Arbuthnot had been taken for a little drive, and now, in the evening, sat pale and anguished. Her sisters had, with difficulty, shifted her about a little, so something had been achieved. She had had a breath of fresh air, a change of scene, and was supposed to be better for them both. Her sisters were certainly better. They were, at the moment, having a nice drink, flushed with relief, and the knowledge of duty done.
Mr Osmond listened to the weather forecast, with a transparent hand, like a shell, curved behind his ear. He was disgusted – not so much by the future weather as by the accent it was read in. He kept snorting and turning his head in annoyance. ‘I don’t want a damned Aussie telling me about my English weather,’ he complained. ‘“Minely derigh!” I should have thought there were plenty of wholesome English girls who could have done a simple job like this. Minely derigh!’
‘Well, it will be a nice change from the rain,’ said Mrs Post.
‘They never speak the truth,’ Mr Osmond replied.
Later, they made a move to the television room and, after the serial, stayed on for the news and the demonstration. There was usually a demonstration onSundays, with milling crowds in Trafalgar Square and forays into Downing Street. The policemen and the horses were always sympathised with. They had the Claremont solidly behind them. ‘Oh, those poor horses!’ Mrs Post kept exclaiming. ‘What have they ever done to deserve this?’
‘Long-haired louts,’ Mr Osmond said from time to time.
Mrs Palfrey, with her new stake in youth, said nothing. She was confident that Ludo would never shame her by carrying a banner, or throwing a paving-stone. He seemed to believe in nothing, and she was glad of this.
After the demonstration, united in their disgust of it, they returned to the lounge, and peace. There were strangers, booked in for one night only, on their way somewhere, properly whispering, sitting in a corner, drinking coffee.
Soon, there was the soft, slapping sound as Mr Osmond shuffled a pack of cards for a game of patience: against this, the knitting sounds, and sighs, and stomach gurglings (quickly coughed over).
‘Well, another Sunday nearly gone,’ Mrs Post said quickly, to cover a little fart. She had presence of mind.
‘Now don’t you wish your life away,’ warned Mrs Burton; but she tapped her bright finger-nails against her teeth, from boredom; and she yawned and yawned until she thought her poor jaw would give way.
Mr Osmond laid out the cards slowly. He had bony, shiny hands, with whorled wrinkles above each joint.
‘Ho, ho, ho!’ yawned Mrs Burton, holding nose and chin together for safety – might dislocate her jaw. Then she wiped her eyes, suddenly burdened with, defeated by drink. ‘I’m for beddy-byes,’ she said at last, struggling to gather herself together.
‘It is three thousand days ago today that my wife died,’ Mr Osmond said, to no one in particular.
‘Birmingham,’ said Ludo.
‘Birmingham what?’ asked the girl in the white tights.
She turned her head a little – bored concession.
‘That’s where you come from. I’ve just been trying to place the accent.’
‘I happen to come from Pinner.’
‘I adore the way you say “Pinnah”.’
‘I didn’t say “Pinnah”.’
At least they were having a conversation, he thought.
‘Is that in the Harrods’ delivery area?’
‘I simply don’t know
what
you’re talking about.’
She said ‘what’ with a great whirring sound, as if to emphasise Pinner.
‘It
is
rather important,’ he said.
‘Important? I suppose you’re a director of it,’ she said, looking down languidly, chin on hand, at his broken shoe.
‘No. In all fairness, I am
not
a director,’ he said. ‘But it is my place of work.’
‘Oh, Christ, you bore me,’ she said. ‘I told you not to chat me up. How many more times?’
‘Doris,’ he said presently, as if talking to himself. ‘Mabel. No, Edith.’
She could not
Mr Osmond listened to the weather forecast, with a transparent hand, like a shell, curved behind his ear. He was disgusted – not so much by the future weather as by the accent it was read in. He kept snorting and turning his head in annoyance. ‘I don’t want a damned Aussie telling me about my English weather,’ he complained. ‘“Minely derigh!” I should have thought there were plenty of wholesome English girls who could have done a simple job like this. Minely derigh!’
‘Well, it will be a nice change from the rain,’ said Mrs Post.
‘They never speak the truth,’ Mr Osmond replied.
Later, they made a move to the television room and, after the serial, stayed on for the news and the demonstration. There was usually a demonstration onSundays, with milling crowds in Trafalgar Square and forays into Downing Street. The policemen and the horses were always sympathised with. They had the Claremont solidly behind them. ‘Oh, those poor horses!’ Mrs Post kept exclaiming. ‘What have they ever done to deserve this?’
‘Long-haired louts,’ Mr Osmond said from time to time.
Mrs Palfrey, with her new stake in youth, said nothing. She was confident that Ludo would never shame her by carrying a banner, or throwing a paving-stone. He seemed to believe in nothing, and she was glad of this.
After the demonstration, united in their disgust of it, they returned to the lounge, and peace. There were strangers, booked in for one night only, on their way somewhere, properly whispering, sitting in a corner, drinking coffee.
Soon, there was the soft, slapping sound as Mr Osmond shuffled a pack of cards for a game of patience: against this, the knitting sounds, and sighs, and stomach gurglings (quickly coughed over).
‘Well, another Sunday nearly gone,’ Mrs Post said quickly, to cover a little fart. She had presence of mind.
‘Now don’t you wish your life away,’ warned Mrs Burton; but she tapped her bright finger-nails against her teeth, from boredom; and she yawned and yawned until she thought her poor jaw would give way.
Mr Osmond laid out the cards slowly. He had bony, shiny hands, with whorled wrinkles above each joint.
‘Ho, ho, ho!’ yawned Mrs Burton, holding nose and chin together for safety – might dislocate her jaw. Then she wiped her eyes, suddenly burdened with, defeated by drink. ‘I’m for beddy-byes,’ she said at last, struggling to gather herself together.
‘It is three thousand days ago today that my wife died,’ Mr Osmond said, to no one in particular.
‘Birmingham,’ said Ludo.
‘Birmingham what?’ asked the girl in the white tights.
She turned her head a little – bored concession.
‘That’s where you come from. I’ve just been trying to place the accent.’
‘I happen to come from Pinner.’
‘I adore the way you say “Pinnah”.’
‘I didn’t say “Pinnah”.’
At least they were having a conversation, he thought.
‘Is that in the Harrods’ delivery area?’
‘I simply don’t know
what
you’re talking about.’
She said ‘what’ with a great whirring sound, as if to emphasise Pinner.
‘It
is
rather important,’ he said.
‘Important? I suppose you’re a director of it,’ she said, looking down languidly, chin on hand, at his broken shoe.
‘No. In all fairness, I am
not
a director,’ he said. ‘But it is my place of work.’
‘Oh, Christ, you bore me,’ she said. ‘I told you not to chat me up. How many more times?’
‘Doris,’ he said presently, as if talking to himself. ‘Mabel. No, Edith.’
She could not