rather spoiled it by adding, ‘to make up for the other evening.’
‘All right. Since you press me, I will,’ she agreed.
‘Oh, Liz, I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Patrick, aware suddenly of how graceless he sounded. ‘What a boor I am.’
It was unlike him to castigate himself.
‘Give yourself a drink while I get dressed,’ she said, suppressing an impulse to reassure him. ‘You know where everything is.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Patrick, putting a hand on her arm as she turned away. Her hair was damp round her small, pointed face, and her eyes were large and dark. There were shadows under them. She looked up at him, and there was an instant when either of them might have drawn back with a laugh or a light remark, but neither did. Patrick kissed her again, and less chastely this time.
After some moments they did move apart and gazed at one another in wonder. Then the habit of years reasserted itself; they both laughed, Patrick released her and the incident was over. Liz disappeared into her room, and Patrick went into her sitting-room considerably shaken.
Watch it, he told himself. Liz’ll throw you out if you get those sort of ideas about her; you’re a brother figure to her, no more. You can’t treat Liz like some other girl; she’s vulnerable, and you’ve known her too long. Besides, you don’t want any complications.
When she came back, wearing a long blue skirt and a striped shirt, looking somewhat Edwardian, she behaved as if nothing had happened, sitting in the one armchair and not beside him on the sofa. She seemed composed. While dressing, she had wondered, in some agitation, what mood to adopt, and had decided to play for safety.
The foolish pair sipped their drinks in detached amity.
‘Have you any more news about Sam?’ Liz asked.
Part VI
1
Patrick drove back to Oxford late that night feeling unsettled. Liz had seemed different. All through dinner he had found himself noticing how their minds dovetailed, how swiftly she picked up an allusion, something he had hitherto taken for granted. And she was nice to look at, sitting opposite him in the candlelight.
They talked about Sam, and Patrick described his visit to Stratford-upon-Avon.
‘But if it wasn’t suicide, what could have happened?’ Liz asked.
‘I don’t know. No one could have had a motive for murdering him.’
‘Professional rivalry? Someone else wanting to be Friar Lawrence?’
‘Hardly. He wasn’t successful enough for that. Besides, do you think actors really go round killing one another out of professional jealousy? I doubt it.’
‘Who’ll get his parts now?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘It must have been an accident. He fell in the river – I don’t know – after a few drinks. On his way to the theatre.’
‘But the rope marks on his wrists – how do you explain them?’
‘Some sex aberration?’ hazarded Liz.
‘Well—I hadn’t thought of that,’ Patrick admitted. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. But Sam, surely not?’
‘How can one tell about other people?’ Liz asked.
‘You thought he wasn’t interested, when we met him in Greutz,’ Patrick remembered.
‘He was nervous of women. Some men are,’ said Liz. She hesitated, then plunged on: nothing was altered: this was Patrick, with whom for half her life she had felt free to discuss any subject. ‘They’re afraid that more may be expected of them than they’re prepared – or perhaps able – to offer. An inverted form of conceit, when you think about it. He was a nice man, though. He relaxed, once he was sure no one was trying to trap him.’
‘He was very unsure of himself. I realise that now,’ said Patrick.
‘Yes. Covered it up by fleeing,’ said Liz. ‘One does, doesn’t one—’ She let the sentence fade away, looking suddenly embarrassed, and inspected the small posy of flowers arranged on their table.
Patrick regarded her curiously. He knew little about her day-to-day life now. In Austria, where
‘All right. Since you press me, I will,’ she agreed.
‘Oh, Liz, I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Patrick, aware suddenly of how graceless he sounded. ‘What a boor I am.’
It was unlike him to castigate himself.
‘Give yourself a drink while I get dressed,’ she said, suppressing an impulse to reassure him. ‘You know where everything is.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Patrick, putting a hand on her arm as she turned away. Her hair was damp round her small, pointed face, and her eyes were large and dark. There were shadows under them. She looked up at him, and there was an instant when either of them might have drawn back with a laugh or a light remark, but neither did. Patrick kissed her again, and less chastely this time.
After some moments they did move apart and gazed at one another in wonder. Then the habit of years reasserted itself; they both laughed, Patrick released her and the incident was over. Liz disappeared into her room, and Patrick went into her sitting-room considerably shaken.
Watch it, he told himself. Liz’ll throw you out if you get those sort of ideas about her; you’re a brother figure to her, no more. You can’t treat Liz like some other girl; she’s vulnerable, and you’ve known her too long. Besides, you don’t want any complications.
When she came back, wearing a long blue skirt and a striped shirt, looking somewhat Edwardian, she behaved as if nothing had happened, sitting in the one armchair and not beside him on the sofa. She seemed composed. While dressing, she had wondered, in some agitation, what mood to adopt, and had decided to play for safety.
The foolish pair sipped their drinks in detached amity.
‘Have you any more news about Sam?’ Liz asked.
Part VI
1
Patrick drove back to Oxford late that night feeling unsettled. Liz had seemed different. All through dinner he had found himself noticing how their minds dovetailed, how swiftly she picked up an allusion, something he had hitherto taken for granted. And she was nice to look at, sitting opposite him in the candlelight.
They talked about Sam, and Patrick described his visit to Stratford-upon-Avon.
‘But if it wasn’t suicide, what could have happened?’ Liz asked.
‘I don’t know. No one could have had a motive for murdering him.’
‘Professional rivalry? Someone else wanting to be Friar Lawrence?’
‘Hardly. He wasn’t successful enough for that. Besides, do you think actors really go round killing one another out of professional jealousy? I doubt it.’
‘Who’ll get his parts now?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘It must have been an accident. He fell in the river – I don’t know – after a few drinks. On his way to the theatre.’
‘But the rope marks on his wrists – how do you explain them?’
‘Some sex aberration?’ hazarded Liz.
‘Well—I hadn’t thought of that,’ Patrick admitted. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. But Sam, surely not?’
‘How can one tell about other people?’ Liz asked.
‘You thought he wasn’t interested, when we met him in Greutz,’ Patrick remembered.
‘He was nervous of women. Some men are,’ said Liz. She hesitated, then plunged on: nothing was altered: this was Patrick, with whom for half her life she had felt free to discuss any subject. ‘They’re afraid that more may be expected of them than they’re prepared – or perhaps able – to offer. An inverted form of conceit, when you think about it. He was a nice man, though. He relaxed, once he was sure no one was trying to trap him.’
‘He was very unsure of himself. I realise that now,’ said Patrick.
‘Yes. Covered it up by fleeing,’ said Liz. ‘One does, doesn’t one—’ She let the sentence fade away, looking suddenly embarrassed, and inspected the small posy of flowers arranged on their table.
Patrick regarded her curiously. He knew little about her day-to-day life now. In Austria, where
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