suggested, didn’t it, that he must have contacted Gwatkin on the subject at least five or six days earlier?
Yet that either meant his son had confided in him some considerable time before he had actually proposed and been accepted—which, to my mind, seemed improbable—or else that we were now up against a further very odd coincidence. (No! “Since in this case the wife’s family will not be contributing to the Settlement…” Things had all too clearly been discussed.)
I continued to lie on the bed; told myself that for the time being I must file away the Settlement in the same pending folder as the ampersands. Told myself that nothing could have thrown me quite so forcibly as Mr Martin’s disappearing act—and yet look at how quickly an explanation for even that had come to light. I told myself that if I slid down any further into this whirling mass of inessential detail I should soon be incapable of making out a single thing … the wood for the trees, the words for the letters.
So what should I do? Plainly this. Take a deep breath and relax. Bid a final farewell to pedantry. To pedantry and to an attitude that warned inexorably of Jack declining into dullness. (I could now hear the sounds of a piano and of singing floating up from the taproom.) Bid a final farewell to…
Well, to downright perversity, why not? For when was I ever going to learn? Just because Sybella’s mother had said, “She’s not been home for several weeks,” and just because Sybella’s letter had been written—from home—on Sunday 18 th April, I was already seriously debating whether two and a half weeks could properly be described as several. Having—only ten seconds ago—declared my fixed intention to reform!
(And perhaps from the viewpoint of a doting mother two and a half weeks could certainly be described as several. Possibly to a doting mother seventeen days could appear as practically interminable. “Good gracious!” she might have said. “Seventeen days? Is that all? I must be a much better parent than I realized!”)
So there you are, then. Maybe, in that case, not downright perversity after all. There could still be hope.
I turned to Sybella’s second letter.
This one had been scrawled on lined foolscap, torn from a student’s notepad.
In fact, the writing hadn’t started out as a scrawl; but it had rapidly degenerated.
Once more, no salutation. The only form of heading was the date.
Wed, 21 st .
“We’ve been given half an hour off—oh, blessed dispensation!—so here I am scribbling nonsense to you again. Your letter came this morning just as I was dashing for the coach—holding everybody up, as usual ! You do write such heavenly ones. But what are these horrible dark hints you’re throwing out about being sent off somewhere— of course I won’t say a word to anyone—I never do when you tell me things, but it’s not abroad is it? Because I won’t have it, I WON’T, tell them so from me. Darling, why did we go & meet in the middle of a war, such a silly thing for anybody to do—if it weren’t for the war we might have been nearly married by now, going round together choosing curtains etc. And I wouldn’t be sitting here in Wolverhampton—Wolverhampton for one night only—though of course we will be coming back—yes, I know , you dont ever need to tell me, doing the thing which normally I love the best but which at the moment seems really to be getting on top of me—it may be doing something (one prays!) to slightly sweeten the war for some lucky few (what impossible arrogance!) but it isn’t doing anything actually to shorten it. Is it? Whereas what you’re doing…
“Dearest Bill, I’m so thrilled with my ring—scandalously extravagant—you know how I adore diamonds—I simply can’t stop looking at it.
“I’m going to a rather dreary dance tonight with Jock & Hazel, after the show of course, so I’ll only have to stay there for an hour or so. I think they’ve got some other
Yet that either meant his son had confided in him some considerable time before he had actually proposed and been accepted—which, to my mind, seemed improbable—or else that we were now up against a further very odd coincidence. (No! “Since in this case the wife’s family will not be contributing to the Settlement…” Things had all too clearly been discussed.)
I continued to lie on the bed; told myself that for the time being I must file away the Settlement in the same pending folder as the ampersands. Told myself that nothing could have thrown me quite so forcibly as Mr Martin’s disappearing act—and yet look at how quickly an explanation for even that had come to light. I told myself that if I slid down any further into this whirling mass of inessential detail I should soon be incapable of making out a single thing … the wood for the trees, the words for the letters.
So what should I do? Plainly this. Take a deep breath and relax. Bid a final farewell to pedantry. To pedantry and to an attitude that warned inexorably of Jack declining into dullness. (I could now hear the sounds of a piano and of singing floating up from the taproom.) Bid a final farewell to…
Well, to downright perversity, why not? For when was I ever going to learn? Just because Sybella’s mother had said, “She’s not been home for several weeks,” and just because Sybella’s letter had been written—from home—on Sunday 18 th April, I was already seriously debating whether two and a half weeks could properly be described as several. Having—only ten seconds ago—declared my fixed intention to reform!
(And perhaps from the viewpoint of a doting mother two and a half weeks could certainly be described as several. Possibly to a doting mother seventeen days could appear as practically interminable. “Good gracious!” she might have said. “Seventeen days? Is that all? I must be a much better parent than I realized!”)
So there you are, then. Maybe, in that case, not downright perversity after all. There could still be hope.
I turned to Sybella’s second letter.
This one had been scrawled on lined foolscap, torn from a student’s notepad.
In fact, the writing hadn’t started out as a scrawl; but it had rapidly degenerated.
Once more, no salutation. The only form of heading was the date.
Wed, 21 st .
“We’ve been given half an hour off—oh, blessed dispensation!—so here I am scribbling nonsense to you again. Your letter came this morning just as I was dashing for the coach—holding everybody up, as usual ! You do write such heavenly ones. But what are these horrible dark hints you’re throwing out about being sent off somewhere— of course I won’t say a word to anyone—I never do when you tell me things, but it’s not abroad is it? Because I won’t have it, I WON’T, tell them so from me. Darling, why did we go & meet in the middle of a war, such a silly thing for anybody to do—if it weren’t for the war we might have been nearly married by now, going round together choosing curtains etc. And I wouldn’t be sitting here in Wolverhampton—Wolverhampton for one night only—though of course we will be coming back—yes, I know , you dont ever need to tell me, doing the thing which normally I love the best but which at the moment seems really to be getting on top of me—it may be doing something (one prays!) to slightly sweeten the war for some lucky few (what impossible arrogance!) but it isn’t doing anything actually to shorten it. Is it? Whereas what you’re doing…
“Dearest Bill, I’m so thrilled with my ring—scandalously extravagant—you know how I adore diamonds—I simply can’t stop looking at it.
“I’m going to a rather dreary dance tonight with Jock & Hazel, after the show of course, so I’ll only have to stay there for an hour or so. I think they’ve got some other
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