Home Truths by Mavis Gallant Page B

as Roy thought, either. There was a world of knowledge between last night and what had gone before. She wondered, already, if violent feelings were going to define the rest of her life, or simply limit it. Roy gathered her long hair in his hand and turned her head around. They’d had other nights, or attempts at nights, but this was their first morning. Whatever he read on her face made him say, “You know, it won’t always be as lovely as this.” She nodded. Professor Downcast had a wife and children, and she was used to fair warnings. Roy could not guess how sturdy her emotions were. Her only antagonist had been her father, who had not touched her self-confidence.She accepted Roy’s caution as a tribute:
he
, at least, could see that Sarah was objective.
    Roy rang the doorbell, which set off a gunburst of barking. The Reeves’ hall smelled of toast, carpets, and insect spray. She wanted southern houses to smell of jasmine. “Here, Roy,” someone called, and Roy led her by the hand into a small sitting room where two people, an old man and an old woman, sat in armchairs eating breakfast. The man removed a tray from his knees and stood up. He was gaunt and tall, and looked oddly starched, like a nurse coming on duty. “Jack Sprat could eat no fat” came to Sarah’s mind. Mrs. Reeve was – she supposed – obese. Sarah stared at her; she did not know how to be furtive. Was the poor woman ill?
No
, answered the judge who was part of Sarah too.
Mrs. Reeve is just greedy. Look at the jam she’s shovelled on her plate
.
    “Well, this is Sarah Holmes,” said Roy, stroking her hair, as if he was proving at the outset there was to be no hypocrisy. “We’d adore coffee.”
    “You’d better do something about it, then,” said the fat woman. “We’ve got tea here. You know where the kitchen is, Roy.” She had a deep voice, like a moo. “You, Sarah Holmes, sit down. Find a pew with no dog hair, if you can. Of course, if you’re going to be fussy, you won’t last long around
here
– eh, boys? You can make toast if you like. No, never mind. I’ll make it for you.”
    It seemed to Sarah a pretty casual way for people their age to behave. Roy was older by a long start, but the Reeves were old. They seemed to find it natural to have Roy and Sarah drift over for breakfast after a night in the guesthouse. Mr. Reeve even asked quite kindly, “Did you sleep well? The plane tree draws mosquitoes, I’m afraid.”
    “I’ll have that tree down yet,” said Mrs. Reeve. “Oh, I’ll have it down one of these days. I can promise you that.” She was dressed in a bathrobe that looked like a dark parachute. “We decided not to have eggs,” she said, as though Sarah had asked. “Have ’em later. You and Roy must come back for lunch. We’ll have a good old fry-up.” Here she attended to toast, which meant shaking and tapping an antique wire toaster set on the table before her. “When Tim’s gone – bless him – I shall never cook a meal again,” she said. “Just bits and pieces on a tray for the boys and me.” The boys were dogs, Sarah guessed – two little yappers up on the sofa, the color of Teddy-bear stuffing.
    “I make a lot of work for Meg,” Mr. Reeve said to Sarah. “The breakfasts – breakfast every day, you know – and she is the one who looks after the Christmas cards. Marriage has been a bind for her. She did a marvellous job with evacuees in the war. And poor old Meg loathed kids, still does. You’ll never hear her say so. I’ve never known Meg to complain.”
    Mrs. Reeve had not waited for her husband to die before starting her widow’s diet of tea and toast and jam and gin (the bottle was there, by the toaster, along with a can of orange juice). Sarah knew about this, for not only was her father a widower but they had often spent summers with a widowed aunt. The Reeves seemed like her father and her aunt grown elderly and distorted. Mrs. Reeve now unwrapped a chocolate bar, which caused a