has been invited somewhere, that he is prepared to take almost anything in his stride. Even the face of a seventeen-year-old daughter who finds on returning home that something is expected of her.
CHAPTER VI
I DONT KNOW what I had expected Mrs Redmayne to be like. A drab little thing, I think; a mess of cardigans and straggly hair, with a skirt a little too long. I suppose I had assumed that a woman who clung so desperately to her son for company must be one incapable of making other relationships ; a person so unattractive, or boring, or both, that no one but her own son would bother about her.
Little she certainly was: barely five feet in height, I would guess; but beyond that every single detail of her, from her silver-blonde girlishly fluffy hair to her expensive silver sandals, was diametrically opposite to the picture I had built up in my mind. Her black sleeveless velvet dress was low-cut and clinging—mutton on as small a scale as she can often dress as lamb and get away with it. Sheerest nylons encased her slender legs, and crystal pendent earrings quivered like drops of water as she stood on tiptoe to embrace her tall son—tall, at least, he seemed as he bent down towards her upturned face. Her reception of Sarah and myself surprised me almost as much as her appearance. I had expected her at least to be guarded towards us; justifiably taken aback by our sudden arrival; and certainly suspicious of our friendship with her son. Instead of this, she received us with little cries of delight, kissed us on the cheek, and set herself to fussing over our comfort as if we were honoured and expected guests; running back and forth with cushions, drinks, and anxious enquiries as to whether we weren’t absolutely frozen ?
Were we expected guests, I began to wonder? Certainly her costume suggested that she was about to give some sort of party. Could this be the reason that Mervyn had decided to invite us tonight? So that we could mingle with the otherguests without rousing his mother’s suspicions? This would explain, too, why she had been so anxious for him to arrive home punctually; naturally one would want the host to be there when the guests began to arrive. My feelings towards her began to soften. She was quite a nice little thing really; I had been allowing prejudice to run away with me. Certainly she was chattering away with Sarah now in the friendliest manner possible; not at all the grudging, jealous mother-in -law figure of my imagination.
I sat back, sipped the sweet sherry she had pressed on me, and surveyed the room. It was beautifully if rather fussily furnished; flowers and silvery ornaments stood about on highly polished little tables with spindly legs; the white-painted walls were dotted with gay little landscapes and hunting scenes; small fluffy white rugs were scattered about at random, like so many kittens, on the silver-grey wall- to-wall carpet. Under the soft pink-shaded lights everything was neat, and shining, and ready, waiting for the party to begin.
But the party didn’t begin. Only when we had been there nearly an hour, and conversation was beginning to flag, did I realise that nothing was going to happen. We were after all the only guests, and Mrs Redmayne was waiting for us to go. Her effusive welcome, just like the expectant perfection of the room, had all been a prelude to nothing.
What was it all in aid of, then? And why the glamorous outfit—the silver sandals, the earrings? With a tiny shock of sick dismay it occurred to me that perhaps she always dressed up in this sort of way to welcome her son home in the evening; as if his return marked a gala time in the day for her—perhaps for both of them? I dropped my eyes, and could not look at the smooth little white shoulders, the neat, well-preserved little figure cunningly indicated by that neckline…. My mind sheered away from the Freudian implications of my thoughts, and I turned to Sarah and suggested that perhaps we ought to
CHAPTER VI
I DONT KNOW what I had expected Mrs Redmayne to be like. A drab little thing, I think; a mess of cardigans and straggly hair, with a skirt a little too long. I suppose I had assumed that a woman who clung so desperately to her son for company must be one incapable of making other relationships ; a person so unattractive, or boring, or both, that no one but her own son would bother about her.
Little she certainly was: barely five feet in height, I would guess; but beyond that every single detail of her, from her silver-blonde girlishly fluffy hair to her expensive silver sandals, was diametrically opposite to the picture I had built up in my mind. Her black sleeveless velvet dress was low-cut and clinging—mutton on as small a scale as she can often dress as lamb and get away with it. Sheerest nylons encased her slender legs, and crystal pendent earrings quivered like drops of water as she stood on tiptoe to embrace her tall son—tall, at least, he seemed as he bent down towards her upturned face. Her reception of Sarah and myself surprised me almost as much as her appearance. I had expected her at least to be guarded towards us; justifiably taken aback by our sudden arrival; and certainly suspicious of our friendship with her son. Instead of this, she received us with little cries of delight, kissed us on the cheek, and set herself to fussing over our comfort as if we were honoured and expected guests; running back and forth with cushions, drinks, and anxious enquiries as to whether we weren’t absolutely frozen ?
Were we expected guests, I began to wonder? Certainly her costume suggested that she was about to give some sort of party. Could this be the reason that Mervyn had decided to invite us tonight? So that we could mingle with the otherguests without rousing his mother’s suspicions? This would explain, too, why she had been so anxious for him to arrive home punctually; naturally one would want the host to be there when the guests began to arrive. My feelings towards her began to soften. She was quite a nice little thing really; I had been allowing prejudice to run away with me. Certainly she was chattering away with Sarah now in the friendliest manner possible; not at all the grudging, jealous mother-in -law figure of my imagination.
I sat back, sipped the sweet sherry she had pressed on me, and surveyed the room. It was beautifully if rather fussily furnished; flowers and silvery ornaments stood about on highly polished little tables with spindly legs; the white-painted walls were dotted with gay little landscapes and hunting scenes; small fluffy white rugs were scattered about at random, like so many kittens, on the silver-grey wall- to-wall carpet. Under the soft pink-shaded lights everything was neat, and shining, and ready, waiting for the party to begin.
But the party didn’t begin. Only when we had been there nearly an hour, and conversation was beginning to flag, did I realise that nothing was going to happen. We were after all the only guests, and Mrs Redmayne was waiting for us to go. Her effusive welcome, just like the expectant perfection of the room, had all been a prelude to nothing.
What was it all in aid of, then? And why the glamorous outfit—the silver sandals, the earrings? With a tiny shock of sick dismay it occurred to me that perhaps she always dressed up in this sort of way to welcome her son home in the evening; as if his return marked a gala time in the day for her—perhaps for both of them? I dropped my eyes, and could not look at the smooth little white shoulders, the neat, well-preserved little figure cunningly indicated by that neckline…. My mind sheered away from the Freudian implications of my thoughts, and I turned to Sarah and suggested that perhaps we ought to
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