here, it's not as if we've ever been officially engaged. I just want us to have a breathing space. It doesn't change anything, not really."
Rory thought it changed everything. A moment before he had been engaged. Now he wasn't.
They smoked in silence. Embers rustled in the grate. The only light came from the standard lamp. He wanted to make love to Fenella more than ever. She might even let him if he kept on asking, he thought, but would she say yes out of pity? As a way of saying sorry? Or--and this thought shocked him--because she didn't much care one way or the other?
He threw the cigarette end into the heart of the fire. "I'm definitely not going back to India. I posted the letter yesterday morning. I'll find something here."
"Still in journalism?"
"Or advertising. I've got a few leads."
"Will your father help until you get a job?"
He shook his head. "He couldn't, even if he wanted to. He's got my sisters to think of. Anyway, he's only got his salary." He paused. "I'm looking for new digs. Somewhere more central."
"Will you be able to manage?"
"For the time being."
He had saved a little from his salary in India. His grandmother had left him a hundred pounds when she died last year. He had enough for a few months in London, if not enough to marry on.
"But I can't stay where I am. It's not convenient, and anyway Mrs. Rutter's idea of a square meal is tinned tongue and green slime. I don't suppose you'd consider...?"
Fenella stood up abruptly. "No. I'm sorry. It wouldn't be decent for you to come and live here, and you know it."
"I could pay rent. I could--" He broke off and ran his fingers through his hair. "Sorry. It just seems so damned stupid. These conventions."
"You wouldn't say that if you were a woman, Rory. Can you even begin to imagine what people would say?" She looked at the clock on the mantel.
"I'd better go." He cleared his throat. He wanted to tell her about Narton and the flat in Bleeding Heart Square, despite what the Sergeant had said. He should also mention the improbably smart young lady who had been at both the house and the cafe.
But she was already on her feet and moving toward the door. Rory felt light-headed when he stood up, as if unhappiness made one dizzy.
"Are you all right for tomorrow evening still?" she said.
"Yes. I suppose so."
"I've got tickets."
"I'm surprised anyone's willing to pay."
"It's a good cause. And the speaker's jolly good. I've heard him several times before."
"I'll call for you about a quarter past seven, shall I?"
The smell of cooking in the hall reminded him of Smithfield market yesterday afternoon, of meeting Sergeant Narton, of raw meat and blood.
Fenella touched his arm. As he turned back to her, she stood on tiptoe and her lips brushed his cheek.
He wound his scarf around his neck. I'm imagining things, he thought. I'm imagining the smell of unhappiness.
4
Y OU SEE NOW Serridge was desperate for money. But it was more complicated than that.
Tuesday, 14 January 1930
Major Serridge came to tea this afternoon to show me his engraving. The presence of a bluff military man caused quite a stir among the old tabbies in the dining room, especially the six of them at the table in the bay window, which they treat as their personal property. I thought Miss Beale stared in really quite a rude manner. I know for a fact that she has been here for nearly 20 years. She celebrated her 75th birthday in September. So she must have been about my age when she came to live at the Rushmere. It quite chills the blood to think about it.
But to return to Major Serridge. We had a most interesting conversation. He has served all over the Empire. He was even in China--he spoke very feelingly about the famine they are having at present, and said it was the children he felt most sorry for. He left the Army for a few years but he was soon back in uniform for the Great War. But when I asked him if he had been on the Western Front, he winked at me and said that he wasn't
Rory thought it changed everything. A moment before he had been engaged. Now he wasn't.
They smoked in silence. Embers rustled in the grate. The only light came from the standard lamp. He wanted to make love to Fenella more than ever. She might even let him if he kept on asking, he thought, but would she say yes out of pity? As a way of saying sorry? Or--and this thought shocked him--because she didn't much care one way or the other?
He threw the cigarette end into the heart of the fire. "I'm definitely not going back to India. I posted the letter yesterday morning. I'll find something here."
"Still in journalism?"
"Or advertising. I've got a few leads."
"Will your father help until you get a job?"
He shook his head. "He couldn't, even if he wanted to. He's got my sisters to think of. Anyway, he's only got his salary." He paused. "I'm looking for new digs. Somewhere more central."
"Will you be able to manage?"
"For the time being."
He had saved a little from his salary in India. His grandmother had left him a hundred pounds when she died last year. He had enough for a few months in London, if not enough to marry on.
"But I can't stay where I am. It's not convenient, and anyway Mrs. Rutter's idea of a square meal is tinned tongue and green slime. I don't suppose you'd consider...?"
Fenella stood up abruptly. "No. I'm sorry. It wouldn't be decent for you to come and live here, and you know it."
"I could pay rent. I could--" He broke off and ran his fingers through his hair. "Sorry. It just seems so damned stupid. These conventions."
"You wouldn't say that if you were a woman, Rory. Can you even begin to imagine what people would say?" She looked at the clock on the mantel.
"I'd better go." He cleared his throat. He wanted to tell her about Narton and the flat in Bleeding Heart Square, despite what the Sergeant had said. He should also mention the improbably smart young lady who had been at both the house and the cafe.
But she was already on her feet and moving toward the door. Rory felt light-headed when he stood up, as if unhappiness made one dizzy.
"Are you all right for tomorrow evening still?" she said.
"Yes. I suppose so."
"I've got tickets."
"I'm surprised anyone's willing to pay."
"It's a good cause. And the speaker's jolly good. I've heard him several times before."
"I'll call for you about a quarter past seven, shall I?"
The smell of cooking in the hall reminded him of Smithfield market yesterday afternoon, of meeting Sergeant Narton, of raw meat and blood.
Fenella touched his arm. As he turned back to her, she stood on tiptoe and her lips brushed his cheek.
He wound his scarf around his neck. I'm imagining things, he thought. I'm imagining the smell of unhappiness.
4
Y OU SEE NOW Serridge was desperate for money. But it was more complicated than that.
Tuesday, 14 January 1930
Major Serridge came to tea this afternoon to show me his engraving. The presence of a bluff military man caused quite a stir among the old tabbies in the dining room, especially the six of them at the table in the bay window, which they treat as their personal property. I thought Miss Beale stared in really quite a rude manner. I know for a fact that she has been here for nearly 20 years. She celebrated her 75th birthday in September. So she must have been about my age when she came to live at the Rushmere. It quite chills the blood to think about it.
But to return to Major Serridge. We had a most interesting conversation. He has served all over the Empire. He was even in China--he spoke very feelingly about the famine they are having at present, and said it was the children he felt most sorry for. He left the Army for a few years but he was soon back in uniform for the Great War. But when I asked him if he had been on the Western Front, he winked at me and said that he wasn't
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