was. In an hour she might get up.
6
“I am consumed by a desire to see your house,” Amy read. “Laurel House, Laurel Walk sounds so English.” Martha’s spidery, American hand-writing. Ernie, bringing in a pot of coffee, asked, “Everything all right, madam?” His new teeth clicked badly. If they were to do it for ever, she felt that she could not bear it.
“Yes, yes,” she said. She knew that he always read her letters, and wondered why he bothered to make such enquiries.
She re-read the letter for the third time, wondering how she could decently prevent Martha from coming, who could recreate the nightmare, letting slip place-names, which must never be mentioned to her again; but she knew that she could not decently prevent her, after all that she had done. She had already behaved too badly– the very worst behaviour of her life, she was sure. Perhaps delay her, though. A little later, she wrote to Martha. “I should love to see you here, and hope to.” She paused in desperation, and then wrote, “It just so happens” (that opening phrase of liars) “that I am off to stay with my son and daughter-in-law for a while. No specified time on either side, but it will be a change which perhaps I need. When I return, may I write again to ask you to come to my English house? You were good
to
me and
for
me, and your unselfishness I shall always remember.” More like a farewell letter than one of promise. Tears often came to her eyes when writing insincere letters, and theycame now for a moment. Then she got up and telephoned Maggie, her daughter-in-law. “Why, that would be simply lovely.” Maggie said in a resilient voice. “James and I and the little girls will be delighted.”
“I am going to stay for a day or two on Campden Hill.” Amy told Ernie, who pouted.
It was a morning of autumn beauty, with sun on the yellow leaves, and she went for a walk along the towing path. How to pass her time was her problem, and she wondered about other women alone in their houses, wishing their lives away. Crisp leaves were blown across the river from the trees on the ait. It was a swirling, dancing day. She passed cottages and rather grand villas crowded together, a clapboard-fronted pub, Nick’s old haunt. The river was brown and scummy. Schoolboys shot by, sculling.
At the end of the walk, by the bridge, she turned and, looking at her watch, found that she had passed hardly any time. Perhaps it’s a good idea to go to Maggie’s, she thought; but her spirits did not lift at the idea. Unwilling to go in from the bright air, she sat for a while on the low riverside wall outside Laurel House, looking down at the water. The river was less polluted these days, she had been told, and she could certainly see small, shadowy, darting fish.
She looked up quickly, as Ernie, above her, opened her bedroom window and shook out a duster. She smiled and lifted her hand. He nodded, as if preoccupied with duty.
I love our…I love my house, she thought. Like the pub, it was weather-boarded, painted white. Above her bedroom, was a great jutting-out casement, whichwas the window of Nick’s studio. One day, she would go up there again, as his gallery tactfully urged her to. Perhaps tomorrow I will, she sometimes thought.
An old magnolia grandiflora was dropping leaves with quite a clatter onto the pathway. Windows glinted – for Ernie was houseproud. She sat for a long while in the warm sun, and presently Ernie came out and began to polish the brass door-knocker, which was a slender ringed hand, clasping a ball.
“Sunning yourself?” he asked over a shoulder, seeming now to be in a relaxed mood.
The little girls on Campden Hill were called Dora and Isobel, because the names seemed to set a fashion of fashionable quaintness, and had importance for Maggie, Amy had realised, feeling smug that lots of little babies were now given her own name. “Every other child seems to be Dora these days,” Maggie said, glancing through
6
“I am consumed by a desire to see your house,” Amy read. “Laurel House, Laurel Walk sounds so English.” Martha’s spidery, American hand-writing. Ernie, bringing in a pot of coffee, asked, “Everything all right, madam?” His new teeth clicked badly. If they were to do it for ever, she felt that she could not bear it.
“Yes, yes,” she said. She knew that he always read her letters, and wondered why he bothered to make such enquiries.
She re-read the letter for the third time, wondering how she could decently prevent Martha from coming, who could recreate the nightmare, letting slip place-names, which must never be mentioned to her again; but she knew that she could not decently prevent her, after all that she had done. She had already behaved too badly– the very worst behaviour of her life, she was sure. Perhaps delay her, though. A little later, she wrote to Martha. “I should love to see you here, and hope to.” She paused in desperation, and then wrote, “It just so happens” (that opening phrase of liars) “that I am off to stay with my son and daughter-in-law for a while. No specified time on either side, but it will be a change which perhaps I need. When I return, may I write again to ask you to come to my English house? You were good
to
me and
for
me, and your unselfishness I shall always remember.” More like a farewell letter than one of promise. Tears often came to her eyes when writing insincere letters, and theycame now for a moment. Then she got up and telephoned Maggie, her daughter-in-law. “Why, that would be simply lovely.” Maggie said in a resilient voice. “James and I and the little girls will be delighted.”
“I am going to stay for a day or two on Campden Hill.” Amy told Ernie, who pouted.
It was a morning of autumn beauty, with sun on the yellow leaves, and she went for a walk along the towing path. How to pass her time was her problem, and she wondered about other women alone in their houses, wishing their lives away. Crisp leaves were blown across the river from the trees on the ait. It was a swirling, dancing day. She passed cottages and rather grand villas crowded together, a clapboard-fronted pub, Nick’s old haunt. The river was brown and scummy. Schoolboys shot by, sculling.
At the end of the walk, by the bridge, she turned and, looking at her watch, found that she had passed hardly any time. Perhaps it’s a good idea to go to Maggie’s, she thought; but her spirits did not lift at the idea. Unwilling to go in from the bright air, she sat for a while on the low riverside wall outside Laurel House, looking down at the water. The river was less polluted these days, she had been told, and she could certainly see small, shadowy, darting fish.
She looked up quickly, as Ernie, above her, opened her bedroom window and shook out a duster. She smiled and lifted her hand. He nodded, as if preoccupied with duty.
I love our…I love my house, she thought. Like the pub, it was weather-boarded, painted white. Above her bedroom, was a great jutting-out casement, whichwas the window of Nick’s studio. One day, she would go up there again, as his gallery tactfully urged her to. Perhaps tomorrow I will, she sometimes thought.
An old magnolia grandiflora was dropping leaves with quite a clatter onto the pathway. Windows glinted – for Ernie was houseproud. She sat for a long while in the warm sun, and presently Ernie came out and began to polish the brass door-knocker, which was a slender ringed hand, clasping a ball.
“Sunning yourself?” he asked over a shoulder, seeming now to be in a relaxed mood.
The little girls on Campden Hill were called Dora and Isobel, because the names seemed to set a fashion of fashionable quaintness, and had importance for Maggie, Amy had realised, feeling smug that lots of little babies were now given her own name. “Every other child seems to be Dora these days,” Maggie said, glancing through
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