dependent on the kindness of others, a housekeeper, a secretary, a doctor. He decided it might be possible to live with a black, starry cloakroom. He would ask the housekeeper to remove the antique chair, tactfully. To clean the carpet. Perhaps even to consult Lady Wijnnobel about a replacement carpet, more in keeping with black walls.
He had met Eva Selkett during the war, during his time at Bletchley. He was thirty-four and had had one love-affair, with a Dutch Jewish art historian, who had been shot in Amsterdam. Eva was twenty-four, a stenographer. She came from an English family that had been settled in Alexandria, she said. She said she was an Egyptologist, and had written a thesis on hieroglyphs, this was how she had come to be working with the code-breakers. She said that this research had been done in Oxford, and then said that she had given the wrong impression and she was about to take up a place in Oxford when the war broke out, her serious research had been done in Alexandria. In 1942 and 1943 she was beautiful, with a great mass of dark hair rolled over her brow, and another rolled under, along her shoulders. She said very little, and gave the impression of sadness and private withdrawal. Bit by bit, she revealed that all her family had died in the German invasion; that she had also lost a lover; that she had been very ill, but was now better. She listened, when he took her out to dinner, occasionally offering an enigmatic and appropriate quotation. She quoted Yeats and Vaughan, Jung and Hermes Trismegistus. Wijnnobel was naturally a sparse talker, but in those days he talked to her, over dinner, over warm English beer, sitting by their bicycles in a field, listening to the planes go over. He told her briefly about Liliane. He talked to her about Mondrian, Hepworth, Gabo, the spiritual meanings of horizontals and verticals. She spokeâquietly and cogentlyâabout number symbolism and spiritual forms. It was in the air, amongst the code-breakers, the Platonic world of pure maths. He was awkward with women, because of his height. He was afraid of her creamy beauty. One day, as they leaned on a gate, she took his hand, gravely, and put it on her breast, over her cotton shirt. She said, a week or two later, âWhen we are married we will have a dovecote, and doves.â The future seemed brief, in those days. He wanted children. He wanted to lose himself in the curves of that warm skin. They married quicklyâthere was no family to invite, or so he thought. Later he discovered that Evaâs orphaned state, like her degree in Egyptology, was not what it seemed. They had a honeymoon in a country farmhouse in Oxfordshire.
He knew quickly that he was disappointedâhe did not then say, deceived. He tried to overcome his disappointment. After the war, he had university posts in Durham and London. He worked. Eva grew fat. He hoped, once or twice, that she might be growing heavier because she was pregnant, but no children came. He retreated into Fibonacci spirals and a study of word order in sentences in several languages. Eva in a white nightgown walked out of an upper window in Durham and crashed through an apple-tree, breaking her wrist and her nose. She was, she said, the scorpion goddess, Selket. She was also drunk. She was also sick. Remedies were triedâa Jungian analysis, group healing sessions at Cedar Mount, periods in nursing homes. She told anyone who cared to hear that she was a sacrificial victim of her husbandâs ambition, his self-absorption, his worldly success. She told everyone that he had mistresses in foreign parts. In his Calvinist soul Gerard Wijnnobel believed her, even though his reasonable mind could put the contrary case with his usual clarity.
Another man, not far away, sat on the edge of his bed in Cedar Mount and tried to make plans. He was supposed to be in the Association Room. It was thought desirable that those who were able should associate in groups. He was
He had met Eva Selkett during the war, during his time at Bletchley. He was thirty-four and had had one love-affair, with a Dutch Jewish art historian, who had been shot in Amsterdam. Eva was twenty-four, a stenographer. She came from an English family that had been settled in Alexandria, she said. She said she was an Egyptologist, and had written a thesis on hieroglyphs, this was how she had come to be working with the code-breakers. She said that this research had been done in Oxford, and then said that she had given the wrong impression and she was about to take up a place in Oxford when the war broke out, her serious research had been done in Alexandria. In 1942 and 1943 she was beautiful, with a great mass of dark hair rolled over her brow, and another rolled under, along her shoulders. She said very little, and gave the impression of sadness and private withdrawal. Bit by bit, she revealed that all her family had died in the German invasion; that she had also lost a lover; that she had been very ill, but was now better. She listened, when he took her out to dinner, occasionally offering an enigmatic and appropriate quotation. She quoted Yeats and Vaughan, Jung and Hermes Trismegistus. Wijnnobel was naturally a sparse talker, but in those days he talked to her, over dinner, over warm English beer, sitting by their bicycles in a field, listening to the planes go over. He told her briefly about Liliane. He talked to her about Mondrian, Hepworth, Gabo, the spiritual meanings of horizontals and verticals. She spokeâquietly and cogentlyâabout number symbolism and spiritual forms. It was in the air, amongst the code-breakers, the Platonic world of pure maths. He was awkward with women, because of his height. He was afraid of her creamy beauty. One day, as they leaned on a gate, she took his hand, gravely, and put it on her breast, over her cotton shirt. She said, a week or two later, âWhen we are married we will have a dovecote, and doves.â The future seemed brief, in those days. He wanted children. He wanted to lose himself in the curves of that warm skin. They married quicklyâthere was no family to invite, or so he thought. Later he discovered that Evaâs orphaned state, like her degree in Egyptology, was not what it seemed. They had a honeymoon in a country farmhouse in Oxfordshire.
He knew quickly that he was disappointedâhe did not then say, deceived. He tried to overcome his disappointment. After the war, he had university posts in Durham and London. He worked. Eva grew fat. He hoped, once or twice, that she might be growing heavier because she was pregnant, but no children came. He retreated into Fibonacci spirals and a study of word order in sentences in several languages. Eva in a white nightgown walked out of an upper window in Durham and crashed through an apple-tree, breaking her wrist and her nose. She was, she said, the scorpion goddess, Selket. She was also drunk. She was also sick. Remedies were triedâa Jungian analysis, group healing sessions at Cedar Mount, periods in nursing homes. She told anyone who cared to hear that she was a sacrificial victim of her husbandâs ambition, his self-absorption, his worldly success. She told everyone that he had mistresses in foreign parts. In his Calvinist soul Gerard Wijnnobel believed her, even though his reasonable mind could put the contrary case with his usual clarity.
Another man, not far away, sat on the edge of his bed in Cedar Mount and tried to make plans. He was supposed to be in the Association Room. It was thought desirable that those who were able should associate in groups. He was
Similar Books
