her closely, he might break her down and make her confess that she had lied and the newspaper been wrong.
“In a day nursery. I take her there in the mornings and Russell fetches her. He gets home before me.”
“I looked him up in the phone book,” said Martin. “I take it he’s the H. R. Brown at 54 Fortis Green Lane?”
She hesitated momentarily, then nodded. “His firstname,” she said, “is Harold, only he prefers his second name and Russell Brown sounds better for an author.”
“And I used to wonder all the time why you wouldn’t let me take you home. I thought you might be ashamed of your home or even have an angry father. I thought you couldn’t be more than twenty.”
“I’m twenty-six.”
“Oh, don’t cry,” said Martin. “Have some wine. Crying isn’t going to help.”
Neither of them could eat much. Francesca picked at her kebab and pushed it away. Her deep brown glowing eyes held a kind of feverish despair and she gave a little sob. Up till then he had felt only anger and bitterness. A pang of pity made him lay his own hand gently on hers. She bit her lip.
“I’m sorry, Martin. I shouldn’t have gone out with you last week, but I did want to, I wanted some fun. I’m not going to indulge in a lot of self-pity, but I don’t have much fun. And then-then it wasn’t just fun any more.” He felt a tremor of delight and terror. Hadn’t she just admitted she loved him? “Russell came home on Friday, and on Monday he said he’d, had this phone call from the
Post
about his book. I knew they’d, put something in the paper, and I knew you’d, see it.”
“I suppose you love him, don’t you? You’re happy, you and Russell and Lindsay and the Black Death?” Wretchedness had brought out a grim wit in him and he smiled a faint ironical smile.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s go back to your place, Martin.”
In the car he didn’t speak to her. So this is what it’s like, he thought, this is what it had been like for all those men he had heard of and read about and even known who had fallen in love with married women. Clandestine meetings, deception, a somehow dirty feeling of being traitorous and corrupt. And at the end of it a bitter parting with ugly recriminationsor else divorce and re-marriage in some High Street register office to an experience-ravaged girl with a ready-made family. He knew he was old-fashioned. He had been a schoolboy when the word “square” was current slang, but even then he had known he was and always would be, square. A thickset square-shouldered man with a square forehead and a square jaw and a square outlook on life. Rectangular, tetragonal, square, conventional, conservative, and reactionary. The revolution in morals which had taken place during his adolescence had passed over him and left him as subject to the old order as if he had actually spent a lifetime under its regime. He would have liked to be married to a virgin in church. What he certainly wasn’t going to do, he thought as he drove up to Cromwell Court, was have an affair with Francesca, with Mrs. Russell Brown, embroil himself in that kind of sordidness and vain excitement and -disgrace. They must part, and at once. He helped her from the car and stood for a moment holding her arm in the raw frosty cold.
The place looked strangely bare without the chrysanthemums, as a room does when it has been stripped of its Christmas decorations. He drew the curtains to shut out the purplish starry sky and the city that lay like a spangled cloth below. Francesca sat on the edge of her chair, watching him move about the room. He remembered that last week he had thought there was something child-like about her. That had been in the days of her supposed innocence, and it was all gone now. She was as old as he. Under her eyes were the shadows of tiredness and suffering and her cheeks were pale. He glanced down at her hands which she was twisting in her lap.
“You can put your wedding ring on
“In a day nursery. I take her there in the mornings and Russell fetches her. He gets home before me.”
“I looked him up in the phone book,” said Martin. “I take it he’s the H. R. Brown at 54 Fortis Green Lane?”
She hesitated momentarily, then nodded. “His firstname,” she said, “is Harold, only he prefers his second name and Russell Brown sounds better for an author.”
“And I used to wonder all the time why you wouldn’t let me take you home. I thought you might be ashamed of your home or even have an angry father. I thought you couldn’t be more than twenty.”
“I’m twenty-six.”
“Oh, don’t cry,” said Martin. “Have some wine. Crying isn’t going to help.”
Neither of them could eat much. Francesca picked at her kebab and pushed it away. Her deep brown glowing eyes held a kind of feverish despair and she gave a little sob. Up till then he had felt only anger and bitterness. A pang of pity made him lay his own hand gently on hers. She bit her lip.
“I’m sorry, Martin. I shouldn’t have gone out with you last week, but I did want to, I wanted some fun. I’m not going to indulge in a lot of self-pity, but I don’t have much fun. And then-then it wasn’t just fun any more.” He felt a tremor of delight and terror. Hadn’t she just admitted she loved him? “Russell came home on Friday, and on Monday he said he’d, had this phone call from the
Post
about his book. I knew they’d, put something in the paper, and I knew you’d, see it.”
“I suppose you love him, don’t you? You’re happy, you and Russell and Lindsay and the Black Death?” Wretchedness had brought out a grim wit in him and he smiled a faint ironical smile.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s go back to your place, Martin.”
In the car he didn’t speak to her. So this is what it’s like, he thought, this is what it had been like for all those men he had heard of and read about and even known who had fallen in love with married women. Clandestine meetings, deception, a somehow dirty feeling of being traitorous and corrupt. And at the end of it a bitter parting with ugly recriminationsor else divorce and re-marriage in some High Street register office to an experience-ravaged girl with a ready-made family. He knew he was old-fashioned. He had been a schoolboy when the word “square” was current slang, but even then he had known he was and always would be, square. A thickset square-shouldered man with a square forehead and a square jaw and a square outlook on life. Rectangular, tetragonal, square, conventional, conservative, and reactionary. The revolution in morals which had taken place during his adolescence had passed over him and left him as subject to the old order as if he had actually spent a lifetime under its regime. He would have liked to be married to a virgin in church. What he certainly wasn’t going to do, he thought as he drove up to Cromwell Court, was have an affair with Francesca, with Mrs. Russell Brown, embroil himself in that kind of sordidness and vain excitement and -disgrace. They must part, and at once. He helped her from the car and stood for a moment holding her arm in the raw frosty cold.
The place looked strangely bare without the chrysanthemums, as a room does when it has been stripped of its Christmas decorations. He drew the curtains to shut out the purplish starry sky and the city that lay like a spangled cloth below. Francesca sat on the edge of her chair, watching him move about the room. He remembered that last week he had thought there was something child-like about her. That had been in the days of her supposed innocence, and it was all gone now. She was as old as he. Under her eyes were the shadows of tiredness and suffering and her cheeks were pale. He glanced down at her hands which she was twisting in her lap.
“You can put your wedding ring on
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