little. At length Aunt Caitlin had made him agree to allow her to employ a nurse for the child. The only nurse whom Anatole thought tolerable would not go to London, so in August Alice and Anatole left Finola at King’s Norton. Anatole went to see his daughter whenever he could afford it.
*
Kate walked up and down the platform at Dover station, holding her coat close round her body in an attempt to keep warm. She had waited an hour for the train already. Oh, for the hot fug of the trains which had taken her family, when she was a child, from Edinburgh to Ullapool every summer! Kate remembered the damp banana sandwiches which they had eaten on the train, the itching of her best summer clothes in which she had alway insisted upon travelling, and the brown of the moors in a dry summer, before the heather was in flower.
Kate went into the waiting room, where pre-war posters still advertised excursion trips, and where there was a tiny oilheater. She stood so close to it that she was in danger of burning her clothes, but it did little to warm her. She occupied herself with more warming memories.
Kate was thirty-three. She had been born Kate McQuillan. Her parents, a Scottish father and Jewish mother, had lived in a detached villa in an Edinburgh suburb. They had had one maid and six children, of whom Kate was the youngest. Her parents had believed in the higher education of women, but when Kate had failed to enter university they had suggested that she marry Arthur Jennings. Kate had never known their judgement to be unsound before.
When the train came in, Kate got into an icy-cold smoke-filled carriage. On the way up to London, she found that she could not avoid thinking about Bramham Gardens, about what Anatole had told her in his letters, which had begged her to leave France.
Everyone was up to greet her at Bramham Gardens, though it was two in the morning when she arrived. They had some food ready for her, and Kate ate it gratefully although she was very tired. She noticed that Anatole and Alice did not exchange a single word while she was eating. Alice’s face was yellow and drawn. She looked at least thirty. Her hair hung in greasy tails, and her nails were bitten to the quick. Her unwashed clothes stank of smoke.
‘Did you hear that Harry refused to do any war-work at all, and they put him in prison?’ Jenny was saying as she stood by Kate’s shaking elbow. ‘That’s why Christopher’s not here. He’s moved into rooms near Pentonville to feel close to Harry. Little advantage that must bring him, though, from one angle.’
‘That’s enough, Jenny,’ sighed Kate.
That night, Anatole slept in her bed for the first time in four years. He did not make love to her.
‘Won’t Alice have missed you?’ asked Kate in the morning, when he was getting dressed.
‘I haven’t slept with Alice since we came back from Caitlin’s,’ he replied. ‘And I haven’t made love to her for longer than that, because I couldn’t when she was pregnant. She tired of me the moment I married her, Kate. I have had two wives who have grown to hate the sight of me and haverejected my children. And as well, she is sleeping with Leo Shaffer at the moment — or she was a few weeks ago, anyway. She has found a better lover than me. She actually dared to say so! Do you know she once promised me that she would never let anyone hurt me again?’
‘Hate the sight of you, indeed! I never heard such nonsense. Last night she was looking at you like a lost dog, though she’s too proud to talk to you, of course, silly little fool.’
‘Whatever else she is, she is not a silly little fool, Kate.’
‘She was longing for you to forgive and accept her, Anatole, I’ll swear she was. I bet she’d have Finola back if you approached her right.’
‘I have cajoled and wept and flattered and threatened but it is always no, no, not until she is a year old. The excuse is that the child ought not to be entrusted to our haphazard care till
*
Kate walked up and down the platform at Dover station, holding her coat close round her body in an attempt to keep warm. She had waited an hour for the train already. Oh, for the hot fug of the trains which had taken her family, when she was a child, from Edinburgh to Ullapool every summer! Kate remembered the damp banana sandwiches which they had eaten on the train, the itching of her best summer clothes in which she had alway insisted upon travelling, and the brown of the moors in a dry summer, before the heather was in flower.
Kate went into the waiting room, where pre-war posters still advertised excursion trips, and where there was a tiny oilheater. She stood so close to it that she was in danger of burning her clothes, but it did little to warm her. She occupied herself with more warming memories.
Kate was thirty-three. She had been born Kate McQuillan. Her parents, a Scottish father and Jewish mother, had lived in a detached villa in an Edinburgh suburb. They had had one maid and six children, of whom Kate was the youngest. Her parents had believed in the higher education of women, but when Kate had failed to enter university they had suggested that she marry Arthur Jennings. Kate had never known their judgement to be unsound before.
When the train came in, Kate got into an icy-cold smoke-filled carriage. On the way up to London, she found that she could not avoid thinking about Bramham Gardens, about what Anatole had told her in his letters, which had begged her to leave France.
Everyone was up to greet her at Bramham Gardens, though it was two in the morning when she arrived. They had some food ready for her, and Kate ate it gratefully although she was very tired. She noticed that Anatole and Alice did not exchange a single word while she was eating. Alice’s face was yellow and drawn. She looked at least thirty. Her hair hung in greasy tails, and her nails were bitten to the quick. Her unwashed clothes stank of smoke.
‘Did you hear that Harry refused to do any war-work at all, and they put him in prison?’ Jenny was saying as she stood by Kate’s shaking elbow. ‘That’s why Christopher’s not here. He’s moved into rooms near Pentonville to feel close to Harry. Little advantage that must bring him, though, from one angle.’
‘That’s enough, Jenny,’ sighed Kate.
That night, Anatole slept in her bed for the first time in four years. He did not make love to her.
‘Won’t Alice have missed you?’ asked Kate in the morning, when he was getting dressed.
‘I haven’t slept with Alice since we came back from Caitlin’s,’ he replied. ‘And I haven’t made love to her for longer than that, because I couldn’t when she was pregnant. She tired of me the moment I married her, Kate. I have had two wives who have grown to hate the sight of me and haverejected my children. And as well, she is sleeping with Leo Shaffer at the moment — or she was a few weeks ago, anyway. She has found a better lover than me. She actually dared to say so! Do you know she once promised me that she would never let anyone hurt me again?’
‘Hate the sight of you, indeed! I never heard such nonsense. Last night she was looking at you like a lost dog, though she’s too proud to talk to you, of course, silly little fool.’
‘Whatever else she is, she is not a silly little fool, Kate.’
‘She was longing for you to forgive and accept her, Anatole, I’ll swear she was. I bet she’d have Finola back if you approached her right.’
‘I have cajoled and wept and flattered and threatened but it is always no, no, not until she is a year old. The excuse is that the child ought not to be entrusted to our haphazard care till
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