better of it: it was too powerful a card to play. She was a woman used to getting her own way, but she did not want to cheat, particularly at the outset. They talked, instead, of the origins of agriculture.
In the end, he left. She had to let him go; he was determined to go. She did not say that she would like to see him again: pride, honour, a desire not to cheat, restrained her. Instead, they shook hands, at the door, and parted. She went to bed, with the baby. She had been asleep for half an hour when he rang. They talked, for another hour. They agreed to meet, for lunch the next day.
They met the next day, and the next, and the next. They met every day, in the three weeks before she went off to Africa, though she was busy with preparations for her journey, and he was working full time. But they made time. While she was in Africa, they corresponded, in so far as the postal service and the remoteness of her position admitted. In his letters, he said that he loved her. She replied, saying that she loved him, and suggesting that he should fly out to see her to check up on it. He said he was too busy and couldnât afford it. Iâll wait till you come back, he said. It will keep till then.
And it kept. When she got back to England, he met her at the airport, and drove her and her vast amounts of luggage home to Putney. Shortly after their reunion, they started to sleep together. For Frances, it was one of the most amazing patches of her altogether amazing life. She couldnât believe it. Sheâd been sleeping with people for years, on principle almost, but nothing much had ever happened to her. Some affairs had been more interesting than others, but none had been serious. With Karel, it was serious. The first time she slept with him, (and the first time wasnât even very satisfactory, from some points of view) she knew that it was serious, that she had entered a new world of events. She heard herself cry out with astonishment, again and again.
She couldnât explain what it was in him that affected her so profoundly. He was beautiful, but even she could still see hovering behind his real self the ghost of the seedy ageing harassed family man who had met her on a Southern Region station. Anyway, she decided, it couldnât be just the look of him. She liked the way he talked, the things he said. But it couldnât be just that, either. She liked the things he did to her, she liked them very much indeed. Altogether, perhaps all these things added up to love. Though perhaps love had nothing to do with any of them.
In short, she loved him. She didnât know why, but she did. She could tell that she did because she had never loved anyone before, though she had sometimes fancied that she had. She could tell, because this was so different. Otherwise, it was a bit of a mystery, to them both. It wasnât even as though she were blind to his irritating qualitiesâthere were many things about him that annoyed her; his friends, his wife, his indecisiveness, his unpunctuality, the way in which he let his colleagues and his students exploit him; his meaningless conscientious time-wasting inefficiency. He was one of those people who are hopelessly inefficient through an excess of goodwillâhe never liked to say no, was always promising to do things that conflicted with other things that he had already promised to do, could never leave a conversation or a room for fear of hurting other peopleâs feelings, and thus was frequently late and frequently causing offence. When he had caused offence, he would, on randomly selected occasions, lose his temper. Frances, an efficient woman, found such conduct exasperating, and longed to intervene when she overheard him make totally impossible assignationsâIâll see you in half an hour, he would say from Putney, arranging to meet someone twenty miles away on the other side of London in the rush hour. But it was impossible to intervene. His conduct had
In the end, he left. She had to let him go; he was determined to go. She did not say that she would like to see him again: pride, honour, a desire not to cheat, restrained her. Instead, they shook hands, at the door, and parted. She went to bed, with the baby. She had been asleep for half an hour when he rang. They talked, for another hour. They agreed to meet, for lunch the next day.
They met the next day, and the next, and the next. They met every day, in the three weeks before she went off to Africa, though she was busy with preparations for her journey, and he was working full time. But they made time. While she was in Africa, they corresponded, in so far as the postal service and the remoteness of her position admitted. In his letters, he said that he loved her. She replied, saying that she loved him, and suggesting that he should fly out to see her to check up on it. He said he was too busy and couldnât afford it. Iâll wait till you come back, he said. It will keep till then.
And it kept. When she got back to England, he met her at the airport, and drove her and her vast amounts of luggage home to Putney. Shortly after their reunion, they started to sleep together. For Frances, it was one of the most amazing patches of her altogether amazing life. She couldnât believe it. Sheâd been sleeping with people for years, on principle almost, but nothing much had ever happened to her. Some affairs had been more interesting than others, but none had been serious. With Karel, it was serious. The first time she slept with him, (and the first time wasnât even very satisfactory, from some points of view) she knew that it was serious, that she had entered a new world of events. She heard herself cry out with astonishment, again and again.
She couldnât explain what it was in him that affected her so profoundly. He was beautiful, but even she could still see hovering behind his real self the ghost of the seedy ageing harassed family man who had met her on a Southern Region station. Anyway, she decided, it couldnât be just the look of him. She liked the way he talked, the things he said. But it couldnât be just that, either. She liked the things he did to her, she liked them very much indeed. Altogether, perhaps all these things added up to love. Though perhaps love had nothing to do with any of them.
In short, she loved him. She didnât know why, but she did. She could tell that she did because she had never loved anyone before, though she had sometimes fancied that she had. She could tell, because this was so different. Otherwise, it was a bit of a mystery, to them both. It wasnât even as though she were blind to his irritating qualitiesâthere were many things about him that annoyed her; his friends, his wife, his indecisiveness, his unpunctuality, the way in which he let his colleagues and his students exploit him; his meaningless conscientious time-wasting inefficiency. He was one of those people who are hopelessly inefficient through an excess of goodwillâhe never liked to say no, was always promising to do things that conflicted with other things that he had already promised to do, could never leave a conversation or a room for fear of hurting other peopleâs feelings, and thus was frequently late and frequently causing offence. When he had caused offence, he would, on randomly selected occasions, lose his temper. Frances, an efficient woman, found such conduct exasperating, and longed to intervene when she overheard him make totally impossible assignationsâIâll see you in half an hour, he would say from Putney, arranging to meet someone twenty miles away on the other side of London in the rush hour. But it was impossible to intervene. His conduct had
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