supposed to have done with that. Trust the Lord and so forth.”
“At least come to Lafferton for a few days … see the place, it’s beautiful. See where I live.”
“Like the fairies.”
“What?”
“At the bottom of someone’s garden, isn’t it? Seems quite fitting.”
One day, I may hit her. One day, I may kill her. One day … But she had gone past all that, years before, coming in from school at the end of every day, shaking with pent-up anger if her mother was at home, only calm when she was at the clinic, or lecturing, or,wonderfully, on some trip abroad. Sometimes, it had been Jane and her father for weeks at a time. They had looked at one another across the dining table and never said it aloud but caught each other counting off the days of freedom and peace that were left, seeing it all in one another’s eyes.
But Magda was weak now, Jane thought, weak and frightened and confused. And when it happened, she rang me. Didn’t that mean something?
“I’ve got a paper to write for the next Journal , and Elspeth is expecting me to have looked at our last chapter. I need to finish it, Jane. I still have a lot to do before I die.” She spoke matter-of-factly She meant it.
“I know. You’ve plenty more to give.”
“Sentimental.”
“No. Truth.”
“Do you remember Charlie Gold? Maurice Gold’s son?”
“Good Lord … yes, I do … I quite fancied him at one time. Why?”
“There’s an invitation to his wedding in the house somewhere. Sunday week, I think. I’d like to go.”
“Charlie Gold.” She saw him, dark hair, olive skin, thick eyebrows. Goodness.
“Who is he marrying?”
Her mother shrugged. “I hate the synagogue. I haven’t been since your father died. But I wouldn’t mind dying at a Jewish wedding.”
“I bet quite a few people do … all that eating, dancing as if they were still twenty … then pop.”
Jane remembered the arguments she had listened to from her room, the volleys of accusation, the despair in her father’s voice. He had suffered for marrying not only a non-Jew but an unbeliever, a rationalist, a Marxist, a woman who had laughed in his face when he had suggested they go occasionally to the Friday-night meal with his parents.
When Magda was away, Jane had gone with him instead. The memory of the ceremony, the food, the prayers, the closeness of the atmosphere was precious. She had never told her mother, and when her grandparents died within six months of one another, it was as though everything had stopped, the whole of her connection with her Jewishness had been severed. Then her father had died. It had almost gone from her memory, until news like this, of someone she had once known, brought it back like the waft from a censer, swinging its perfume towards her.
“Do you suppose those youths knew me?” her mother asked. Just for a second, her eyes flickered with anxiety.
“No … they just liked the look of the house and thought there’d be rich pickings. They expected it to be empty but you were in, so they lost their heads. How would they know you? You didn’t recognise them.”
“Might they have been watching?”
“Unlikely. There are plenty of swankier houses in Hampstead.”
“That is true. Oh, go on, get back to your cathedral. I’m sure they need you more than I do.”
“Not just at present. Anyway, I have to see the police. They’ve checked the house but they want a statement from me.”
“How can that be of use? You weren’t even there. Tell them to see me. You don’t know anything about it. I am going to discharge myself in the morning and I am then going home. And I don’t want you to be there fussing about.”
Jane got up. Humour, she had decided long ago, humour works. Occasionally. But nothing remotely funny came to her.
It was dusk by the time she left London. The sky was feathered with blackberry cloud as she headed west. Scott Joplin came from the CD player. She had seen the police, sorted out the house as best
“At least come to Lafferton for a few days … see the place, it’s beautiful. See where I live.”
“Like the fairies.”
“What?”
“At the bottom of someone’s garden, isn’t it? Seems quite fitting.”
One day, I may hit her. One day, I may kill her. One day … But she had gone past all that, years before, coming in from school at the end of every day, shaking with pent-up anger if her mother was at home, only calm when she was at the clinic, or lecturing, or,wonderfully, on some trip abroad. Sometimes, it had been Jane and her father for weeks at a time. They had looked at one another across the dining table and never said it aloud but caught each other counting off the days of freedom and peace that were left, seeing it all in one another’s eyes.
But Magda was weak now, Jane thought, weak and frightened and confused. And when it happened, she rang me. Didn’t that mean something?
“I’ve got a paper to write for the next Journal , and Elspeth is expecting me to have looked at our last chapter. I need to finish it, Jane. I still have a lot to do before I die.” She spoke matter-of-factly She meant it.
“I know. You’ve plenty more to give.”
“Sentimental.”
“No. Truth.”
“Do you remember Charlie Gold? Maurice Gold’s son?”
“Good Lord … yes, I do … I quite fancied him at one time. Why?”
“There’s an invitation to his wedding in the house somewhere. Sunday week, I think. I’d like to go.”
“Charlie Gold.” She saw him, dark hair, olive skin, thick eyebrows. Goodness.
“Who is he marrying?”
Her mother shrugged. “I hate the synagogue. I haven’t been since your father died. But I wouldn’t mind dying at a Jewish wedding.”
“I bet quite a few people do … all that eating, dancing as if they were still twenty … then pop.”
Jane remembered the arguments she had listened to from her room, the volleys of accusation, the despair in her father’s voice. He had suffered for marrying not only a non-Jew but an unbeliever, a rationalist, a Marxist, a woman who had laughed in his face when he had suggested they go occasionally to the Friday-night meal with his parents.
When Magda was away, Jane had gone with him instead. The memory of the ceremony, the food, the prayers, the closeness of the atmosphere was precious. She had never told her mother, and when her grandparents died within six months of one another, it was as though everything had stopped, the whole of her connection with her Jewishness had been severed. Then her father had died. It had almost gone from her memory, until news like this, of someone she had once known, brought it back like the waft from a censer, swinging its perfume towards her.
“Do you suppose those youths knew me?” her mother asked. Just for a second, her eyes flickered with anxiety.
“No … they just liked the look of the house and thought there’d be rich pickings. They expected it to be empty but you were in, so they lost their heads. How would they know you? You didn’t recognise them.”
“Might they have been watching?”
“Unlikely. There are plenty of swankier houses in Hampstead.”
“That is true. Oh, go on, get back to your cathedral. I’m sure they need you more than I do.”
“Not just at present. Anyway, I have to see the police. They’ve checked the house but they want a statement from me.”
“How can that be of use? You weren’t even there. Tell them to see me. You don’t know anything about it. I am going to discharge myself in the morning and I am then going home. And I don’t want you to be there fussing about.”
Jane got up. Humour, she had decided long ago, humour works. Occasionally. But nothing remotely funny came to her.
It was dusk by the time she left London. The sky was feathered with blackberry cloud as she headed west. Scott Joplin came from the CD player. She had seen the police, sorted out the house as best
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