it will be!’ she thought. ‘And no one must ever touch it or break it.’ She had surprised herself with her own skill, and, standing back to view her work, felt assuaged, triumphant, but bereft, too, as artists are when their work is done and gone for good.
‘Taking Mother Out’
‘Give the credit where it is due,’ Mrs Crouch said, smiling at her son.
We had, of course, been marvelling at her youthfulness. Every gesture she made, even the most simple, seemed calculated to defy old age. She constantly drew our attention to her eighty years, referred to herself as an old fogey; insisted on this when we were obliged
Muriel began to feel energy and optimism, as the holidays and the wedding grew nearer. She worked to bring to life one imagined scene, the beginning of peace for her; foresaw Hester and Hugh going down the steps to the car – ‘She was married from my house,’ she would tell people.
‘She was like a daughter to me’ – and when the car had gone (for ever, for ever) down the drive, she and Robert would turn and go up the confetti-littered steps to begin their new – or, rather, their
old
– life, together and alone.
She worked on the wedding and discussed it incessantly. ‘Suppose it rains!’ Robert said abruptly one night. Muriel was sitting up in bed while he undressed. She was brushing her hair and at his words parted it from her face, looked up at him in perplexity. ‘Are you angry about it, then?’
‘Angry? I only said “Suppose it rains!”’
‘You sounded so sarcastic.’
He got into bed and closed his eyes at once. Smoothing her hair back, she dropped the brush to the floor and put out the light. ‘You do love me, Robert?’ she asked in her meekest voice.
‘Yes, dear.’
‘You aren’t still angry with me about Hester? It has turned out well in the end for her.’
‘I hope so.’
‘He will be very good to her, I am quite sure.’
‘Yes, I am sure, too. Good-night, Muriel.’
‘Good-night, Robert.’
He turned over and seemed to fall asleep: yet she doubted if he did so, and lay and listened for a long while to his regular, unbroken breathing. Once, to test him, she touched him gently with the back of her hand, but he did not turn to her as years ago he would have done. ‘I cannot make him come to me,’ she thought in a panic. ‘I cannot get my own way.’ She became wide awake with a longing for him to make love to her; to prove his need for her; so that she could claim his attention; and so dominatehim; but at last wished only to contend with her own desires, unusual and humiliating as they were to her. She lay close to him and masked her shame with a pretence of sleep. When he did not, would not, stir, her tenderness hardened to resentment. She raised herself and looked down at him. His profile was stern; his hair ruffled; he breathed steadily. ‘He cannot be asleep,’ she thought, as she bent over him, put her cheek to his brow, no longer dissembling or hiding her desire.
His stillness defeated her and after a while, hollowed and exhausted by her experience, she turned away and lay down on her side, listening to her thunderous heart-beat, feeling giddy. ‘If I could be young again!’ she thought. ‘If I could be young!’
Two thrushes were singing in the garden before she fell asleep. The night had dishevelled her, her hair was tangled on the creased pillow, her body damp in the hot bed. But in her dreams, a less disordered Muriel took command. She dreamed that she was making Hester’s wedding cake – white and glistering it rose before her, a sacrificial cake, pagoda-shaped in tier on tier, with arcades of sugar pillars, garlanded friezes. Delicate as hoar-rimed ferns she made the fronded wreaths of flowers and leaves. It blossomed as she worked her magic on it with the splendid virtuosity of dreams. ‘Yes, that is how it will be!’ she thought. ‘And no one must ever touch it or break it.’ She had surprised herself with her own skill, and, standing back to view her work, felt assuaged, triumphant, but bereft, too, as artists are when their work is done and gone for good.
‘Taking Mother Out’
‘Give the credit where it is due,’ Mrs Crouch said, smiling at her son.
We had, of course, been marvelling at her youthfulness. Every gesture she made, even the most simple, seemed calculated to defy old age. She constantly drew our attention to her eighty years, referred to herself as an old fogey; insisted on this when we were obliged
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