masseuse. The same wall-eyed Cypriot sold them all heavy cold sheets hoared with lace.
I describe a chorus; yet each had her own tone. They were accomplished, even virtuoso, in some things, but, tactful, they did not overdevelop any trait. Their feet were narrow; their children beautiful. What they told was the truth. They wore flowers in summer, furs in winter. They were tough, too, beneath the freshness and softness. There was nowhere, no hinge or crack, for a blade to slip in. High-fired good china, perfect as an egg, and enclosing good, rich life.
Each had her nanny.
The eating part of lunch was swiftly over and we drank water. I took my lead from my friends, who never paid much attention to food for themselves, though they made sure their husbands had the best. We sat about Leonora’s dining-room table. The door of the hexagonal room was a little ajar and through it came the singing yells of children. The nannies’ voices did not carry.
‘Close the door, Antonia, would you? Just a short break from the monkey-house, I think, don’t you?’ Leonora was pouring coffee into cups the colours of different fondants. In her place I might have worried about shutting out a fatal accident.
The room was full of that dazzling spring sunshine which makes you unreasonably pleased. A faint smell of warm cloth exuded from the green silk walls, mixing with the smells of coffee and blossom. A large bowl of viburnum filled the fireplace with lace.
‘At least we’ve got zookeepers,’ said Antonia. She had five children, all of them light-hearted and intelligent and devoted to their mother, who now chocked her square face abruptly into her left hand, and waved her right, hailing a light for her cigarette. The ashtrays were like flat silver sombreros. Looking around at my slender, unpregnant friends, I felt as though I were barded with a suit of fat.
Victoria stretched in front of me, with a flaming knuckle, and the smell of smoke threaded among us. As she reached, her fringe caught and tossed away the sun. She had a sandy face with dark eyes and thin hands and legs like a boy, or the sort of fashion model who is chosen for her physical embodiment of intelligence; her voice was thorny. To drive, she wore glasses, whose rims were the peat-red of her hair.
‘What if they turn out to be real horrors?’ she asked. ‘I mean liars, or cruel.’
‘I wouldn’t have it,’ replied Leonora.
‘No choice,’ hooted Julia over the table, picking up a pebble of sugar and nipping it between her front teeth.
‘Who’re we talking about?’ Clara was rifling in her basket and when she lifted her head her hair rocked back into place, smooth as a ball. Her eyes were sad at their outer edge, set into her head like two almonds of blue paisley. They were outlined with black. She began to sew, the looping movements of the needles less restful than the formal quietus of smoking.
‘Who d’you think, Clara?’
‘What do we always talk about?’
‘Children.’
‘Try again. I mean, would the little angels ever lie or be unkind?’
‘I meant nannies,’ said Leonora.
‘I meant children,’ said Victoria, ‘but now we’re on nannies let’s stay there. It’s not as though they weren’t discussing us. I wonder whose husband is being turned into sausages right now.’
‘Something rather more solid, I bet,’ said Clara.
‘Dawn tells me they snaffle the blue videos the men watch after shooting teas, and look at them after bath-time.’
‘She never told you herself?’
‘Not totally. Freddie saw a bit of one when he went down to her with a bad dream. He said she was looking at a telly programme about schoolteachers and naughty boys and I took it from there. Any luck it’ll put him off and he can look after his poor old ma in her latter years.’
‘D’you remember that one who said she was the Red Hand of God? Some muddle there?’
‘The holy rolling one with the sacred-text soap?’
‘The very one.’
‘And the
I describe a chorus; yet each had her own tone. They were accomplished, even virtuoso, in some things, but, tactful, they did not overdevelop any trait. Their feet were narrow; their children beautiful. What they told was the truth. They wore flowers in summer, furs in winter. They were tough, too, beneath the freshness and softness. There was nowhere, no hinge or crack, for a blade to slip in. High-fired good china, perfect as an egg, and enclosing good, rich life.
Each had her nanny.
The eating part of lunch was swiftly over and we drank water. I took my lead from my friends, who never paid much attention to food for themselves, though they made sure their husbands had the best. We sat about Leonora’s dining-room table. The door of the hexagonal room was a little ajar and through it came the singing yells of children. The nannies’ voices did not carry.
‘Close the door, Antonia, would you? Just a short break from the monkey-house, I think, don’t you?’ Leonora was pouring coffee into cups the colours of different fondants. In her place I might have worried about shutting out a fatal accident.
The room was full of that dazzling spring sunshine which makes you unreasonably pleased. A faint smell of warm cloth exuded from the green silk walls, mixing with the smells of coffee and blossom. A large bowl of viburnum filled the fireplace with lace.
‘At least we’ve got zookeepers,’ said Antonia. She had five children, all of them light-hearted and intelligent and devoted to their mother, who now chocked her square face abruptly into her left hand, and waved her right, hailing a light for her cigarette. The ashtrays were like flat silver sombreros. Looking around at my slender, unpregnant friends, I felt as though I were barded with a suit of fat.
Victoria stretched in front of me, with a flaming knuckle, and the smell of smoke threaded among us. As she reached, her fringe caught and tossed away the sun. She had a sandy face with dark eyes and thin hands and legs like a boy, or the sort of fashion model who is chosen for her physical embodiment of intelligence; her voice was thorny. To drive, she wore glasses, whose rims were the peat-red of her hair.
‘What if they turn out to be real horrors?’ she asked. ‘I mean liars, or cruel.’
‘I wouldn’t have it,’ replied Leonora.
‘No choice,’ hooted Julia over the table, picking up a pebble of sugar and nipping it between her front teeth.
‘Who’re we talking about?’ Clara was rifling in her basket and when she lifted her head her hair rocked back into place, smooth as a ball. Her eyes were sad at their outer edge, set into her head like two almonds of blue paisley. They were outlined with black. She began to sew, the looping movements of the needles less restful than the formal quietus of smoking.
‘Who d’you think, Clara?’
‘What do we always talk about?’
‘Children.’
‘Try again. I mean, would the little angels ever lie or be unkind?’
‘I meant nannies,’ said Leonora.
‘I meant children,’ said Victoria, ‘but now we’re on nannies let’s stay there. It’s not as though they weren’t discussing us. I wonder whose husband is being turned into sausages right now.’
‘Something rather more solid, I bet,’ said Clara.
‘Dawn tells me they snaffle the blue videos the men watch after shooting teas, and look at them after bath-time.’
‘She never told you herself?’
‘Not totally. Freddie saw a bit of one when he went down to her with a bad dream. He said she was looking at a telly programme about schoolteachers and naughty boys and I took it from there. Any luck it’ll put him off and he can look after his poor old ma in her latter years.’
‘D’you remember that one who said she was the Red Hand of God? Some muddle there?’
‘The holy rolling one with the sacred-text soap?’
‘The very one.’
‘And the
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