own and fall flat on his face, Sydney thought. It would hurt worse than a joint failure.
“You take it all much too seriously, anyway. You’re—”
“You’re not in my shoes,” he interrupted. “You’re not trying to make a go of anything, because you don’t give a damn. You just go on painting with your little finger like Mrs. Lilybanks.”
Alicia’s eyes widened—with anger, not surprise. “All that bitterness. My, my. How could you create anything—anything salable? It’s impossible.”
“It’s certainly impossible with your heckling.”
“Heckling? Would you really like to see me heckle?” She laughed.
“I’d like to see you dare.”
She said more softly, “This isn’t the night to have a meal with you, is it? You might keep your temper while we’re eating, anyway.”
But neither of them was eating now.
“Just like Mrs. Lilybanks, sweetness and light,” Sydney said. “But I’m at the beginning of my life, not the end.”
“You’re at the end of your creative life, if you keep this up.”
“Who’re you to tell me?”
Alicia got up. “Whatever you say about Mrs. Lilybanks, she’s better company than you, and if you don’t mind, I’ll spend the rest of the evening with her.”
“Go ahead.”
She took a jacket from the clothes hook by the door, glanced into the mirror there to see if her face looked all right. Then the front door closed.
Sydney had no heart for any work on The Planners that evening, which made him feel more depressed, as he knew the work would have to be done at some time. He watched television, then went to bed with one of the books he had taken from the Ipswich Library. Alicia came in just after ten.
“I think I’m going to Brighton tomorrow,” she said, not looking at him.
“Um-m. For how long?”
“Several days.” She began to undress, taking her pajamas out of the room to the bathroom, though she usually undressed in the bedroom.
There was nothing else to ask her about Brighton, so Sydney asked nothing more. It meant driving her to Ipswich tomorrow morning, unless she preferred to take the train at Campsey Ash, a bit closer home.
“I’m sorry, Syd, but when you get in these moods, they go on for days, and I find them unproductive and not at all fun.”
“I don’t blame you, and I hope you have a nice time. Brighton is it?”
“Brighton or London.”
She didn’t want him to know which it was, so he wasn’t going to pin her down.
The next morning, he did the breakfast dishes, so he did not see what kind of clothes she packed into her navy blue zippered suitcase. By 11:15, he was back at the house, alone. She had left from Campsey Ash, just outside Wickham Market. The day was rainy and miserable, and Sydney plunged back to work on The Planners . At 2 P.M. , the drizzling rain became heavier, with thunderclaps.
Mrs. Lilybanks telephoned. “Hello, Sydney—” She now first-named them both, though Sydney could not get out of the habit of calling her Mrs. Lilybanks. “I wonder if Alicia’s forgotten her clothes on the line?”
“Oh! I’ll get them in. Thanks.” Sydney hung up and ran out for the clothes—half a dozen dishtowels and two of Alicia’s cotton blouses on the square revolving tree. He dashed in the back door with them, and had just removed his raincoat, when the telephone rang again.
It was again Mrs. Lilybanks. “I wanted to say a word to Alicia, if I may, Sydney.”
“I’m sorry, she’s not here. She’s—I’m not quite sure where she is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I drove her to Campsey Ash this morning. For the train. I think she’s going to Brighton. I thought she might’ve mentioned it to you last night.”
“No.”
“Occasionally, she—you know, likes to get away for a while by herself.”
“Yes. Well, it’s not important, I only wanted to tell her she didn’t need to bring over that wild flower book this afternoon, since it’s raining so hard.”
Sydney knew which book she meant, an
“You take it all much too seriously, anyway. You’re—”
“You’re not in my shoes,” he interrupted. “You’re not trying to make a go of anything, because you don’t give a damn. You just go on painting with your little finger like Mrs. Lilybanks.”
Alicia’s eyes widened—with anger, not surprise. “All that bitterness. My, my. How could you create anything—anything salable? It’s impossible.”
“It’s certainly impossible with your heckling.”
“Heckling? Would you really like to see me heckle?” She laughed.
“I’d like to see you dare.”
She said more softly, “This isn’t the night to have a meal with you, is it? You might keep your temper while we’re eating, anyway.”
But neither of them was eating now.
“Just like Mrs. Lilybanks, sweetness and light,” Sydney said. “But I’m at the beginning of my life, not the end.”
“You’re at the end of your creative life, if you keep this up.”
“Who’re you to tell me?”
Alicia got up. “Whatever you say about Mrs. Lilybanks, she’s better company than you, and if you don’t mind, I’ll spend the rest of the evening with her.”
“Go ahead.”
She took a jacket from the clothes hook by the door, glanced into the mirror there to see if her face looked all right. Then the front door closed.
Sydney had no heart for any work on The Planners that evening, which made him feel more depressed, as he knew the work would have to be done at some time. He watched television, then went to bed with one of the books he had taken from the Ipswich Library. Alicia came in just after ten.
“I think I’m going to Brighton tomorrow,” she said, not looking at him.
“Um-m. For how long?”
“Several days.” She began to undress, taking her pajamas out of the room to the bathroom, though she usually undressed in the bedroom.
There was nothing else to ask her about Brighton, so Sydney asked nothing more. It meant driving her to Ipswich tomorrow morning, unless she preferred to take the train at Campsey Ash, a bit closer home.
“I’m sorry, Syd, but when you get in these moods, they go on for days, and I find them unproductive and not at all fun.”
“I don’t blame you, and I hope you have a nice time. Brighton is it?”
“Brighton or London.”
She didn’t want him to know which it was, so he wasn’t going to pin her down.
The next morning, he did the breakfast dishes, so he did not see what kind of clothes she packed into her navy blue zippered suitcase. By 11:15, he was back at the house, alone. She had left from Campsey Ash, just outside Wickham Market. The day was rainy and miserable, and Sydney plunged back to work on The Planners . At 2 P.M. , the drizzling rain became heavier, with thunderclaps.
Mrs. Lilybanks telephoned. “Hello, Sydney—” She now first-named them both, though Sydney could not get out of the habit of calling her Mrs. Lilybanks. “I wonder if Alicia’s forgotten her clothes on the line?”
“Oh! I’ll get them in. Thanks.” Sydney hung up and ran out for the clothes—half a dozen dishtowels and two of Alicia’s cotton blouses on the square revolving tree. He dashed in the back door with them, and had just removed his raincoat, when the telephone rang again.
It was again Mrs. Lilybanks. “I wanted to say a word to Alicia, if I may, Sydney.”
“I’m sorry, she’s not here. She’s—I’m not quite sure where she is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I drove her to Campsey Ash this morning. For the train. I think she’s going to Brighton. I thought she might’ve mentioned it to you last night.”
“No.”
“Occasionally, she—you know, likes to get away for a while by herself.”
“Yes. Well, it’s not important, I only wanted to tell her she didn’t need to bring over that wild flower book this afternoon, since it’s raining so hard.”
Sydney knew which book she meant, an
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