lights
to be switched on in daytime and the kitchen doorway which bumped his head
and the chimneys that poured half the heat of the fire straight up into
nowhere.
-- The television could go in that recess but we'd have to get a stand
more in keeping with the room like an antique chest perhaps and we can sit
and watch it and listen to the logs crackling. . . . Darling, you are sure
about this job? I mean, I wouldn't want you to take it just to please me.
Hanging up his clammy coat, Paul snorted at the memory.
-- The jargon of status has rubbed off on her, all right. The word
"consultant" has a kind of magic to her ears. How soon will I be one,
how long O Lord how long? Better have something to eat before I turn in
or I'll wake in the night and have to botch up a snack in a daze. Phil
Kerans thinks I'm living out in luxury. He should have to stagger through
this room at three in the morning in pyjamas with the wind howling down
that bloody chimney.
There was nothing to drink but some wine in a recorked bottle, probably
meant for cooking. Iris was a cookery snob given to paella and souffles
which didn't quite succeed, but half the time she couldn't be bothered
and either opened cans or suggested going out. On a registrar's salary
he preferred cans.
Carving a doorstep off a brown loaf, pricking sausages, fetching an egg
from the refrigerator, he had most of his mind spare to ramble on.
-- Deceived by appearances, that's my wife. With me as much as the house.
Slam down the money out of Dad's -- sorry: Daddy's estate, full of
plans for a pink matched bathroom suite with shower; then when they
ran the pipes and exposed the fabric, the smell of dry rot pungent
as smoke. I'd rather she blamed me instead of rowing with the estate
agent. Best of all herself: "Surveyor? But this is the only possible
place for us to live while you're at Chent!"
Despite his forking it, one of the sausages burst and began to ooze
obscenely out of its skin.
-- Bloody hell, Mirza's right, isn't he?
He went to pour a large glass of the stale wine, hoping the beer and
whisky had progressed far enough through his system not to wish a hangover
on him from incautious mixing. He paused in the living-room and stared
about him, remembering the awful evening when he'd brought the Pakistani
home for drinks.
-- Where do they acquire that art of making unwelcome visitors feel small
without actually insulting them? Bred into them by their nannies. Must be.
And afterwards: "Darling, I do appreciate that you have to be on good terms
with your colleagues, but surely an immigrant like your friend won't be
staying in England? He'll be going back to his own country?" Glossing it:
"Steer clear of the wogs and butter up the bosses!"
-- Keeps wondering why I don't invite the medical superintendent (hushed, awe). Because I can't stand the bastard, is all.
He sent the egg to keep the sausages company in the pan.
-- That girl tonight with her air of total disorientation . . . What in
hell do I really know about women? "A marriage like yours is no basis for
a proper understanding" -- damn Mirza for having more insight than I'll
accumulate by ninety. But I do know why Iris married me and I'm lying
to myself when I pretend I don't. Bright young medical student just that
significant step below her on the social ladder which promised she could
dictate the course of his career and see him grateful for it but not
beyond hope because witness all those scholarships and ambitious parents
aware of their place but pushing their boy from behind: hence, he's used
to being pushed. I should have sheered off when she tried to argue me into
general practice (Harley Street, a fortune from hypochondriacs dazzled by
the chauffeured Rolls) instead of countering with persuasive statements
about psychiatry the wide-open field and her first introduction to
to be switched on in daytime and the kitchen doorway which bumped his head
and the chimneys that poured half the heat of the fire straight up into
nowhere.
-- The television could go in that recess but we'd have to get a stand
more in keeping with the room like an antique chest perhaps and we can sit
and watch it and listen to the logs crackling. . . . Darling, you are sure
about this job? I mean, I wouldn't want you to take it just to please me.
Hanging up his clammy coat, Paul snorted at the memory.
-- The jargon of status has rubbed off on her, all right. The word
"consultant" has a kind of magic to her ears. How soon will I be one,
how long O Lord how long? Better have something to eat before I turn in
or I'll wake in the night and have to botch up a snack in a daze. Phil
Kerans thinks I'm living out in luxury. He should have to stagger through
this room at three in the morning in pyjamas with the wind howling down
that bloody chimney.
There was nothing to drink but some wine in a recorked bottle, probably
meant for cooking. Iris was a cookery snob given to paella and souffles
which didn't quite succeed, but half the time she couldn't be bothered
and either opened cans or suggested going out. On a registrar's salary
he preferred cans.
Carving a doorstep off a brown loaf, pricking sausages, fetching an egg
from the refrigerator, he had most of his mind spare to ramble on.
-- Deceived by appearances, that's my wife. With me as much as the house.
Slam down the money out of Dad's -- sorry: Daddy's estate, full of
plans for a pink matched bathroom suite with shower; then when they
ran the pipes and exposed the fabric, the smell of dry rot pungent
as smoke. I'd rather she blamed me instead of rowing with the estate
agent. Best of all herself: "Surveyor? But this is the only possible
place for us to live while you're at Chent!"
Despite his forking it, one of the sausages burst and began to ooze
obscenely out of its skin.
-- Bloody hell, Mirza's right, isn't he?
He went to pour a large glass of the stale wine, hoping the beer and
whisky had progressed far enough through his system not to wish a hangover
on him from incautious mixing. He paused in the living-room and stared
about him, remembering the awful evening when he'd brought the Pakistani
home for drinks.
-- Where do they acquire that art of making unwelcome visitors feel small
without actually insulting them? Bred into them by their nannies. Must be.
And afterwards: "Darling, I do appreciate that you have to be on good terms
with your colleagues, but surely an immigrant like your friend won't be
staying in England? He'll be going back to his own country?" Glossing it:
"Steer clear of the wogs and butter up the bosses!"
-- Keeps wondering why I don't invite the medical superintendent (hushed, awe). Because I can't stand the bastard, is all.
He sent the egg to keep the sausages company in the pan.
-- That girl tonight with her air of total disorientation . . . What in
hell do I really know about women? "A marriage like yours is no basis for
a proper understanding" -- damn Mirza for having more insight than I'll
accumulate by ninety. But I do know why Iris married me and I'm lying
to myself when I pretend I don't. Bright young medical student just that
significant step below her on the social ladder which promised she could
dictate the course of his career and see him grateful for it but not
beyond hope because witness all those scholarships and ambitious parents
aware of their place but pushing their boy from behind: hence, he's used
to being pushed. I should have sheered off when she tried to argue me into
general practice (Harley Street, a fortune from hypochondriacs dazzled by
the chauffeured Rolls) instead of countering with persuasive statements
about psychiatry the wide-open field and her first introduction to
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