horrible coffee. She probably still had a few cronies, would venture out again in the afternoon to see one or other of them, would rely on an invitation to dinner which would satisfy her nutritional requirements until the following day. She retired early; we could hear her radio booming through the bedroom wall. At some point she would fall asleep until the sound roused her. Then we would hear her make her way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Her irregular progress was audible until she settled down again, round about midnight. The thought of her life filled me with horror. I did not intend ever to become like her.
“ At least you look after Digby properly, ” she said, as I returned with the sugar. She took a proprietorial interest in my husband, as she would do with all men, asserting her rights as an unreconstructed woman of the old school. “ I dare say your mother brought you up properly. One can always tell. These women [that is to say, all women unlike herself] don't seem to have had that advantage. As for the young ... ”
She lifted both hands in a helpless little gesture which nevertheless implied a wealth of condemnation. “ Not that you're all that young. But you seem to have settled down quite well. ”
This was calculated to bring me out, as she would no doubt have put it. But it seemed that I was not of sufficient interest to engage her attention further. Either that or she was bored. She was certainly disappointed. My reticence was a sign that I was of negligible quality, unworthy of any sort of husband, let alone the one with whom she had exchanged playful comments before I had been imported onto the scene. Though I had occupied that scene for some time she seemed to view me as temporary, rather like a servant who might not shape up to the job. She was unaware that her dislike of me was quite plain. I was equally aware that she must never discover the reasons for it. For somewhere, at some undisturbed level of her brain, she recognized sexual activity on my part, though she might not identify it as the most significant of the differences between us. And I was not paying her homage. At a very deep level, even deeper than the first, she made the connection between the presence of the one and the absence of the other.
“ Mrs Crook, you must excuse me, ” I said, getting to my feet. “ This has been delightful. ” I did not return the invitation. Instead I offered to shop for her on my morning outings. This may have been a kind offer, but it was not a genuine one. I was anxious to leave, but was aware that I should have to make some concessions to the spirit of the occasion. She viewed me with a marked lack of indulgence. In my imagination I could hear my telephone ringing unanswered.
The incident had unsettled me. I had been brought face to face with an unwelcome phenomenon, the prospect of a woman from whom emotional sustenance had been removed and who had settled for viciousness as a comforting substitute. Her flat had been filled with that particular miasma, and everything in it — the wheezing cushions into which she had sunk, the uncared-for kitchen, deemed fit occupation for a notional domestic, even the lowly shopping — had all signified an absence which she had tried to fill with her lofty observations about the decline of standards. That these were somehow directed against myself, still technically blameless, had not deceived me, though they may have deceived Mrs Crook. Sooner or later my secret would be uncovered, not by my husband but by the likes of Mrs Crook and her jealous perceptions. I feared the power of women, though I was one myself. The only harmless woman I knew was Betsy, whom I suddenly, acutely missed. Not that it would have done to have Betsy as a witness; she would not have understood the dreadful attraction that bound me to Edmund. For Betsy, love was only admissible if it were poetic, a redeeming feature informed by the highest emotion. Her own love affair was, like all
“ At least you look after Digby properly, ” she said, as I returned with the sugar. She took a proprietorial interest in my husband, as she would do with all men, asserting her rights as an unreconstructed woman of the old school. “ I dare say your mother brought you up properly. One can always tell. These women [that is to say, all women unlike herself] don't seem to have had that advantage. As for the young ... ”
She lifted both hands in a helpless little gesture which nevertheless implied a wealth of condemnation. “ Not that you're all that young. But you seem to have settled down quite well. ”
This was calculated to bring me out, as she would no doubt have put it. But it seemed that I was not of sufficient interest to engage her attention further. Either that or she was bored. She was certainly disappointed. My reticence was a sign that I was of negligible quality, unworthy of any sort of husband, let alone the one with whom she had exchanged playful comments before I had been imported onto the scene. Though I had occupied that scene for some time she seemed to view me as temporary, rather like a servant who might not shape up to the job. She was unaware that her dislike of me was quite plain. I was equally aware that she must never discover the reasons for it. For somewhere, at some undisturbed level of her brain, she recognized sexual activity on my part, though she might not identify it as the most significant of the differences between us. And I was not paying her homage. At a very deep level, even deeper than the first, she made the connection between the presence of the one and the absence of the other.
“ Mrs Crook, you must excuse me, ” I said, getting to my feet. “ This has been delightful. ” I did not return the invitation. Instead I offered to shop for her on my morning outings. This may have been a kind offer, but it was not a genuine one. I was anxious to leave, but was aware that I should have to make some concessions to the spirit of the occasion. She viewed me with a marked lack of indulgence. In my imagination I could hear my telephone ringing unanswered.
The incident had unsettled me. I had been brought face to face with an unwelcome phenomenon, the prospect of a woman from whom emotional sustenance had been removed and who had settled for viciousness as a comforting substitute. Her flat had been filled with that particular miasma, and everything in it — the wheezing cushions into which she had sunk, the uncared-for kitchen, deemed fit occupation for a notional domestic, even the lowly shopping — had all signified an absence which she had tried to fill with her lofty observations about the decline of standards. That these were somehow directed against myself, still technically blameless, had not deceived me, though they may have deceived Mrs Crook. Sooner or later my secret would be uncovered, not by my husband but by the likes of Mrs Crook and her jealous perceptions. I feared the power of women, though I was one myself. The only harmless woman I knew was Betsy, whom I suddenly, acutely missed. Not that it would have done to have Betsy as a witness; she would not have understood the dreadful attraction that bound me to Edmund. For Betsy, love was only admissible if it were poetic, a redeeming feature informed by the highest emotion. Her own love affair was, like all
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