face carefully. She was
in a sudden hurry to change from her weary daytime self to the more heightened self she would be that evening. Her heart had started to beat rather rapidly, and the colour was coming to her cheeks. She dressed her hair, and put on her grandmother’s high-necked blouse and the tapestry skirt that showed off her slight figure. Pinning the cameo at her throat, she noted with approval that she was looking her best. It was twenty minutes to seven.
This, now, was the best of it. Waiting had become something to enjoy, to savour; waiting was almost a tribute she owed herself. The sun blazed strongly on the carpet, its shaft now pointing into a corner of the room; soon it would disappear and the curious white light of a June evening in Edith Grove would make lamps superfluous. The street noises diminished in volume as the evening rush subsided, but a sudden gust of sound, as the front door opened and closed, told her that Miss Howe and Miss Mackendrick were back. There was an agitation on the stairs: Miss Mackendrick was overtired and fretful and inclined to blame Miss Howe for the long wait at the bus stop. ‘We could have gone in the Gunter and sat down if you hadn’t acted so daft,’ said Miss Howe scornfully. Then, having delivered Miss Mackendrick to her door, she went muttering down the stairs to her basement.
Seven o’clock. Only another hour. The kitchen began to smell pleasantly of food. She filled a large saucepan with water, salted it, and measured the rice into a cup which she placed at the side of the stove. She took knives and forks and napkins – her grandmother’s – into the sitting room and put them on the long low table in front of the sofa. The meal suddenly seemed endowed with success. She took the apple tart out of its box and laid it on a baking sheet, ready to go into the oven when the casserole came out.
At seven thirty she lit the gas under the saucepan of
water for the rice. Then she went into the bedroom to repowder her face. She noted with approval that her colour was still high and that her eyes were wide and confident. She felt careless of results now, committed to enjoying the present.
At a quarter to eight she switched off the gas under the pan of water, which was boiling furiously, went into the bathroom and sprayed herself once more with scent. She was extremely hungry but had neglected to buy anything in the way of normal food. There was not so much as a banana in the flat. She made herself a cup of coffee and drank it guiltily, standing at the window, her cheeks flushing deeper with the scalding heat of it. Then there was nothing for it but to refill the pan of water for the rice and start it boiling all over again.
At a quarter past eight she was feeling rather ill. She filled the pan of water yet once more and looked in the oven at her casserole. There was an ominous browning round the edges and she added more wine. She then powdered her face, noting with dismay that her colour had disappeared and that her eyes looked anxious and miserable. Nothing irrevocable has happened, she promised herself, she who was always early. He has been caught in a traffic jam. Or somebody has rung up at the last minute. Or he has had a slow puncture.
At eight thirty she telephoned Anthea to see if Richard had been absent from college that day.
‘Oh, Christ,’ groaned Anthea. ‘Don’t ever let this happen again. I can’t stand it. Get him to take you out. But don’t sit and wait.’
‘But if he’s ill he can’t help it. You can afford not to wait for Brian, you know you can. It’s different for me; I’ve never had a regular boyfriend.’
‘Who has?’ said Anthea, relapsing from common sense to common despair. ‘He’ll turn up eventually. Just stick it out. And don’t ask him where he’s been. Don’t bloody well ask him anything. Just don’t invite him again, that’s
all I beg.’
Crashing down the receiver, Ruth walked resolutely to the kitchen, filled the
in a sudden hurry to change from her weary daytime self to the more heightened self she would be that evening. Her heart had started to beat rather rapidly, and the colour was coming to her cheeks. She dressed her hair, and put on her grandmother’s high-necked blouse and the tapestry skirt that showed off her slight figure. Pinning the cameo at her throat, she noted with approval that she was looking her best. It was twenty minutes to seven.
This, now, was the best of it. Waiting had become something to enjoy, to savour; waiting was almost a tribute she owed herself. The sun blazed strongly on the carpet, its shaft now pointing into a corner of the room; soon it would disappear and the curious white light of a June evening in Edith Grove would make lamps superfluous. The street noises diminished in volume as the evening rush subsided, but a sudden gust of sound, as the front door opened and closed, told her that Miss Howe and Miss Mackendrick were back. There was an agitation on the stairs: Miss Mackendrick was overtired and fretful and inclined to blame Miss Howe for the long wait at the bus stop. ‘We could have gone in the Gunter and sat down if you hadn’t acted so daft,’ said Miss Howe scornfully. Then, having delivered Miss Mackendrick to her door, she went muttering down the stairs to her basement.
Seven o’clock. Only another hour. The kitchen began to smell pleasantly of food. She filled a large saucepan with water, salted it, and measured the rice into a cup which she placed at the side of the stove. She took knives and forks and napkins – her grandmother’s – into the sitting room and put them on the long low table in front of the sofa. The meal suddenly seemed endowed with success. She took the apple tart out of its box and laid it on a baking sheet, ready to go into the oven when the casserole came out.
At seven thirty she lit the gas under the saucepan of
water for the rice. Then she went into the bedroom to repowder her face. She noted with approval that her colour was still high and that her eyes were wide and confident. She felt careless of results now, committed to enjoying the present.
At a quarter to eight she switched off the gas under the pan of water, which was boiling furiously, went into the bathroom and sprayed herself once more with scent. She was extremely hungry but had neglected to buy anything in the way of normal food. There was not so much as a banana in the flat. She made herself a cup of coffee and drank it guiltily, standing at the window, her cheeks flushing deeper with the scalding heat of it. Then there was nothing for it but to refill the pan of water for the rice and start it boiling all over again.
At a quarter past eight she was feeling rather ill. She filled the pan of water yet once more and looked in the oven at her casserole. There was an ominous browning round the edges and she added more wine. She then powdered her face, noting with dismay that her colour had disappeared and that her eyes looked anxious and miserable. Nothing irrevocable has happened, she promised herself, she who was always early. He has been caught in a traffic jam. Or somebody has rung up at the last minute. Or he has had a slow puncture.
At eight thirty she telephoned Anthea to see if Richard had been absent from college that day.
‘Oh, Christ,’ groaned Anthea. ‘Don’t ever let this happen again. I can’t stand it. Get him to take you out. But don’t sit and wait.’
‘But if he’s ill he can’t help it. You can afford not to wait for Brian, you know you can. It’s different for me; I’ve never had a regular boyfriend.’
‘Who has?’ said Anthea, relapsing from common sense to common despair. ‘He’ll turn up eventually. Just stick it out. And don’t ask him where he’s been. Don’t bloody well ask him anything. Just don’t invite him again, that’s
all I beg.’
Crashing down the receiver, Ruth walked resolutely to the kitchen, filled the
Similar Books
