at a table with others, a Mrs Vigo and her daughter, with a secretary, Miss Braise-Compton, just beside. Flora had tightened her elbows into her sides, for fear of touching any of them, and barely replied to their questions, but set a ring of aloof silence round herself, while the vegetable broth congealed on her plate. There had been neck of lamb and then plums and custard, and her throat had seemed to constrict, and an impenetrable barrier to form there, so that she could not swallow.
The next day she sought out Miss Marchesa before breakfast, in the brown cubby-hole she spoke of as her office, and asked to be given a table to herself. Something about her coolness and self-possession, her confidence in speaking out, made the woman (who had been quite willing to patronise) feel in some way criticised and set at a disadvantage, so that from that morning she did not conceal her indifference to Flora’s welfare, and a measure of straightforward dislike.
But the single table was made available, wedged across a corner by the door into the kitchen, so that she had to ease awkwardly in and out, and could not easily see her food in the dimness.
Mrs and Miss Vigo, and the secretary, affected not to notice, and, beyond the faintest of smiles, ignored her. Flora drew her own isolation about herself like a curtain. Behind it, the air was cold as ice. But she preferred that to any encroaches upon her. She took a book into meals, and felt suddenly older, in a dry, austere way that was not altogether comfortless.
Twenty-Two
The hot September blended into an autumn of translucent early mists over the river, out of which the sun rose. The days drifted down imperceptibly, and Flora felt herself caught up in them effortlessly, lightly, untouched by reality. And if she made no close friends, out of choice, she did at this time acquire a companion. Leila Watson came to an afternoon class in the history of classical civilisation. It was a passion – she was training to be a school teacher in Surrey, and travelled into London by train. She was twenty-five, and a widow. Her husband had been killed a week after their marriage. She had told Flora the bare fact, and stared out of slightly prominent, green-flecked eyes, defying questions. Flora asked none. They spent an hour together and then, before Leila caught her train, ate poached eggs or cheese on toast in a tea room, and looked at antiquities in the British Museum.
The cool, pale statues and grave ancient images impressed her. She felt respectful of them, and in some awe. But they did not move her, as pictures did. She saw Turners, and the painting of the light, the speed, airiness of the sun bursts and the blown spray and cloudscapes, lifted her heart. The dim, tranquil interiors of the Dutch satisfied something different in her. The wise, still expression of men in velvet robes, and the pale women with high foreheads, as well as the scenes within scenes, landscapes beyond landscapes, of the Renaissance, were altogether delightful.
*
‘What will you do? Do you plan to teach the history of art?’
They sat on the steps of the Albert Memorial. It was five o’clock. Flora looked at the beautiful curve of the prince’s stone back.
‘What will you do?’
Children were playing with a little dog, chasing around and around, and a small boy held the hand of a man, a kite in the other.
‘What will you do?’
But she did not know. She had not thought of a future, only of this present, in which she exulted in knowledge and pictures and the life of London. Her bank book showed a sum of money that was becoming smaller, drop by steady drop. (She ate the poached eggs with a single cup of tea, but no sweet, and walked everywhere.)
‘What will you do?’
But there was no future, and the past was not allowed to exist. (Though she had begun to invent a different past for herself, and to tell it, as a small child will create another life, in fantasy. And while doing so, it occurred to her
The next day she sought out Miss Marchesa before breakfast, in the brown cubby-hole she spoke of as her office, and asked to be given a table to herself. Something about her coolness and self-possession, her confidence in speaking out, made the woman (who had been quite willing to patronise) feel in some way criticised and set at a disadvantage, so that from that morning she did not conceal her indifference to Flora’s welfare, and a measure of straightforward dislike.
But the single table was made available, wedged across a corner by the door into the kitchen, so that she had to ease awkwardly in and out, and could not easily see her food in the dimness.
Mrs and Miss Vigo, and the secretary, affected not to notice, and, beyond the faintest of smiles, ignored her. Flora drew her own isolation about herself like a curtain. Behind it, the air was cold as ice. But she preferred that to any encroaches upon her. She took a book into meals, and felt suddenly older, in a dry, austere way that was not altogether comfortless.
Twenty-Two
The hot September blended into an autumn of translucent early mists over the river, out of which the sun rose. The days drifted down imperceptibly, and Flora felt herself caught up in them effortlessly, lightly, untouched by reality. And if she made no close friends, out of choice, she did at this time acquire a companion. Leila Watson came to an afternoon class in the history of classical civilisation. It was a passion – she was training to be a school teacher in Surrey, and travelled into London by train. She was twenty-five, and a widow. Her husband had been killed a week after their marriage. She had told Flora the bare fact, and stared out of slightly prominent, green-flecked eyes, defying questions. Flora asked none. They spent an hour together and then, before Leila caught her train, ate poached eggs or cheese on toast in a tea room, and looked at antiquities in the British Museum.
The cool, pale statues and grave ancient images impressed her. She felt respectful of them, and in some awe. But they did not move her, as pictures did. She saw Turners, and the painting of the light, the speed, airiness of the sun bursts and the blown spray and cloudscapes, lifted her heart. The dim, tranquil interiors of the Dutch satisfied something different in her. The wise, still expression of men in velvet robes, and the pale women with high foreheads, as well as the scenes within scenes, landscapes beyond landscapes, of the Renaissance, were altogether delightful.
*
‘What will you do? Do you plan to teach the history of art?’
They sat on the steps of the Albert Memorial. It was five o’clock. Flora looked at the beautiful curve of the prince’s stone back.
‘What will you do?’
Children were playing with a little dog, chasing around and around, and a small boy held the hand of a man, a kite in the other.
‘What will you do?’
But she did not know. She had not thought of a future, only of this present, in which she exulted in knowledge and pictures and the life of London. Her bank book showed a sum of money that was becoming smaller, drop by steady drop. (She ate the poached eggs with a single cup of tea, but no sweet, and walked everywhere.)
‘What will you do?’
But there was no future, and the past was not allowed to exist. (Though she had begun to invent a different past for herself, and to tell it, as a small child will create another life, in fantasy. And while doing so, it occurred to her
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