tried a few scales unaccompanied I noticed how my voice had darkened. The voice deepens as one gets older. The change was infinitesimal to anyone who was not trained, but I knew, as I sang those scales, that my singing days were over. ‘Arcady,’ I sang fearfully, in the cruel indigo room. ‘Arcady, Arcady is always young.’ My voice cracked very slightly on the high note, and I blushed, a deep suffusing blush that ebbed away slowly, leaving me quite weak.
Owen had been abroad a great deal recently and there was some feeling in Hanover Square that he should put in more time at the office. His reaction to this was to tell me that he was inviting the senior partners to dinner, with their wives. This meant three separate dinner parties, for it would look too obvious if they were all to be invited together. His uncle Bernard and Lady Frances were no problem, nor was there any difficulty with George and Claire Gascoigne, who were elderly. But on the day that we were expecting Charlie and Julia Morton—famous Julia—in the evening, I had a headache and was unusually low-spirited. My fingers were clumsy as I laid the table and I should have given anything to be able to go to bed. In fact I did lie down for half an hour and fell asleep, which annoyed Owen, who woke me when he came up to dress. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything difficult. You don’t even have to go out. Just put a good face on it, that’s all I ask.’ He added, ‘And you’d better see the doctor tomorrow, if you really feel rotten. You don’t suppose …?’ ‘No,’I said, for I had never become pregnant and now I knew I never should. Some part of me must have resisted being taken over even further, and although I did not grieve too much then I do now. Growing old is so meaningless when there are no young people to watch.
I got out of bed, had my bath, and dressed. My head was throbbing, but I thought it might be all right if I did not eat: the smell of the roast veal, as I opened the oven, made me turn away, momentarily faint. Owen was on edge, and it looked as if the evening could not be anything but an outright failure. The Mortons had never been to us before because Julia was still on the stage and did not go out in the evening, at least not to any house connected with her husband’s business, which she deplored, as if he conducted it only out of some weird caprice, when he could have been spending more time at home with her. But the changing fashions had evidently reached Julia and she roundly condemned the tide of popular taste which was turning against her and the particular impression she conveyed. From her first entrance into our drawing-room that evening, in ravishing black silk, with a black silk turban, it was evident that she had thrown herself body and soul into the character of a simple suburban wife. ‘My darlings!’ she announced, sweeping a black chiffon handkerchief from her bag and draping it round her neck, ‘I want you to treat me as one of yourselves. Forget about Julia. Julia is no more. Let the people have what they want. If they want ruffians there are plenty to go round. My day is done.’ She put her hand to her throat and I swear there were tears in her eyes. Charlie, who must have brought unobtrusiveness to a fine art, removed the black chiffon scarf and put it in his pocket. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Isn’t that the sort of thing middle-class housewives wear? For I suppose we are allmiddle-class now,’ she added, and the eyelids came down. ‘What about the ruffians?’ said Owen, laughing. The eyelids were slowly and suggestively lifted. ‘I dare say they are available if one knows where to look for them.’
I was laughing now and the evening looked less dubious than it had done. Although she had very little to say to me (‘Oh, do show me what you are cooking. I am so interested’) she appreciated Owen wonderfully. He was, after all, a handsome and attentive
Owen had been abroad a great deal recently and there was some feeling in Hanover Square that he should put in more time at the office. His reaction to this was to tell me that he was inviting the senior partners to dinner, with their wives. This meant three separate dinner parties, for it would look too obvious if they were all to be invited together. His uncle Bernard and Lady Frances were no problem, nor was there any difficulty with George and Claire Gascoigne, who were elderly. But on the day that we were expecting Charlie and Julia Morton—famous Julia—in the evening, I had a headache and was unusually low-spirited. My fingers were clumsy as I laid the table and I should have given anything to be able to go to bed. In fact I did lie down for half an hour and fell asleep, which annoyed Owen, who woke me when he came up to dress. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘I’m not asking you to do anything difficult. You don’t even have to go out. Just put a good face on it, that’s all I ask.’ He added, ‘And you’d better see the doctor tomorrow, if you really feel rotten. You don’t suppose …?’ ‘No,’I said, for I had never become pregnant and now I knew I never should. Some part of me must have resisted being taken over even further, and although I did not grieve too much then I do now. Growing old is so meaningless when there are no young people to watch.
I got out of bed, had my bath, and dressed. My head was throbbing, but I thought it might be all right if I did not eat: the smell of the roast veal, as I opened the oven, made me turn away, momentarily faint. Owen was on edge, and it looked as if the evening could not be anything but an outright failure. The Mortons had never been to us before because Julia was still on the stage and did not go out in the evening, at least not to any house connected with her husband’s business, which she deplored, as if he conducted it only out of some weird caprice, when he could have been spending more time at home with her. But the changing fashions had evidently reached Julia and she roundly condemned the tide of popular taste which was turning against her and the particular impression she conveyed. From her first entrance into our drawing-room that evening, in ravishing black silk, with a black silk turban, it was evident that she had thrown herself body and soul into the character of a simple suburban wife. ‘My darlings!’ she announced, sweeping a black chiffon handkerchief from her bag and draping it round her neck, ‘I want you to treat me as one of yourselves. Forget about Julia. Julia is no more. Let the people have what they want. If they want ruffians there are plenty to go round. My day is done.’ She put her hand to her throat and I swear there were tears in her eyes. Charlie, who must have brought unobtrusiveness to a fine art, removed the black chiffon scarf and put it in his pocket. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Isn’t that the sort of thing middle-class housewives wear? For I suppose we are allmiddle-class now,’ she added, and the eyelids came down. ‘What about the ruffians?’ said Owen, laughing. The eyelids were slowly and suggestively lifted. ‘I dare say they are available if one knows where to look for them.’
I was laughing now and the evening looked less dubious than it had done. Although she had very little to say to me (‘Oh, do show me what you are cooking. I am so interested’) she appreciated Owen wonderfully. He was, after all, a handsome and attentive
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