too few trees, except for its fogbound and mysterious hill-side parks. Here you could see an old wooden mansion, its windows shuttered, its rococo plaster peeling from a pediment. And here and there, in a vacant lot thick with nettles, a stone stairway rose up into nothing, blackened with soot and cracked with heat, last memorial of the earthquake and the fire of 1906. Once, as a girl, he supposed, Lily must have gone up stairs like that. Now she went to other houses, but the stairs remained, still leading nowhere. Not for nothing did the city fathers, after that holocaust, remove the Ionic portico of some gutted house and set it in a quiet corner of the public park, on the other side of a shallow, scummy lake, and call it The Portals of the Past.
Here, on a still street that never got enough light, Jerome Barnes, or his father, had built the Barnes house. Lily had given it not to Maggie, but to Charles. Which was typical of Lily. It was a two-storied house in the Normandy style, with mullioned downstairs windows of yellow sandstone, but the facing of pale pink brick. The house stood back from the street, across a small city lawn trimmed with privet. It was a solid house.
Luke drew up before it reluctantly. It was part of a San Francisco he had never been allowed to enter, and now he did not think he wanted to enter it at all.
Though some effort had been made to make the house appear classical from the front, the land at the rear of the lot sloped so steeply that the floor plan was irregular. There was a large oval hall, with at the far end windows giving on the bay towards Alcatraz and down to a disused garden fifty feet below. The staircase not only rose to the second floor, but also descended through the hall paving to the floor below, which had been fitted up as a rumpus room, never used. The panelling of the hall had been stripped down to a fake Georgian simplicity,enamelled white in the style of some advanced House and Garden magazine of the first World War. It was a spacious hall but shadowy. At night the stairs seemed endlessly to wind up and down through space.
Now the hall was piled with luggage. That stopped them both as soon as they saw it. Luke closed the front door slowly, knowing that at this wrong of all moments there was going to be a scene. It was Lily’s luggage, of course. It was indigo cowhide roughly stitched with white, and she had brought far too much of it. There was a two-suiter, because men’s luggage was more capacious than women’s; a vanity; a large hat box; and a small rectangular box that could contain almost anything . These were ranged neatly in order of size by the console to the right of the door. Lily, of course, would have had the taxi driver so arrange them, vigilant to see that he scratched nothing, and waiting calmly to under-tip him. Lily’s ideas of service and expense had not changed in thirty years. It was her own way of saving money, though she never thought of it like that. She always called it “keeping up standards”.
“I can’t face this,” said Maggie. “I can’t.” She leaned back against Luke. “I’ve got to be alone for a while.”
“She certainly didn’t waste much time.”
They found her in the living-room and she had not wasted any time at all. She had even brought her own magazines to read while waiting.
Luke had been in this house only once. He had never come back. He had only been allowed to know the Barnes at Atherton, or, to be more accurate, to know Maggie at college. He found the house, which had then seemed unattainable, now merely large and slightly displeasing .The living-room was too long for its width. The chairs and sofas were agreeable, but seemed to have been moved there from some other house. There were no flowers. The light came half-way across the rug from the windows, but the centre of the room was always shadowy. Lily was sitting on one of the sofas, her legs sleekly crossed, her fur thrown down on the seat beside her,
Here, on a still street that never got enough light, Jerome Barnes, or his father, had built the Barnes house. Lily had given it not to Maggie, but to Charles. Which was typical of Lily. It was a two-storied house in the Normandy style, with mullioned downstairs windows of yellow sandstone, but the facing of pale pink brick. The house stood back from the street, across a small city lawn trimmed with privet. It was a solid house.
Luke drew up before it reluctantly. It was part of a San Francisco he had never been allowed to enter, and now he did not think he wanted to enter it at all.
Though some effort had been made to make the house appear classical from the front, the land at the rear of the lot sloped so steeply that the floor plan was irregular. There was a large oval hall, with at the far end windows giving on the bay towards Alcatraz and down to a disused garden fifty feet below. The staircase not only rose to the second floor, but also descended through the hall paving to the floor below, which had been fitted up as a rumpus room, never used. The panelling of the hall had been stripped down to a fake Georgian simplicity,enamelled white in the style of some advanced House and Garden magazine of the first World War. It was a spacious hall but shadowy. At night the stairs seemed endlessly to wind up and down through space.
Now the hall was piled with luggage. That stopped them both as soon as they saw it. Luke closed the front door slowly, knowing that at this wrong of all moments there was going to be a scene. It was Lily’s luggage, of course. It was indigo cowhide roughly stitched with white, and she had brought far too much of it. There was a two-suiter, because men’s luggage was more capacious than women’s; a vanity; a large hat box; and a small rectangular box that could contain almost anything . These were ranged neatly in order of size by the console to the right of the door. Lily, of course, would have had the taxi driver so arrange them, vigilant to see that he scratched nothing, and waiting calmly to under-tip him. Lily’s ideas of service and expense had not changed in thirty years. It was her own way of saving money, though she never thought of it like that. She always called it “keeping up standards”.
“I can’t face this,” said Maggie. “I can’t.” She leaned back against Luke. “I’ve got to be alone for a while.”
“She certainly didn’t waste much time.”
They found her in the living-room and she had not wasted any time at all. She had even brought her own magazines to read while waiting.
Luke had been in this house only once. He had never come back. He had only been allowed to know the Barnes at Atherton, or, to be more accurate, to know Maggie at college. He found the house, which had then seemed unattainable, now merely large and slightly displeasing .The living-room was too long for its width. The chairs and sofas were agreeable, but seemed to have been moved there from some other house. There were no flowers. The light came half-way across the rug from the windows, but the centre of the room was always shadowy. Lily was sitting on one of the sofas, her legs sleekly crossed, her fur thrown down on the seat beside her,
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