him.
He had barely had time to see her reversing the old Austin out of its space and only now remembered that it was the time when she was collecting her mother rather than dropping her off. Of course she wasn’t alone and of course he couldn’t jump out into her path when Professor Jellicoe was there, beadily intelligent beside her.
As they passed him he dared to edge out to watch them go. The car was entirely uninteresting, old without character, an old lady’s once-red automatic, undramatically scraped and dented from some negligent reversing.Taking in its departing rear view then becoming aware of his sweaty shirtfront and racing heart, he felt deeply the absurd pass to which he had brought himself.
AFTERNOON NAP
Because of the lingering smell of an institutional lunch – fish pie, today, and pineapple sponge with custard – and the early afternoon collecting time, the Falls Clinic had more than ever the air of a geriatric kindergarten. Had the patients emerged proudly clutching paintings on sugar paper or spaceships made from egg boxes and yoghurt pots instead of letters for their GPs, the illusion would have been complete. Today they had even endured story time in the shape of a cheery chat from a health visitor about the importance of keeping well hydrated whatever the continence challenges.
‘A patronizing ninny,’ Mummy pronounced. ‘With one of those bottle-top degrees.’
‘Now how can you know that?’
‘I asked her.’
‘Mummy!’
‘Well, I’d nothing to lose. I shan’t be going back.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’ve finished with me, apparently. I’ve had my allocation of clinic hours and presumably they’ve gathered all the data they can get from me. Sorry,’ she added. ‘Tough on you.’
Laura attempted protest but it came out feebly and Mummy ignored it.
‘I suppose I should sign up for classes. Architectural history, maybe, or a language. But they tend to happen in the evening and I’m so bloody sleepy then.’
‘Why ever should you?’
‘Oh. You know. Get out of your hair for a while.’
‘It’s your house. I should be getting out of yours.’
‘Quite right, girl,’ Mummy said rather sharply. ‘Have an affair or something. Sorry. Filthy mood. It’s the ninny’s fault with her MA in Medical Humanities and Dance. I’ll be better for a nap. Sorry.’
Back at the house, Mummy retreated to the downstairs lavatory while Laura put the car away then ushered her onto the tiny stair-lift that had only been installed with difficulty – the stairs were far narrower than the modern average – and helped her onto her bed. She took off her shoes and drew the curtains for her. She could tell Mummy was tired because she made no attempt to take off that day’s going-out frock.
Laura knew she should make a start on the next client’s figures but the afternoon light slanting across her own bedroom was too alluring and she kicked off her shoes and lay down too as Mummy’s deepbreathing from next door edged into regular, wistful snores.
She wouldn’t sleep – she held out against the temptation of afternoon naps even when living in Paris – but she would let herself lie down for a few minutes, fully clothed, on top of the bedding. She listened to the snores, the birdsong, the electronic chirrup of a distant lorry’s reversing signal and stared at the still unfamiliar furniture and pictures in her room. Pretty watercolours in battered gilt frames, a chest of drawers with a dressing table mirror on it topped by a little bird and some carved ribbon and a wardrobe, all in dark, richly polished wood. And a Globe-Wernicke bookcase.
Along with the summerhouse table, these bookcases, now scattered around the house, were the only objects Laura remembered from her childhood that her mother had retained. Heavier and more practical than the Georgian furniture, with glass doors that folded ingeniously over the tops of each row of books (as a child she called them book garages ), they
He had barely had time to see her reversing the old Austin out of its space and only now remembered that it was the time when she was collecting her mother rather than dropping her off. Of course she wasn’t alone and of course he couldn’t jump out into her path when Professor Jellicoe was there, beadily intelligent beside her.
As they passed him he dared to edge out to watch them go. The car was entirely uninteresting, old without character, an old lady’s once-red automatic, undramatically scraped and dented from some negligent reversing.Taking in its departing rear view then becoming aware of his sweaty shirtfront and racing heart, he felt deeply the absurd pass to which he had brought himself.
AFTERNOON NAP
Because of the lingering smell of an institutional lunch – fish pie, today, and pineapple sponge with custard – and the early afternoon collecting time, the Falls Clinic had more than ever the air of a geriatric kindergarten. Had the patients emerged proudly clutching paintings on sugar paper or spaceships made from egg boxes and yoghurt pots instead of letters for their GPs, the illusion would have been complete. Today they had even endured story time in the shape of a cheery chat from a health visitor about the importance of keeping well hydrated whatever the continence challenges.
‘A patronizing ninny,’ Mummy pronounced. ‘With one of those bottle-top degrees.’
‘Now how can you know that?’
‘I asked her.’
‘Mummy!’
‘Well, I’d nothing to lose. I shan’t be going back.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’ve finished with me, apparently. I’ve had my allocation of clinic hours and presumably they’ve gathered all the data they can get from me. Sorry,’ she added. ‘Tough on you.’
Laura attempted protest but it came out feebly and Mummy ignored it.
‘I suppose I should sign up for classes. Architectural history, maybe, or a language. But they tend to happen in the evening and I’m so bloody sleepy then.’
‘Why ever should you?’
‘Oh. You know. Get out of your hair for a while.’
‘It’s your house. I should be getting out of yours.’
‘Quite right, girl,’ Mummy said rather sharply. ‘Have an affair or something. Sorry. Filthy mood. It’s the ninny’s fault with her MA in Medical Humanities and Dance. I’ll be better for a nap. Sorry.’
Back at the house, Mummy retreated to the downstairs lavatory while Laura put the car away then ushered her onto the tiny stair-lift that had only been installed with difficulty – the stairs were far narrower than the modern average – and helped her onto her bed. She took off her shoes and drew the curtains for her. She could tell Mummy was tired because she made no attempt to take off that day’s going-out frock.
Laura knew she should make a start on the next client’s figures but the afternoon light slanting across her own bedroom was too alluring and she kicked off her shoes and lay down too as Mummy’s deepbreathing from next door edged into regular, wistful snores.
She wouldn’t sleep – she held out against the temptation of afternoon naps even when living in Paris – but she would let herself lie down for a few minutes, fully clothed, on top of the bedding. She listened to the snores, the birdsong, the electronic chirrup of a distant lorry’s reversing signal and stared at the still unfamiliar furniture and pictures in her room. Pretty watercolours in battered gilt frames, a chest of drawers with a dressing table mirror on it topped by a little bird and some carved ribbon and a wardrobe, all in dark, richly polished wood. And a Globe-Wernicke bookcase.
Along with the summerhouse table, these bookcases, now scattered around the house, were the only objects Laura remembered from her childhood that her mother had retained. Heavier and more practical than the Georgian furniture, with glass doors that folded ingeniously over the tops of each row of books (as a child she called them book garages ), they
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