wedding.”
“Oh! Oh, dear. Is it, you know, the accident?”
“Yes, but not in the way you mean. It’s nothing physical. He just…won’t.” Lucy was crying quietly, the tears trickling down her wind-browned cheeks.
“Have you talked about it?”
“I’ve tried.”
“Perhaps with time—”
“It’s been almost four years!”
There was a pause. They began to walk on across the heather, into the weak afternoon sun. Jo chased gulls. Mother said, “I almost left your father, once.”
It was Lucy’s turn to be shocked. “When?”
“It was soon after Jane was born. We weren’t so well-off in those days, you know—Father was still working for his father, and there was a slump. I was expecting for the third time in three years, and it seemed that a life of having babies and making ends meet stretched out in front of me with nothing to relieve the monotony. Then I discovered he was seeing an old flame of his—Brenda Simmonds, you never knew her, she went to Basingstoke. SuddenlyI asked myself what I was doing it for, and I couldn’t think of a sensible answer.”
Lucy had dim, patchy memories of those days: her grandfather with a white moustache; her father in a more slender edition; extended family meals in the great farmhouse kitchen; a lot of laughter and sunshine and animals. Even then her parents’ marriage had seemed to represent solid contentment, happy permanence. She said, “Why didn’t you? Leave, I mean.”
“Oh, people just didn’t, in those days. There wasn’t all this divorce, and a woman couldn’t get a job.”
“Women work at all sorts of things now.”
“They did in the last war, but everything changed afterward with a bit of unemployment. I expect it will be the same this time. Men get their way, you know, generally speaking.”
“And you’re glad you stayed.” It was not a question.
“People my age shouldn’t make pronouncements about life. But my life has been a matter of making-do, and the same goes for most of the women I know. Steadfastness always looks like a sacrifice, but usually it isn’t. Anyway, I’m not going to give you advice. You wouldn’t take it, and if you did you’d blame your problems on me, I expect.”
“Oh, Mother.” Lucy smiled.
Mother said, “Shall we turn around? I think we’ve gone far enough for one day.”
IN THE KITCHEN one evening Lucy said to David, “I’d like Mother to stay another two weeks, if she will.” Mother was upstairs putting Jo to bed, telling him a story.
“Isn’t a fortnight long enough for you to dissect my personality?” David said.
“Don’t be silly, David.”
He wheeled himself over to her chair. “Are you telling me you don’t talk about me?”
“Of course we talk about you—you’re my husband.”
“What do you say to her?”
“Why are you so worried?” Lucy said, not without malice. “What are you so ashamed of?”
“Damn you, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. No one wants his personal life talked about by a pair of gossiping women—”
“We don’t gossip about you.”
“What do you say?”
“Aren’t you touchy!”
“Answer my question.”
“I say I want to leave you, and she tries to talk me out of it.”
He spun around and wheeled away. “Tell her not to bother for my sake.”
She called, “Do you mean that?”
He stopped. “I don’t need anybody, do you understand? I can manage alone.”
“And what about me?” she said quietly. “Perhaps I need somebody.”
“What for?”
“To love me.”
Mother came in, and sensed the atmosphere. “He’s fast asleep,” she said. “Dropped off before Cinderella got to the ball. I think I’ll pack a few things, not to leave it all until tomorrow.” She went out again.
“Do you think it will ever change, David?” Lucy asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Will we ever be…the way we were, before the wedding?”
“My legs won’t grow back, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, God, don’t
“Oh! Oh, dear. Is it, you know, the accident?”
“Yes, but not in the way you mean. It’s nothing physical. He just…won’t.” Lucy was crying quietly, the tears trickling down her wind-browned cheeks.
“Have you talked about it?”
“I’ve tried.”
“Perhaps with time—”
“It’s been almost four years!”
There was a pause. They began to walk on across the heather, into the weak afternoon sun. Jo chased gulls. Mother said, “I almost left your father, once.”
It was Lucy’s turn to be shocked. “When?”
“It was soon after Jane was born. We weren’t so well-off in those days, you know—Father was still working for his father, and there was a slump. I was expecting for the third time in three years, and it seemed that a life of having babies and making ends meet stretched out in front of me with nothing to relieve the monotony. Then I discovered he was seeing an old flame of his—Brenda Simmonds, you never knew her, she went to Basingstoke. SuddenlyI asked myself what I was doing it for, and I couldn’t think of a sensible answer.”
Lucy had dim, patchy memories of those days: her grandfather with a white moustache; her father in a more slender edition; extended family meals in the great farmhouse kitchen; a lot of laughter and sunshine and animals. Even then her parents’ marriage had seemed to represent solid contentment, happy permanence. She said, “Why didn’t you? Leave, I mean.”
“Oh, people just didn’t, in those days. There wasn’t all this divorce, and a woman couldn’t get a job.”
“Women work at all sorts of things now.”
“They did in the last war, but everything changed afterward with a bit of unemployment. I expect it will be the same this time. Men get their way, you know, generally speaking.”
“And you’re glad you stayed.” It was not a question.
“People my age shouldn’t make pronouncements about life. But my life has been a matter of making-do, and the same goes for most of the women I know. Steadfastness always looks like a sacrifice, but usually it isn’t. Anyway, I’m not going to give you advice. You wouldn’t take it, and if you did you’d blame your problems on me, I expect.”
“Oh, Mother.” Lucy smiled.
Mother said, “Shall we turn around? I think we’ve gone far enough for one day.”
IN THE KITCHEN one evening Lucy said to David, “I’d like Mother to stay another two weeks, if she will.” Mother was upstairs putting Jo to bed, telling him a story.
“Isn’t a fortnight long enough for you to dissect my personality?” David said.
“Don’t be silly, David.”
He wheeled himself over to her chair. “Are you telling me you don’t talk about me?”
“Of course we talk about you—you’re my husband.”
“What do you say to her?”
“Why are you so worried?” Lucy said, not without malice. “What are you so ashamed of?”
“Damn you, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. No one wants his personal life talked about by a pair of gossiping women—”
“We don’t gossip about you.”
“What do you say?”
“Aren’t you touchy!”
“Answer my question.”
“I say I want to leave you, and she tries to talk me out of it.”
He spun around and wheeled away. “Tell her not to bother for my sake.”
She called, “Do you mean that?”
He stopped. “I don’t need anybody, do you understand? I can manage alone.”
“And what about me?” she said quietly. “Perhaps I need somebody.”
“What for?”
“To love me.”
Mother came in, and sensed the atmosphere. “He’s fast asleep,” she said. “Dropped off before Cinderella got to the ball. I think I’ll pack a few things, not to leave it all until tomorrow.” She went out again.
“Do you think it will ever change, David?” Lucy asked.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Will we ever be…the way we were, before the wedding?”
“My legs won’t grow back, if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh, God, don’t
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