by the kind of emotional sludge in which I currently wallowed. Her private and professional lives were bound to be kept firmly apart and there was a chance she would know, through her close connection with Toynbee, of the best help available to a woman in Leah’s position.
In another five minutes, I found myself in Commercial Road and there ahead of me, in that long, rackety road crammed with shops and traffic, was a familiar clump of greenery and, set in a high wall, a plaque engraved with the words TOYNBEE HALL. From the open doors came music, a Brahms quartet, and I realized that a Thursday lunchtime concert must be in progress.
Had it not been for Meredith, I might have shunned the music altogether, abandoned the idea of seeing Carrie and gone back to the office, but a door in my soul, closed for years, had been pushed ajar by the sight of Grandmother and Edmund dancing in the drawing room. So I marched up the path beside a patch of struggling lawn to the hall where sunlight flooded the lobby, a soft draft blew along the floor, and ahead, through another doorway, the little auditorium was crammed with chairs.
The woman on the door recognized me from the old days. Waving aside my offer of payment, she pointed to a vacant seat at the end of a row where I let my hands fall into my lap, closed my eyes, and gave myself up to the torrent of music. From the street outside, beneath the rumble of carts, came the distant clatter of Spitalfields Market, barely quarter of a mile away. I knew, without opening my eyes, that light would be splintered into shards of color by the stained-glass arch of each window and that the audience would consist largely of unemployed laborers and clerks in collarless shirts and frayed waistcoats, but that among them would be plainly dressed young men, university-educated, the latest batch of idealists come to help out at the settlement.
Of course, it was foolish of me to have ventured inside; quite apart from the music, merely being in that place rubbed me raw, because the smells of beeswax, bodies, books, and soup were redolent of the months of near despair when I was looking for work. And then the music took me deeper still into the past. Perhaps I had known it would, and that was why I couldn’t keep away. The previous night, when I watched Grandmother and Edmund dancing, and Meredith so absorbed by love for her boy, I had wanted to feel something deeply too. I thought I could take the risk; surely, enough time had gone by. So I let myself be touched, for a moment, by the rusty emotions generated by two stillborn love affairs.
Peter Shaw and I had first exchanged friendly words when I visited Father’s office before the war. Decked out in picture hats and swishing skirts, Mother and I were supposed to dispense charm and encouragement to junior employees at bimonthly tea parties. Mother was an expert; I slouched in my upright chair and envied the young men their enthusiasm. But Peter always looked out for me and drew me into conversation if he could. His eyes were a melting brown and his gaze clung to mine and made a little rip in my composure. I lay awake at night, replaying snippets of conversation in search of inner meaning and dreaming him up an aura, toffee-brown like his eyes. After the Christmas party in 1914, which, as usual, took place in the drawing room at Clivedon Hall Gardens, with the carpets rolled up, furniture pushed back, candlelight, sherry, music (one of the senior partners had a limited repertoire on the violin), we stepped outside together into the smoky, late-afternoon air and ran away, panting and giggling, I in my party dress and thin shoes, until we came to the shelter of a canal bridge, where he kissed me until my mind popped with shock and fear and delight.
But what a wasted opportunity that kiss had been. I couldn’t concentrate for wondering: Yes, but do I really love Peter Shaw, or is it just that he’s available at this moment and going away in the new year?
In another five minutes, I found myself in Commercial Road and there ahead of me, in that long, rackety road crammed with shops and traffic, was a familiar clump of greenery and, set in a high wall, a plaque engraved with the words TOYNBEE HALL. From the open doors came music, a Brahms quartet, and I realized that a Thursday lunchtime concert must be in progress.
Had it not been for Meredith, I might have shunned the music altogether, abandoned the idea of seeing Carrie and gone back to the office, but a door in my soul, closed for years, had been pushed ajar by the sight of Grandmother and Edmund dancing in the drawing room. So I marched up the path beside a patch of struggling lawn to the hall where sunlight flooded the lobby, a soft draft blew along the floor, and ahead, through another doorway, the little auditorium was crammed with chairs.
The woman on the door recognized me from the old days. Waving aside my offer of payment, she pointed to a vacant seat at the end of a row where I let my hands fall into my lap, closed my eyes, and gave myself up to the torrent of music. From the street outside, beneath the rumble of carts, came the distant clatter of Spitalfields Market, barely quarter of a mile away. I knew, without opening my eyes, that light would be splintered into shards of color by the stained-glass arch of each window and that the audience would consist largely of unemployed laborers and clerks in collarless shirts and frayed waistcoats, but that among them would be plainly dressed young men, university-educated, the latest batch of idealists come to help out at the settlement.
Of course, it was foolish of me to have ventured inside; quite apart from the music, merely being in that place rubbed me raw, because the smells of beeswax, bodies, books, and soup were redolent of the months of near despair when I was looking for work. And then the music took me deeper still into the past. Perhaps I had known it would, and that was why I couldn’t keep away. The previous night, when I watched Grandmother and Edmund dancing, and Meredith so absorbed by love for her boy, I had wanted to feel something deeply too. I thought I could take the risk; surely, enough time had gone by. So I let myself be touched, for a moment, by the rusty emotions generated by two stillborn love affairs.
Peter Shaw and I had first exchanged friendly words when I visited Father’s office before the war. Decked out in picture hats and swishing skirts, Mother and I were supposed to dispense charm and encouragement to junior employees at bimonthly tea parties. Mother was an expert; I slouched in my upright chair and envied the young men their enthusiasm. But Peter always looked out for me and drew me into conversation if he could. His eyes were a melting brown and his gaze clung to mine and made a little rip in my composure. I lay awake at night, replaying snippets of conversation in search of inner meaning and dreaming him up an aura, toffee-brown like his eyes. After the Christmas party in 1914, which, as usual, took place in the drawing room at Clivedon Hall Gardens, with the carpets rolled up, furniture pushed back, candlelight, sherry, music (one of the senior partners had a limited repertoire on the violin), we stepped outside together into the smoky, late-afternoon air and ran away, panting and giggling, I in my party dress and thin shoes, until we came to the shelter of a canal bridge, where he kissed me until my mind popped with shock and fear and delight.
But what a wasted opportunity that kiss had been. I couldn’t concentrate for wondering: Yes, but do I really love Peter Shaw, or is it just that he’s available at this moment and going away in the new year?
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