same cups. No one steps into the same river twice. Jane’s elder sister, Veronica’s elder daughter, had also gone to the college, and Veronica, forewarned, had watched her assert her place in it, her here and now.
The telephone rang. Jane said that would be Barnaby and her cross lassitude fell away. At the door on the way out, she turned and said to Veronica, “I’m sorry about the machine. I’m sure it’ll mend. And anyway it’s geriatric.” She could be heard singing onthe stairs, on the way to the telephone, to take up her life again. She sang beautifully in a large clear voice, inherited from her father, who could sing, and not from Veronica and her mother who scraped tunelessly. She was singing in the Brahms Requiem in the school choir. She rolled out joyfully, “Lord make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days, what it is; that I may know, that I may know how frail I am.”
The three women sat in the little room, imagined not remembered. Veronica detected in her mother’s cream-coloured dress just a touch of awkwardness, her grandmother’s ineptness at a trade for which she was not wholly suited, a shoulder out of true, a cuff awry, as so many buttons and cuffs and waistbands had been during the making-do in the time of austerity. This awkwardness in her mother was lovable and vulnerable. The other shingled woman raised the teapot and poured amber tea into rosy teacups. Two of these cups and one saucer, what was salvaged, stood now on Veronica’s dresser, useless and, Veronica thought, exquisitely pretty. Her mother raised her pale head expectantly, lifting that fine lip, fixing her whole attention on the door, through which they came — Veronica could see so much — the young men in blazers and wide flannels, college scarves and smoothed hair, smiling decorously. Veronica saw him smile with the wide and shapely smile that had just reappeared, deprecating and casual, on Jane’s different, darker face. She saw the little, blonde, pretty face in the window lit with pure pleasure, pure hope, almost content. She could never see any further: from there, it always began again, chairs, tablecloth, sunny window, rosy teacups, a safe place.
THE JULY GHOST
“I think I must move out of where I’m living,” he said. “I have this problem with my landlady.”
He picked a long, bright hair off the back of her dress, so deftly that the act seemed simply considerate. He had been skilful at balancing glass, plate and cutlery, too. He had a look of dignified misery, like a dejected hawk. She was interested.
“What sort of problem? Amatory, financial, or domestic?”
“None of those, really. Well, not financial.”
He turned the hair on his finger, examining it intently, not meeting her eye.
“Not financial. Can you tell me? I might know somewhere you could stay. I know a lot of people.”
“You would.” He smiled shyly. “It’s not an easy problem to describe. There’s just the two of us. I occupy the attics. Mostly.”
He came to a stop. He was obviously reserved and secretive. But he was telling her something. This is usually attractive.
“Mostly?” Encouraging him.
“Oh, it’s not like
that.
Well, not … Shall we sit down?”
They moved across the party, which was a big party, on a hot day. He stopped and found a bottle and filled her glass. He had not needed to ask what she was drinking. They sat side by side on a sofa: he admired the brilliant poppies bold on her emerald dress, and her pretty sandals. She had come to London for the summer to work in the British Museum. She could really have managed with microfilm in Tucson for what little manuscript research was needed, but there was a dragging love affair to end. There is an age at which, however desperately happy one is in stolen moments, days, or weekends with one’s married professor, oneeither prises him loose or cuts and runs. She had had a stab at both, and now considered she had successfully cut and run. So it was
The telephone rang. Jane said that would be Barnaby and her cross lassitude fell away. At the door on the way out, she turned and said to Veronica, “I’m sorry about the machine. I’m sure it’ll mend. And anyway it’s geriatric.” She could be heard singing onthe stairs, on the way to the telephone, to take up her life again. She sang beautifully in a large clear voice, inherited from her father, who could sing, and not from Veronica and her mother who scraped tunelessly. She was singing in the Brahms Requiem in the school choir. She rolled out joyfully, “Lord make me to know mine end, and the measure of my days, what it is; that I may know, that I may know how frail I am.”
The three women sat in the little room, imagined not remembered. Veronica detected in her mother’s cream-coloured dress just a touch of awkwardness, her grandmother’s ineptness at a trade for which she was not wholly suited, a shoulder out of true, a cuff awry, as so many buttons and cuffs and waistbands had been during the making-do in the time of austerity. This awkwardness in her mother was lovable and vulnerable. The other shingled woman raised the teapot and poured amber tea into rosy teacups. Two of these cups and one saucer, what was salvaged, stood now on Veronica’s dresser, useless and, Veronica thought, exquisitely pretty. Her mother raised her pale head expectantly, lifting that fine lip, fixing her whole attention on the door, through which they came — Veronica could see so much — the young men in blazers and wide flannels, college scarves and smoothed hair, smiling decorously. Veronica saw him smile with the wide and shapely smile that had just reappeared, deprecating and casual, on Jane’s different, darker face. She saw the little, blonde, pretty face in the window lit with pure pleasure, pure hope, almost content. She could never see any further: from there, it always began again, chairs, tablecloth, sunny window, rosy teacups, a safe place.
THE JULY GHOST
“I think I must move out of where I’m living,” he said. “I have this problem with my landlady.”
He picked a long, bright hair off the back of her dress, so deftly that the act seemed simply considerate. He had been skilful at balancing glass, plate and cutlery, too. He had a look of dignified misery, like a dejected hawk. She was interested.
“What sort of problem? Amatory, financial, or domestic?”
“None of those, really. Well, not financial.”
He turned the hair on his finger, examining it intently, not meeting her eye.
“Not financial. Can you tell me? I might know somewhere you could stay. I know a lot of people.”
“You would.” He smiled shyly. “It’s not an easy problem to describe. There’s just the two of us. I occupy the attics. Mostly.”
He came to a stop. He was obviously reserved and secretive. But he was telling her something. This is usually attractive.
“Mostly?” Encouraging him.
“Oh, it’s not like
that.
Well, not … Shall we sit down?”
They moved across the party, which was a big party, on a hot day. He stopped and found a bottle and filled her glass. He had not needed to ask what she was drinking. They sat side by side on a sofa: he admired the brilliant poppies bold on her emerald dress, and her pretty sandals. She had come to London for the summer to work in the British Museum. She could really have managed with microfilm in Tucson for what little manuscript research was needed, but there was a dragging love affair to end. There is an age at which, however desperately happy one is in stolen moments, days, or weekends with one’s married professor, oneeither prises him loose or cuts and runs. She had had a stab at both, and now considered she had successfully cut and run. So it was
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