sorry.’
‘All
right, David, it doesn’t matter. I thought it might have been someone who
bounced a cheque on me once, that’s all. It doesn’t matter. Let me know if
there are any problems in the dining-room. Hallo, Nick.’ We kissed; David went
on his way. ‘Sorry about that, I just thought … Where’s Lucy? Did you have a
good journey?’
‘Fine.
She’s over in the annexe, having a wash. What’s wrong, Dad?’
‘Nothing.
I mean it’s been a bit of a hellish day, as you can imagine, what with all the …‘
‘No,
now. You look as if you’ve had a scare or something’
‘Oh
no.’ I had had a scare all right. Come to that, I was still having one. I did
not know whether to be more frightened at the idea that had come into my mind,
or at the fact that it had come there and showed no signs of going away. I
tried to let it lie without examining it. ‘To tell you the truth, Nick, I had a
few quick drinks in Baldock, which you’ll understand, a bit too quick probably,
anyway I very nearly took a bad toss on the stairs just now when I was chasing
that bloody woman. Might have been nasty. Bit off-putting. You get the idea.’
Nick, a
tall square figure with his mother’s dark hair and eyes, looked at me stolidly.
He knew that I had not told him the truth, but was not going to take me up on
it. ‘You’d better have another, then,’ he said in the quick tolerant voice he
bad first used to me when he was a child of ten. ‘Shall we go up? Lucy knows
the way.’
A few
minutes later, Lucy joined Nick and Joyce and me in the dining-room. She came
and kissed my cheek with an air perfectly suggesting that, while not for a
moment abating her dislike and disapproval of me, she was not, in view of the
circumstances, going to get at me today unless provoked. I had always wondered
what Nick saw in such a dumpy little personage, with her snouty nose,
short-cut indeterminate hair, curious shawls and fringed handbags. Nor had he
ever tried to enlighten me. Still, I had to admit that they seemed to get on
well enough together.
Amy
came in and stared at me until I had noticed the dirty sweater and holed jeans
she had exchanged for her earlier getup. Then, still staring at intervals, she
went over and started being theatrically cordial to Lucy, whom she knew I knew
she thought was a snob. I told things to Nick while my mind worked away on its
idea like an intelligent animal functioning without human supervision, rounding
up facts, sorting through questions and wonderings. It went assiduously on
while lunch was served.
Joyce
had put up a cold collation: artichoke with a vinaigrette, a Bradenham
ham, a tongue the chef had pressed himself, a game pie from the same hand,
salads and a cheese board with radishes and spring onions. I missed out the
artichoke, a dish I have always tended to despise on biological grounds. I
used to say that a man with a weight problem should eat nothing else, since
after each meal he would be left with fewer calories in him than he had burnt
up in the toil of disentangling from the bloody things what shreds of nourishment
they contained. I would speculate that a really small man, one compelled by his
size to eat with a frequency distantly comparable to that of the shrew or the
mole, would soon die of starvation and/ or exhaustion if locked up in a warehouse
full of artichokes, and sooner still if compelled besides to go through the
rigmarole of dunking each leaf in vinaigrette. But I did not go into any
of this now, partly because Joyce, who liked every edible thing and artichokes
particularly, always came back with the accusation that I hated food.
This is
true enough. For me, food not only interrupts everything while people eat it
and sit about waiting for more of it to be served, but also casts a spell of
vacancy before and after. No other sensual activity must take place at a set
time to be enjoyed by anybody at all, or comes up so inexorably and so often.
Some of the stuff I can stand.
‘All
right, David, it doesn’t matter. I thought it might have been someone who
bounced a cheque on me once, that’s all. It doesn’t matter. Let me know if
there are any problems in the dining-room. Hallo, Nick.’ We kissed; David went
on his way. ‘Sorry about that, I just thought … Where’s Lucy? Did you have a
good journey?’
‘Fine.
She’s over in the annexe, having a wash. What’s wrong, Dad?’
‘Nothing.
I mean it’s been a bit of a hellish day, as you can imagine, what with all the …‘
‘No,
now. You look as if you’ve had a scare or something’
‘Oh
no.’ I had had a scare all right. Come to that, I was still having one. I did
not know whether to be more frightened at the idea that had come into my mind,
or at the fact that it had come there and showed no signs of going away. I
tried to let it lie without examining it. ‘To tell you the truth, Nick, I had a
few quick drinks in Baldock, which you’ll understand, a bit too quick probably,
anyway I very nearly took a bad toss on the stairs just now when I was chasing
that bloody woman. Might have been nasty. Bit off-putting. You get the idea.’
Nick, a
tall square figure with his mother’s dark hair and eyes, looked at me stolidly.
He knew that I had not told him the truth, but was not going to take me up on
it. ‘You’d better have another, then,’ he said in the quick tolerant voice he
bad first used to me when he was a child of ten. ‘Shall we go up? Lucy knows
the way.’
A few
minutes later, Lucy joined Nick and Joyce and me in the dining-room. She came
and kissed my cheek with an air perfectly suggesting that, while not for a
moment abating her dislike and disapproval of me, she was not, in view of the
circumstances, going to get at me today unless provoked. I had always wondered
what Nick saw in such a dumpy little personage, with her snouty nose,
short-cut indeterminate hair, curious shawls and fringed handbags. Nor had he
ever tried to enlighten me. Still, I had to admit that they seemed to get on
well enough together.
Amy
came in and stared at me until I had noticed the dirty sweater and holed jeans
she had exchanged for her earlier getup. Then, still staring at intervals, she
went over and started being theatrically cordial to Lucy, whom she knew I knew
she thought was a snob. I told things to Nick while my mind worked away on its
idea like an intelligent animal functioning without human supervision, rounding
up facts, sorting through questions and wonderings. It went assiduously on
while lunch was served.
Joyce
had put up a cold collation: artichoke with a vinaigrette, a Bradenham
ham, a tongue the chef had pressed himself, a game pie from the same hand,
salads and a cheese board with radishes and spring onions. I missed out the
artichoke, a dish I have always tended to despise on biological grounds. I
used to say that a man with a weight problem should eat nothing else, since
after each meal he would be left with fewer calories in him than he had burnt
up in the toil of disentangling from the bloody things what shreds of nourishment
they contained. I would speculate that a really small man, one compelled by his
size to eat with a frequency distantly comparable to that of the shrew or the
mole, would soon die of starvation and/ or exhaustion if locked up in a warehouse
full of artichokes, and sooner still if compelled besides to go through the
rigmarole of dunking each leaf in vinaigrette. But I did not go into any
of this now, partly because Joyce, who liked every edible thing and artichokes
particularly, always came back with the accusation that I hated food.
This is
true enough. For me, food not only interrupts everything while people eat it
and sit about waiting for more of it to be served, but also casts a spell of
vacancy before and after. No other sensual activity must take place at a set
time to be enjoyed by anybody at all, or comes up so inexorably and so often.
Some of the stuff I can stand.
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