Old Filth by Jane Gardam

like briskly floating butterflies, the clusters of black heads in all the high windows. A procession of princelings had gone by, each carrying a silver dish piled with steaming plum pudding. Well of course she knew that it was only tin-foil and cow dung. But they were jolly and grave at the same time, like the Magi.
    â€œYes, I’ll take it. I’ll take the chair.”
    And here it was now, standing on the Dorset parquet beside the teak chest, and her fingernails, rosy as the silk, were stroking it.
    On the teak chest were net bags full of tulip bulbs waiting to be planted. Today would have been the perfect day for it. Tomorrow might be cold or wet and she would be feeling a bit done-in after this jaunt today. Why Filth still had to have a London solicitor she did not know. Twice the price and half the efficiency, in her experience. The very thought of London made her dizzy. No point in telling Filth. No arguing with Filth.
    And the bulbs should have been in two weeks ago for she wasn’t the walking talking calendar she used to be. She didn’t like dropping to her knees very much, at any time. She’d even stopped in church, though it felt louche, just squatting. The Queen Mother still knelt in church. Well, probably. Filth said that Queen Mary had knelt until the very end.
    Filth still kept to a timetable. He’d booked this appointment weeks ago. 3.30 p.m . Bantry Street, W.C.1. The Wills would now be ready for signing. He’d been urgent about it lately and she wondered if he’d been having the dizzies again. His slight heart attack was several years ago. She stroked the satin.
    Then her fingers strayed to the bulbs in their bags and she touched them—like a priestess giving a blessing. The fat globes inside the nets made her think of the crops of shot game-birds laid out on a slab—somewhere in her childhood’s China, maybe? And, as a matter of fact, thought Betty, stroking, these fat potential globes under their skins were very like a man’s balls, when you came to think about it.
    Not that I have, for years.
    She heard Filth above stairs drop a shoe and swear.
    But if I seriously think about it, as an artist might, or a doctor, or a lover dreaming . . .
    She closed her eyes and under the pile of bulb bags the telephone began to ring. She felt about until she reached the receiver, pulled it free and said, “Yes? Betty.” She said again, “Yes? Hello? Betty,” knowing that it would be someone from her reading group, which was meeting in the village that afternoon, and which she had notified yesterday that she would be away. The writer they were studying (studying!) was driving all the way from Islington to interpret her novel for them. Betty thought that she ought to have better things to do. It must be like discussing your marriage with strangers. “Hello? Is that you, Chloe?”
    â€œBetty?” (A man.)
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI’m in Orange Tree Road. Where are you?”
    â€œWell, here.”
    â€œExactly where?”
    â€œSitting in the hall. By the phone. On the satin throne.”
    â€œWhat are you wearing?”
    â€œWearing?”
    â€œI need to see you.”
    â€œBut you’re in Hong Kong.”
    â€œI need to see you. To see your face. I’ve lost it. I have to be able to see you in the chair.”
    â€œWell, I’m—we’re about to go up to London. Filth’s putting his shoes on upstairs. He’ll be down in a minute. I’m dressed for London.”
    â€œAre you wearing the amethysts?”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous. It’s nine o’clock in the morning.”
    â€œPearls.”
    â€œOh, well, yes.”
    â€œTouch them. Are they warm? Are they mine? Or his? Would he know?”
    â€œYours. No, he wouldn’t notice. Are you drunk? It must be after dinner.”
    â€œNo. Well, yes. Maybe.”
    â€œIs—are you alone?”
    â€œElsie’s lying down.