write in a part for myself. I’ve been away too long.’
‘Mother,’ said Ruth suddenly and urgently. ‘There’s this man coming to dinner tonight and I’m terrified.’
Helen’s blue eyes turned clouded and vague. She was silent and seemed remote, vaguely offended. But all she said was, ‘I won’t tell your father. He is so frantically anxious in case you do something unsuitable. He’d have kept you at home, if at all possible. No, say nothing. Terrified?’ She gave a very small smile. ‘There’s no need to be. No need at all.’
7
She returned home in the early afternoon, with her chicken, and wondered what to do next. By then she was dreamily depressed, half longing for the day to be over. She had not known that a state of waiting could be so consuming an affair. The flat was clean; the sun, now hot and strong, lay in a shaft over the window seat and along the old flowered carpet. Through the window she could see lorries loading and unloading in the depository. Miss Howe and Miss Mackendrick must have gone on one of their expeditions, for there was no noise or movement in the house. She sat in the shaft of sunlight and reflected how little there was to do when she was not working. She could not even settle to a book. In any event, she had been reading less since her first meeting with Richard.
At four o’clock she made a cup of tea and carried it back to her shaft of sunlight, as if seeking protection. She wished she had stayed on at Oakwood Court to see her father but it would have been too much of a rush to get back and she was afraid that all the shops would suddenly run out of chicken. Half reluctantly she made some sort of timetable: the preparation of the meal, the bath, the insertion of the dish into the oven, dressing, and then what Mrs Cutler called the finishing touches.
She had no confidence in any of it any more, and she knew that food, however mediocre, must be served with authority. Timing the rice was going to be particularly tricky. If Richard was due at eight, she should put the
water on to boil at seven thirty. She had not given this problem due consideration; it almost annoyed her to have to give it her consideration now. Problems to which there is no solution waste a lot of one’s time, she reflected.
She became alarmed at her dispirited condition, picked up Balzac’s
Un Début dans la Vie
, got annoyed by the excessive geographical information given in the first few pages, realized that she would have to travel fairly widely in the provinces when she got to France, and became slightly cheered by this faint indication that life might hold some substance beyond the events of this particular evening. Here she reached the heart of her curious distress, for if this evening did not turn out well, did not produce some indication of future progress, did not in fact elicit some sort of plan from Richard, she was devoid of resource for making anything happen to them both in the future. She really did not see that she could take days off and spend her life perusing the
Larousse gastronomique
in the event of being able to proffer another, identical, invitation. She did not realize that most men accept invitations to dinner simply in order to know where the next meal is coming from. Her father, who could have told her this, did not.
At five o’clock she washed up her cup and saucer, and started peeling vegetables. She sliced them and put them into cold water to soak. At five thirty she took them out of the water, browned the chicken in butter and olive oil, and arranged the vegetables in the bottom of a casserole with the jointed chicken on top. She tipped the wine into the casserole. It was ten minutes to six. Mrs Cutler had said a couple of hours. Bored with waiting, she put the dish in the oven and restored the kitchen to its former order.
She stayed as long as possible in the bath, then sprayed herself with a great deal of scent, brushed her hair for a very long time, and made up her
‘Mother,’ said Ruth suddenly and urgently. ‘There’s this man coming to dinner tonight and I’m terrified.’
Helen’s blue eyes turned clouded and vague. She was silent and seemed remote, vaguely offended. But all she said was, ‘I won’t tell your father. He is so frantically anxious in case you do something unsuitable. He’d have kept you at home, if at all possible. No, say nothing. Terrified?’ She gave a very small smile. ‘There’s no need to be. No need at all.’
7
She returned home in the early afternoon, with her chicken, and wondered what to do next. By then she was dreamily depressed, half longing for the day to be over. She had not known that a state of waiting could be so consuming an affair. The flat was clean; the sun, now hot and strong, lay in a shaft over the window seat and along the old flowered carpet. Through the window she could see lorries loading and unloading in the depository. Miss Howe and Miss Mackendrick must have gone on one of their expeditions, for there was no noise or movement in the house. She sat in the shaft of sunlight and reflected how little there was to do when she was not working. She could not even settle to a book. In any event, she had been reading less since her first meeting with Richard.
At four o’clock she made a cup of tea and carried it back to her shaft of sunlight, as if seeking protection. She wished she had stayed on at Oakwood Court to see her father but it would have been too much of a rush to get back and she was afraid that all the shops would suddenly run out of chicken. Half reluctantly she made some sort of timetable: the preparation of the meal, the bath, the insertion of the dish into the oven, dressing, and then what Mrs Cutler called the finishing touches.
She had no confidence in any of it any more, and she knew that food, however mediocre, must be served with authority. Timing the rice was going to be particularly tricky. If Richard was due at eight, she should put the
water on to boil at seven thirty. She had not given this problem due consideration; it almost annoyed her to have to give it her consideration now. Problems to which there is no solution waste a lot of one’s time, she reflected.
She became alarmed at her dispirited condition, picked up Balzac’s
Un Début dans la Vie
, got annoyed by the excessive geographical information given in the first few pages, realized that she would have to travel fairly widely in the provinces when she got to France, and became slightly cheered by this faint indication that life might hold some substance beyond the events of this particular evening. Here she reached the heart of her curious distress, for if this evening did not turn out well, did not produce some indication of future progress, did not in fact elicit some sort of plan from Richard, she was devoid of resource for making anything happen to them both in the future. She really did not see that she could take days off and spend her life perusing the
Larousse gastronomique
in the event of being able to proffer another, identical, invitation. She did not realize that most men accept invitations to dinner simply in order to know where the next meal is coming from. Her father, who could have told her this, did not.
At five o’clock she washed up her cup and saucer, and started peeling vegetables. She sliced them and put them into cold water to soak. At five thirty she took them out of the water, browned the chicken in butter and olive oil, and arranged the vegetables in the bottom of a casserole with the jointed chicken on top. She tipped the wine into the casserole. It was ten minutes to six. Mrs Cutler had said a couple of hours. Bored with waiting, she put the dish in the oven and restored the kitchen to its former order.
She stayed as long as possible in the bath, then sprayed herself with a great deal of scent, brushed her hair for a very long time, and made up her
Similar Books
