letting in the summer air.
‘Is the water hot? Will you scrub my back?’ Margaret turned towards the bathroom.
‘It is always hot. You must scrub your own back. I am busy.’
‘How cruel you are.’ Margaret spoke without feeling; she habitually called Pilar cruel. ‘You did not answer me about James Martineau’s love or not love.’
‘I do not know,’ said Pilar.
‘Of course you don’t. How could a peasant like you know about love?’
Used to Margaret, Pilar said, ‘I leave you to bath,’ but she chuckled as she descended the stairs.
At the foot of the stairs she stopped. Antonia and Barbara were approaching. They appeared to have picked every flower in the garden. Pilar marvelled at their greed. So they would help themselves to life, she thought with sudden fury, and it was not she, Pilar, who knew nothing about love but these innocents. In the darkness of the hall, Pilar remembered the intensity of her love for her young husband and was shaken with hopeless desire for his long dead body.
Antonia and Barbara passed, chattering, into the pantry where she could hear their high young voices consulting as to which vase to use for which flowers.
‘This for my high arrangement.’ Antonia sounded confident.
‘And this, I think, for your great-aunt’s cache-mari. What else did she teach you? What other invaluable tips?’ asked Barbara.
‘One tip I remember, and looking at some of my cousins I wonder sometimes whether she—’
‘She what?’
‘Whether she acted on it.’ Antonia giggled. ‘It must be wonderful to have that sort of assurance.’
‘Explain,’ said Barbara.
‘My great-aunt,’ said Antonia, ‘told me that people who lived on her social echelon had lovers when they were married, and that sometimes their children were not their husband’s.’
Barbara said, ‘No birth control, of course. Goodness!’ She pursed her mouth.
‘Apparently,’ said Antonia, ‘they made sure the eldest was the husband’s, but after that it didn’t matter so much.’
‘Sounds relaxed,’ said Barbara. ‘Pass me the scissors so that I can snip these stalks.’
In Catalonia, thought Pilar, women would get themselves murdered for such behaviour whereas here in England, if Henry’s father had known that she had steamed open the letter before posting it, he would never have forgiven her. On her way back to the kitchen Pilar hoped that in heaven, where he surely resided, Henry’s father did not know. Nor would he know, she thought inconsolably, that she here on earth could not forgive herself for posting it.
ELEVEN
T HE GIRLS CARRIED THEIR arrangements to the tables in the garden. Ebro spread starched white cloths so that they could set the flowers in place; he exclaimed in praise at their efforts and then began unpacking glasses from a basket and setting them on the bar. Preceded by damp, soap-smelling dogs, Henry came round the side of the house; he was laughing. ‘Trask has set his heart on dressing up as a butler,’ he said to Ebro.
‘Me too. We shall make a pretty pair.’ Ebro joined in the merriment. ‘We are pandering to Margaret’s desire for servants.’
Henry said, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I can’t stop you.’
Ebro said, ‘He deserves a reward for bathing the dogs, my mother insisted.’ Then he said to Barbara, ‘Is not my English impeccable?’ He swept her a bow.
Henry said, ‘Oh I say! The flowers, lovely. Will they topple over?’
Antonia said, ‘Of course not.’
Ebro said, ‘Drop some stones in the vase to weight it.’
Barbara said, ‘This is my effort, this, on the dining table. I hope you like it? I kept it low so that none of our views of each other are impeded.’
Henry said, ‘Wonderful, all these yellow roses, very very pretty,’ and made a resolution to impound the secateurs. Then he said, ‘Thank you both for all your trouble.’ Looking kindly at their upturned faces, he said, ‘What about that dress? Shall I show it to you?
‘Is the water hot? Will you scrub my back?’ Margaret turned towards the bathroom.
‘It is always hot. You must scrub your own back. I am busy.’
‘How cruel you are.’ Margaret spoke without feeling; she habitually called Pilar cruel. ‘You did not answer me about James Martineau’s love or not love.’
‘I do not know,’ said Pilar.
‘Of course you don’t. How could a peasant like you know about love?’
Used to Margaret, Pilar said, ‘I leave you to bath,’ but she chuckled as she descended the stairs.
At the foot of the stairs she stopped. Antonia and Barbara were approaching. They appeared to have picked every flower in the garden. Pilar marvelled at their greed. So they would help themselves to life, she thought with sudden fury, and it was not she, Pilar, who knew nothing about love but these innocents. In the darkness of the hall, Pilar remembered the intensity of her love for her young husband and was shaken with hopeless desire for his long dead body.
Antonia and Barbara passed, chattering, into the pantry where she could hear their high young voices consulting as to which vase to use for which flowers.
‘This for my high arrangement.’ Antonia sounded confident.
‘And this, I think, for your great-aunt’s cache-mari. What else did she teach you? What other invaluable tips?’ asked Barbara.
‘One tip I remember, and looking at some of my cousins I wonder sometimes whether she—’
‘She what?’
‘Whether she acted on it.’ Antonia giggled. ‘It must be wonderful to have that sort of assurance.’
‘Explain,’ said Barbara.
‘My great-aunt,’ said Antonia, ‘told me that people who lived on her social echelon had lovers when they were married, and that sometimes their children were not their husband’s.’
Barbara said, ‘No birth control, of course. Goodness!’ She pursed her mouth.
‘Apparently,’ said Antonia, ‘they made sure the eldest was the husband’s, but after that it didn’t matter so much.’
‘Sounds relaxed,’ said Barbara. ‘Pass me the scissors so that I can snip these stalks.’
In Catalonia, thought Pilar, women would get themselves murdered for such behaviour whereas here in England, if Henry’s father had known that she had steamed open the letter before posting it, he would never have forgiven her. On her way back to the kitchen Pilar hoped that in heaven, where he surely resided, Henry’s father did not know. Nor would he know, she thought inconsolably, that she here on earth could not forgive herself for posting it.
ELEVEN
T HE GIRLS CARRIED THEIR arrangements to the tables in the garden. Ebro spread starched white cloths so that they could set the flowers in place; he exclaimed in praise at their efforts and then began unpacking glasses from a basket and setting them on the bar. Preceded by damp, soap-smelling dogs, Henry came round the side of the house; he was laughing. ‘Trask has set his heart on dressing up as a butler,’ he said to Ebro.
‘Me too. We shall make a pretty pair.’ Ebro joined in the merriment. ‘We are pandering to Margaret’s desire for servants.’
Henry said, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, but I can’t stop you.’
Ebro said, ‘He deserves a reward for bathing the dogs, my mother insisted.’ Then he said to Barbara, ‘Is not my English impeccable?’ He swept her a bow.
Henry said, ‘Oh I say! The flowers, lovely. Will they topple over?’
Antonia said, ‘Of course not.’
Ebro said, ‘Drop some stones in the vase to weight it.’
Barbara said, ‘This is my effort, this, on the dining table. I hope you like it? I kept it low so that none of our views of each other are impeded.’
Henry said, ‘Wonderful, all these yellow roses, very very pretty,’ and made a resolution to impound the secateurs. Then he said, ‘Thank you both for all your trouble.’ Looking kindly at their upturned faces, he said, ‘What about that dress? Shall I show it to you?
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