back again, a little tap so that he moved forward. She laid down her own plate and sat down. As she did so, Murray caught in her glance at Irene a shadow of confusion. It was like a premonition of the slackening and bewilderment of the mind which comes with senility. Despite her age, the possibility of such a thing for her had never occurred to him until that exact moment. 'I waited a long time for that piano,' she said inconsequentially.
It was Irene who responded. 'When did you buy it?' she asked. There was a silence which went on too long and then lengthened again as not one of them was quick-witted enough to fill it with an answer.
'Was it after Malcolm's father died?' she wondered pleasantly. 'Yes, after,' the old lady said.
'Perhaps he wasn't fond of music?'
'None of us play the piano,' Murray heard himself say. 'What does it matter?'
'I wanted it for Malcolm,' Mother said.
'But when I got old enough to learn, I hated the lessons,' Malcolm said. Unexpectedly he smiled, as if the memory had put him into a better humour.
They talked then about other things. As Murray ate, he kept looking at his sister-in-law and glancing away. He would have been ashamed to have it seem he was envious of his brother. She had dark hair that shone; she must be very healthy, only the hair of the well and the young glistened like that; he wondered what it would feel like under his hand. He could hardly believe that she was sitting opposite him, or in her reason for being there. She was married to his brother, who had met her in London, where she had been a secretary, something like that. Malcolm had gone on holiday and had come back with her; then they were married. Her mother and father were dead. She had no relatives. It had not been convenient for any of her friends to come up for the wedding. He realised with a kind of shock that he knew nothing of her background, and yet it was his daily business to find out such things about strangers. Malcolm would know, he supposed . It did not seem possible that people could fall in love and marry without offering each other the past to share; yet he was not sure. He found that he was looking at her breasts, and when he raised his eyes she was smiling.
As Mother got up to fetch the next course, little bowls of sweet pudding, Irene said, 'Of course, Polly Nicholls – that was the name. I've been sitting trying to remember.'
'Let it rest,' Malcolm said.
'Something in Billy's column yesterday,' Murray guessed. 'The one Mother and I haven't read.'
'Clever.' Irene held out her hand to him across the table as if inviting him to touch her.
'Polly Nicholls . ..' It wasn't difficult to take the next step. 'The Ripper's first victim.'
'In Whitechapel a hundred years ago. A prostitute,' she said. 'And not glamorous at all. She was a tiny woman, and five of her front teeth had been knocked out in a fight. When they make a film of it, the women don't look anything like that.'
'I don't understand,' Mother said. 'A film of what?'
'About Jack the Ripper,' Irene cried, her eyes sparkling. 'With fog and hansom cabs and beautiful young actresses arranged under the street lights, just pretending . In real life, Polly Nicholls had been thrown out of her doss-house because she didn't have four pence for a bed. She hadn't eaten all day before she was killed . '
'This week Billy Shanks didn't make me laugh,' Malcolm said sourly, with a side glance at Murray as if in some obscure way the fault was his.
'Billy Shanks,' his wife ignored the interruption, 'describes how he walked down this lane and saw the body of the man spread out on the ground and the doctor examining it. He makes you see it all. It's what reality is like, he says.'
'Billy saw all of that . ..' Murray shook his head. 'I wish now I'd read it.'
'Prostitutes and murder! There must be something better to talk about than filth like that.' Malcolm made a movement of disgust . The yellow under his tan made him look ill.
As he turned his head, his
It was Irene who responded. 'When did you buy it?' she asked. There was a silence which went on too long and then lengthened again as not one of them was quick-witted enough to fill it with an answer.
'Was it after Malcolm's father died?' she wondered pleasantly. 'Yes, after,' the old lady said.
'Perhaps he wasn't fond of music?'
'None of us play the piano,' Murray heard himself say. 'What does it matter?'
'I wanted it for Malcolm,' Mother said.
'But when I got old enough to learn, I hated the lessons,' Malcolm said. Unexpectedly he smiled, as if the memory had put him into a better humour.
They talked then about other things. As Murray ate, he kept looking at his sister-in-law and glancing away. He would have been ashamed to have it seem he was envious of his brother. She had dark hair that shone; she must be very healthy, only the hair of the well and the young glistened like that; he wondered what it would feel like under his hand. He could hardly believe that she was sitting opposite him, or in her reason for being there. She was married to his brother, who had met her in London, where she had been a secretary, something like that. Malcolm had gone on holiday and had come back with her; then they were married. Her mother and father were dead. She had no relatives. It had not been convenient for any of her friends to come up for the wedding. He realised with a kind of shock that he knew nothing of her background, and yet it was his daily business to find out such things about strangers. Malcolm would know, he supposed . It did not seem possible that people could fall in love and marry without offering each other the past to share; yet he was not sure. He found that he was looking at her breasts, and when he raised his eyes she was smiling.
As Mother got up to fetch the next course, little bowls of sweet pudding, Irene said, 'Of course, Polly Nicholls – that was the name. I've been sitting trying to remember.'
'Let it rest,' Malcolm said.
'Something in Billy's column yesterday,' Murray guessed. 'The one Mother and I haven't read.'
'Clever.' Irene held out her hand to him across the table as if inviting him to touch her.
'Polly Nicholls . ..' It wasn't difficult to take the next step. 'The Ripper's first victim.'
'In Whitechapel a hundred years ago. A prostitute,' she said. 'And not glamorous at all. She was a tiny woman, and five of her front teeth had been knocked out in a fight. When they make a film of it, the women don't look anything like that.'
'I don't understand,' Mother said. 'A film of what?'
'About Jack the Ripper,' Irene cried, her eyes sparkling. 'With fog and hansom cabs and beautiful young actresses arranged under the street lights, just pretending . In real life, Polly Nicholls had been thrown out of her doss-house because she didn't have four pence for a bed. She hadn't eaten all day before she was killed . '
'This week Billy Shanks didn't make me laugh,' Malcolm said sourly, with a side glance at Murray as if in some obscure way the fault was his.
'Billy Shanks,' his wife ignored the interruption, 'describes how he walked down this lane and saw the body of the man spread out on the ground and the doctor examining it. He makes you see it all. It's what reality is like, he says.'
'Billy saw all of that . ..' Murray shook his head. 'I wish now I'd read it.'
'Prostitutes and murder! There must be something better to talk about than filth like that.' Malcolm made a movement of disgust . The yellow under his tan made him look ill.
As he turned his head, his
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