honest body, Millicent could confidently expect a probably very romantic and satisfactorily painful affair.
Anton stood upright, his head bent as he examined his fingernails. Martha discovered she was feeling uncomfortable—it was because she was standing naked in front of him. She did not belong to him! She pulled off her brassiére, her back to him, delighting in a quick glimpse of her shoulder, at the fine curves with the perfect crease and dimple between them. Hastily she tugged on a nightdress. She went quickly into the bathroom to clean her teeth. She was crawling with shame because of the stupid scene they had just enacted. At the same time her flesh was exulting because next day she would see Joss—damn it, he was going to leave soon. But how lucky Joss was, she thought, sensing all of herself, her whole delightful sweet-smelling person.
She could not go back to the bedroom yet. Anton would still be waiting for her to come back. Perhaps he was sitting on the edge of the bed reading that bit of newsprint about the women burying their dead babies in newspaper in the snow? Oh God, if he was, then there’d be no help for it, she would have to put her arms around him, comfort him…she simply would not go back to the bedroom yet.
After a great deal of splashing and drying and brushing ofher hair—for the second time that day it got the old-fashioned fifty strokes on each side—she went back to find Anton in bed, his bed-light off, his back to her.
She turned off her light. The room, in the dark, was not dark. It seemed that through the thin curtains, even through the walls, fell the cool brilliance of starlight, which shifted, lightened, darkened, as the clouds drove overhead. For a few minutes the insects maintained their circles around the dark focus of the light, then there was an interval of small uncoordinated bangings, slidings, fallings-away. The moth and insect noises stopped altogether. Martha knelt up in bed to look past the edges of the curtain at the dark pillars of the veranda. A black sky. Black trees, in pools of black shade. Ghostly white lilies in dark shade. Fragments of white gravel. Leaves turning and tossing under starlight in a rippling silver movement.
Tomorrow she would see Joss. No, it was Thomas she was going to see. From the sinking of her exultation she knew she would prefer Joss —safer , he would be. What on earth did she mean by that?—safer! There was no doubt the thought of Thomas confronted her uncomfortably, peremptorily. All right then, not Thomas. But somebody, and it would be soon.
Chapter Three
On the morning peace was celebrated (or, as Mrs Quest saw it in her mind’s eye), Victory Morning, she was up before six. In order, she told herself, to have plenty of time to get Mr Quest ready for the Victory Parade. But she had slept badly, waking confused, every muscle tensed and painful, and with an aching head. It was not until she had gone out into the exquisite morning to pick up the newspaper where it had been flung by the delivery boy on the veranda steps, that she remembered the dream which had woken her.
The sun on that May morning rose from wisps of rosy vapour and shone on Mrs Quest where she stood in her flowered cotton wrapper on her steps, in the middle of a garden shrill with bird song. She shivered, for while the great red ball was presumably pumping out heat on other parts of the world, here it was winter. The air, the sky, each leaf and flower, had a cool sharp clarity. The garden was steeped in cold. Frosty water gemmed the lawn. Dewdrops hung from the roses and from the jacaranda boughs until shaken free in bright showers by the birds who swooped from bird bath to branch, from shrub to lawn.
Mrs Quest noted with satisfaction that the newspaper confirmed her sense of what was right by stating it was VICTORY DAY in Europe, and the black print was six inches deep. She had dreamed, hadn’t she? Oh yes, and her head ached from it. It had been a terrible
Anton stood upright, his head bent as he examined his fingernails. Martha discovered she was feeling uncomfortable—it was because she was standing naked in front of him. She did not belong to him! She pulled off her brassiére, her back to him, delighting in a quick glimpse of her shoulder, at the fine curves with the perfect crease and dimple between them. Hastily she tugged on a nightdress. She went quickly into the bathroom to clean her teeth. She was crawling with shame because of the stupid scene they had just enacted. At the same time her flesh was exulting because next day she would see Joss—damn it, he was going to leave soon. But how lucky Joss was, she thought, sensing all of herself, her whole delightful sweet-smelling person.
She could not go back to the bedroom yet. Anton would still be waiting for her to come back. Perhaps he was sitting on the edge of the bed reading that bit of newsprint about the women burying their dead babies in newspaper in the snow? Oh God, if he was, then there’d be no help for it, she would have to put her arms around him, comfort him…she simply would not go back to the bedroom yet.
After a great deal of splashing and drying and brushing ofher hair—for the second time that day it got the old-fashioned fifty strokes on each side—she went back to find Anton in bed, his bed-light off, his back to her.
She turned off her light. The room, in the dark, was not dark. It seemed that through the thin curtains, even through the walls, fell the cool brilliance of starlight, which shifted, lightened, darkened, as the clouds drove overhead. For a few minutes the insects maintained their circles around the dark focus of the light, then there was an interval of small uncoordinated bangings, slidings, fallings-away. The moth and insect noises stopped altogether. Martha knelt up in bed to look past the edges of the curtain at the dark pillars of the veranda. A black sky. Black trees, in pools of black shade. Ghostly white lilies in dark shade. Fragments of white gravel. Leaves turning and tossing under starlight in a rippling silver movement.
Tomorrow she would see Joss. No, it was Thomas she was going to see. From the sinking of her exultation she knew she would prefer Joss —safer , he would be. What on earth did she mean by that?—safer! There was no doubt the thought of Thomas confronted her uncomfortably, peremptorily. All right then, not Thomas. But somebody, and it would be soon.
Chapter Three
On the morning peace was celebrated (or, as Mrs Quest saw it in her mind’s eye), Victory Morning, she was up before six. In order, she told herself, to have plenty of time to get Mr Quest ready for the Victory Parade. But she had slept badly, waking confused, every muscle tensed and painful, and with an aching head. It was not until she had gone out into the exquisite morning to pick up the newspaper where it had been flung by the delivery boy on the veranda steps, that she remembered the dream which had woken her.
The sun on that May morning rose from wisps of rosy vapour and shone on Mrs Quest where she stood in her flowered cotton wrapper on her steps, in the middle of a garden shrill with bird song. She shivered, for while the great red ball was presumably pumping out heat on other parts of the world, here it was winter. The air, the sky, each leaf and flower, had a cool sharp clarity. The garden was steeped in cold. Frosty water gemmed the lawn. Dewdrops hung from the roses and from the jacaranda boughs until shaken free in bright showers by the birds who swooped from bird bath to branch, from shrub to lawn.
Mrs Quest noted with satisfaction that the newspaper confirmed her sense of what was right by stating it was VICTORY DAY in Europe, and the black print was six inches deep. She had dreamed, hadn’t she? Oh yes, and her head ached from it. It had been a terrible
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