with the bread to economize the butter ration. Beatrice did not like margarine.
There was three-quarters of a pint of milk in the refrigerator. He poured himself out a cup, then realized that there would not be enough left for coffee for breakfast. Beatrice preferred coffee to tea. He poured the milk back into the bottle, and replaced it in the refrigerator, and quenched his thirst with water.
It made him feel like a man apologizing for stepping upon the toe of an individual into whose back he was shortly to plunge a stiletto.
Bartels went into the drawing room, and stood by the embers of the fire which Beatrice had made up for him. He looked around the room, noting objects which linked him to the past.
There was the picture of the Seine which he and Beatrice had bought in Paris while on their honeymoon, upon which, indeed, they had spent more money than they could afford. There was the set of porcelain horses Beatrice had bought while visiting a friend in Belgium. And the Victorian silver picture frame, holding a picture of Beatrice as a girl: the first thing they ever bought for their home.
He looked at these things, trying to resurrect from the ashes of his emotions some tiny flicker of sentiment. But there was nothing left; it was all dead, grey, unstirring, and without warmth. He saw only a painting, some china objects, and a frame with a good-looking girl in it.
He threw the remains of his cigarette into the grate and began to undress in the drawing room, as he always did when he was late, in order not to disturb Beatrice. He went into the bedroom in his shirt and underpants, and quietly slipped them off and put on his pyjamas.
Beatrice had left the gas-fire burning, half turned up, and he turned it up higher and stood by it, warming his hands and feet.
By the light of the fire, he could make out the two twin beds, side by side. Beatrice was asleep, lying on her back, one arm above her head, as though she had found the room and the bedclothes too hot. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he saw something white on the small table by his bedside, and moved silently across to see what it was.
It was a mince pie. Under the mince pie was an envelope addressed to him in Beatrice’s handwriting. On the envelope she had written: “Eat the pie, and read the letter.”
Bartels ate the pie. It was freshly made and crumbly. He knelt by the fire and opened the letter. The slight noise caused Beatrice to stir. She murmured his name sleepily.
“I’m back,” he replied softly.
She said something he could not catch, and turned over on her side and fell asleep again. He opened out the letter and read:
Darling Barty,
The beginning of the year is the time for other new beginnings. I know I have often been other than that which you wanted in your heart, though you have never said so. But I have done my best for you, darling. I will try to be better still. You have made me very happy over the years, and I want you to know how I appreciate it. I’ve made some more pies. Hope you liked this one!
Your own Beatrice.
He folded the letter and put it back in its envelope, and placed the envelope on the mantelpiece. He thought: Tomorrow evening I must go out. I can’t stay at home. If I stay at home I shall weaken. I must make some kind of excuse. I must get out tomorrow evening.
He turned the fire out and climbed into bed, and drew the sheets up to his chin and lay staring into the darkness. All his movements had been slow and noiseless, but the slight creak of the bed disturbed Beatrice.
She thrust her hand through the bedclothes, and out of her bed, and fumbled for Bartels’ hand. She found, not his hand, but his forearm, which seemed to be sufficient, for she sighed, as if with content, and dropped off to sleep again.
Bartels lay still, rigid, as the old turmoil of fear and pain and confusion gripped his stomach, and spread up his body to his throat. Then the pain and the fears dispersed, and only the
There was three-quarters of a pint of milk in the refrigerator. He poured himself out a cup, then realized that there would not be enough left for coffee for breakfast. Beatrice preferred coffee to tea. He poured the milk back into the bottle, and replaced it in the refrigerator, and quenched his thirst with water.
It made him feel like a man apologizing for stepping upon the toe of an individual into whose back he was shortly to plunge a stiletto.
Bartels went into the drawing room, and stood by the embers of the fire which Beatrice had made up for him. He looked around the room, noting objects which linked him to the past.
There was the picture of the Seine which he and Beatrice had bought in Paris while on their honeymoon, upon which, indeed, they had spent more money than they could afford. There was the set of porcelain horses Beatrice had bought while visiting a friend in Belgium. And the Victorian silver picture frame, holding a picture of Beatrice as a girl: the first thing they ever bought for their home.
He looked at these things, trying to resurrect from the ashes of his emotions some tiny flicker of sentiment. But there was nothing left; it was all dead, grey, unstirring, and without warmth. He saw only a painting, some china objects, and a frame with a good-looking girl in it.
He threw the remains of his cigarette into the grate and began to undress in the drawing room, as he always did when he was late, in order not to disturb Beatrice. He went into the bedroom in his shirt and underpants, and quietly slipped them off and put on his pyjamas.
Beatrice had left the gas-fire burning, half turned up, and he turned it up higher and stood by it, warming his hands and feet.
By the light of the fire, he could make out the two twin beds, side by side. Beatrice was asleep, lying on her back, one arm above her head, as though she had found the room and the bedclothes too hot. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he saw something white on the small table by his bedside, and moved silently across to see what it was.
It was a mince pie. Under the mince pie was an envelope addressed to him in Beatrice’s handwriting. On the envelope she had written: “Eat the pie, and read the letter.”
Bartels ate the pie. It was freshly made and crumbly. He knelt by the fire and opened the letter. The slight noise caused Beatrice to stir. She murmured his name sleepily.
“I’m back,” he replied softly.
She said something he could not catch, and turned over on her side and fell asleep again. He opened out the letter and read:
Darling Barty,
The beginning of the year is the time for other new beginnings. I know I have often been other than that which you wanted in your heart, though you have never said so. But I have done my best for you, darling. I will try to be better still. You have made me very happy over the years, and I want you to know how I appreciate it. I’ve made some more pies. Hope you liked this one!
Your own Beatrice.
He folded the letter and put it back in its envelope, and placed the envelope on the mantelpiece. He thought: Tomorrow evening I must go out. I can’t stay at home. If I stay at home I shall weaken. I must make some kind of excuse. I must get out tomorrow evening.
He turned the fire out and climbed into bed, and drew the sheets up to his chin and lay staring into the darkness. All his movements had been slow and noiseless, but the slight creak of the bed disturbed Beatrice.
She thrust her hand through the bedclothes, and out of her bed, and fumbled for Bartels’ hand. She found, not his hand, but his forearm, which seemed to be sufficient, for she sighed, as if with content, and dropped off to sleep again.
Bartels lay still, rigid, as the old turmoil of fear and pain and confusion gripped his stomach, and spread up his body to his throat. Then the pain and the fears dispersed, and only the
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