find.’
Could it be that he too had a mother? thought Deirdre in wonder. ‘Does your mother worry?’ she asked, emboldened by the bitter.
‘She certainly does. She’s bought herself a book about tropical diseases and has rather a horrid time reading about everything I might get. I hope you aren’t awfully hungry,’ he went on, as they walked along the street. ‘I should have bought a sandwich for you, but I’ve had a meal myself so I’m afraid I forgot.’
Deirdre wondered what meal it could have been. An early lunch seemed unlikely, so perhaps it was a very late breakfast? She was able to ponder about this on the bus home, remembering the whole wonderful experience and his friendly, if too casual, ‘see you again, sometime.’ But when , she had wanted to ask, wondering how she was going to endure her evening with Bernard Springe and all the days ahead with the uncertainty of her next meeting with Tom lying over them.
There are few experiences more boring and painful for a woman than an evening spent in the company of one man when she is longing to be with another, and that evening Bernard’s dullness seemed to have a positive quality about it so that it was almost a physical agony, like the dentist’s drill pressing on a sensitive tooth. And yet Bernard was tall and well-dressed, better-looking than Tom Mallow, and his conversation, if one were to analyse it, was perhaps more interesting than Tom’s had been. He took Deirdre to a play she had been wanting to see and gave her a good supper afterwards. What was more, he had a car, which meant that the ride home to the suburb was done in comfort, with no anxiety about the last bus or tiring journey in crowded stuffy tube.
The wine she had drunk had put Deirdre into a silent brooding mood and they drove without speaking for some time. She was trying to imagine what an evening with Tom would have been like. Of course he hadn’t any money, so they would just have gone somewhere cheap to eat or perhaps just sat in a pub drinking beer and talking about his work. Segmentation of the lineage, fission and accretion, she thought, desolately and without humour.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Bernard asked gently.
They could have ridden on top of a bus together, but of course she didn’t yet know where he lived. Perhaps somebody at college would know—surely she could bring the conversation round to Tom Mallow somehow without it seeming too obvious?
‘You are in a dreamy mood,’ Bernard persisted. ‘I feel as if you were miles away.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was thinking about the play. It was so sad.’
‘Shall we stop and look at the river for a minute?’ he suggested in a rather shaky voice.
‘All right,’ said Deirdre indifferently. People who didn’t live here always thought the river looked so beautiful at night, but to her it was just the place where Mr. Dulke and Mr. Lovell took their dogs and the young men from the club walked with their girl friends. Looking out of the car she could see Mr. Lovell now, walking rather too briskly for Snowball, his old sealyham, who lolloped along like a little rocking-horse in his efforts to keep up with his master.
‘Not unhappy about anything, are you, dear?’ Bernard asked.
‘Oh, no, thank you, just not very gregarious, I’m afraid,’ said Deirdre. She hated to be called ‘dear’ and Bernard’s arm had now crept round her shoulders and his hand was straying further than she wished. But suddenly it stopped and withdrew quickly as if it had touched an asp or a scorpion. He must have come upon the bone of her strapless bodice which made her such an odd shape. He would hardly have expected to find a bone there , she thought, stifling her laughter.
‘I’m not really that shape you know,’ she said suddenly in a gay tone. ‘It must feel like a chicken’s carcase-so unexpected I ‘
Bernard was perhaps a little embarrassed for he had no ready answer, so she went on in the same
Could it be that he too had a mother? thought Deirdre in wonder. ‘Does your mother worry?’ she asked, emboldened by the bitter.
‘She certainly does. She’s bought herself a book about tropical diseases and has rather a horrid time reading about everything I might get. I hope you aren’t awfully hungry,’ he went on, as they walked along the street. ‘I should have bought a sandwich for you, but I’ve had a meal myself so I’m afraid I forgot.’
Deirdre wondered what meal it could have been. An early lunch seemed unlikely, so perhaps it was a very late breakfast? She was able to ponder about this on the bus home, remembering the whole wonderful experience and his friendly, if too casual, ‘see you again, sometime.’ But when , she had wanted to ask, wondering how she was going to endure her evening with Bernard Springe and all the days ahead with the uncertainty of her next meeting with Tom lying over them.
There are few experiences more boring and painful for a woman than an evening spent in the company of one man when she is longing to be with another, and that evening Bernard’s dullness seemed to have a positive quality about it so that it was almost a physical agony, like the dentist’s drill pressing on a sensitive tooth. And yet Bernard was tall and well-dressed, better-looking than Tom Mallow, and his conversation, if one were to analyse it, was perhaps more interesting than Tom’s had been. He took Deirdre to a play she had been wanting to see and gave her a good supper afterwards. What was more, he had a car, which meant that the ride home to the suburb was done in comfort, with no anxiety about the last bus or tiring journey in crowded stuffy tube.
The wine she had drunk had put Deirdre into a silent brooding mood and they drove without speaking for some time. She was trying to imagine what an evening with Tom would have been like. Of course he hadn’t any money, so they would just have gone somewhere cheap to eat or perhaps just sat in a pub drinking beer and talking about his work. Segmentation of the lineage, fission and accretion, she thought, desolately and without humour.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Bernard asked gently.
They could have ridden on top of a bus together, but of course she didn’t yet know where he lived. Perhaps somebody at college would know—surely she could bring the conversation round to Tom Mallow somehow without it seeming too obvious?
‘You are in a dreamy mood,’ Bernard persisted. ‘I feel as if you were miles away.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was thinking about the play. It was so sad.’
‘Shall we stop and look at the river for a minute?’ he suggested in a rather shaky voice.
‘All right,’ said Deirdre indifferently. People who didn’t live here always thought the river looked so beautiful at night, but to her it was just the place where Mr. Dulke and Mr. Lovell took their dogs and the young men from the club walked with their girl friends. Looking out of the car she could see Mr. Lovell now, walking rather too briskly for Snowball, his old sealyham, who lolloped along like a little rocking-horse in his efforts to keep up with his master.
‘Not unhappy about anything, are you, dear?’ Bernard asked.
‘Oh, no, thank you, just not very gregarious, I’m afraid,’ said Deirdre. She hated to be called ‘dear’ and Bernard’s arm had now crept round her shoulders and his hand was straying further than she wished. But suddenly it stopped and withdrew quickly as if it had touched an asp or a scorpion. He must have come upon the bone of her strapless bodice which made her such an odd shape. He would hardly have expected to find a bone there , she thought, stifling her laughter.
‘I’m not really that shape you know,’ she said suddenly in a gay tone. ‘It must feel like a chicken’s carcase-so unexpected I ‘
Bernard was perhaps a little embarrassed for he had no ready answer, so she went on in the same
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