Princes Park this night, I met no one.
Although it was quite late, when I arrived at Motherâs house I found her listening to the last radio program before closing at midnight. A colourless, female voice was exhorting listeners, on a show called âWhat shall we have for dinner?â, to surprise their husbands with a ghastly meal of soup derived from beetroot tops, onion skins, ragged lettuce leaves, and celery tops, followed by an allegedly delicious baked custard made with unpearled barley and lemon juice. Mother looked up and smiled when I came in. I thought she was smiling in acknowledgement of my arrival, but it soon became apparent that the source of her delight was her imagining families all over the city struggling to digest this hideous meal. I had enough champagne still in my system to tell Mother that Christmas lunch would be busier than sheâd anticipated. She was, in fact, delighted that two Americans would be coming. She reserved her dubiousness for Geraldine.
âI liked her of course, darling,â she said, and how different that âdarlingâ sounded to me. âThe soldiers are strangers, but doesnât it imply a degree of, well, permanence, when you ask a young lady to a family occasion?â
âWhat on earth are you implying?â
âYouâve only just met her. Surely she wouldnât â¦â She stopped before completing the remark, but as we both knew, she might as well have delivered a lengthy dissertation on my various inadequacies. I couldnât give her the absolution of believing that her grief for her favoured son, Fulton, had naturally reduced me in her eyes. My reduction had begun long before Fulton had been born, so, however she might protest, if pushed, she couldnât lay that flattering unction to her soul.
âIs it really so difficult to believe, Mother, that a woman might find in me qualities to which you are blind?â
I was immediately and mortifyingly conscious of how pompous I sounded.
âWell, Will, I mean to say, a woman?â
The rising terminal was stunningly offensive.
âWhat exactly are you suggesting, Mother?â
âDarling,â she said, and I could tell that she hoped that that word would function as some sort of salve for what she was about to say.
âIt makes no difference to me at all; itâs not like I havenât in my time ⦠well, never mind. I just mean that I always assumed that, well, the theatre, the general air about you. Oh dear, Iâm not doing terribly well, am I?â
I was losing the battle to assimilate the components of this fragmented confession and simultaneous jâaccuse .
âJust yesterday, Mother, you asked Geraldine, a woman youâd known for less than an hour, if she was a lesbian, and now, here you are, asking your son if heâs ⦠I suppose I should be flattered that at least you have the grace to find the inquiry an awkward one.â
âAre you absolutely sure Gerald isnât a lesbian? I did like her. She seemed more interesting than any of the other girls youâve brought home.â
âYou really have no idea, have you, how offensive your remarks can be?â
âOh Will, donât be so corseted. Sometimes you can be ridiculously Victorian.â
I saw no reason to prolong the discussion, so disciplining a desire to defend myself against this absurd claim, I kissed Mother on the forehead and wished her goodnight.
âI am pleased about Christmas, Will. Truly I am.â
I walked into the hallway and found Brian, who tried unsuccessfully to assume the position of a person who hadnât been lurking and listening.
âYou have to be a ghost if youâre going to be a spy, Brian, not a fucking poltergeist.â
I went upstairs to bed. Iâd scour the next dayâs papers for rooms to let.
The next day was Sunday, and there were no papers to scour. I flicked through Saturdayâs Argus , and found a
Although it was quite late, when I arrived at Motherâs house I found her listening to the last radio program before closing at midnight. A colourless, female voice was exhorting listeners, on a show called âWhat shall we have for dinner?â, to surprise their husbands with a ghastly meal of soup derived from beetroot tops, onion skins, ragged lettuce leaves, and celery tops, followed by an allegedly delicious baked custard made with unpearled barley and lemon juice. Mother looked up and smiled when I came in. I thought she was smiling in acknowledgement of my arrival, but it soon became apparent that the source of her delight was her imagining families all over the city struggling to digest this hideous meal. I had enough champagne still in my system to tell Mother that Christmas lunch would be busier than sheâd anticipated. She was, in fact, delighted that two Americans would be coming. She reserved her dubiousness for Geraldine.
âI liked her of course, darling,â she said, and how different that âdarlingâ sounded to me. âThe soldiers are strangers, but doesnât it imply a degree of, well, permanence, when you ask a young lady to a family occasion?â
âWhat on earth are you implying?â
âYouâve only just met her. Surely she wouldnât â¦â She stopped before completing the remark, but as we both knew, she might as well have delivered a lengthy dissertation on my various inadequacies. I couldnât give her the absolution of believing that her grief for her favoured son, Fulton, had naturally reduced me in her eyes. My reduction had begun long before Fulton had been born, so, however she might protest, if pushed, she couldnât lay that flattering unction to her soul.
âIs it really so difficult to believe, Mother, that a woman might find in me qualities to which you are blind?â
I was immediately and mortifyingly conscious of how pompous I sounded.
âWell, Will, I mean to say, a woman?â
The rising terminal was stunningly offensive.
âWhat exactly are you suggesting, Mother?â
âDarling,â she said, and I could tell that she hoped that that word would function as some sort of salve for what she was about to say.
âIt makes no difference to me at all; itâs not like I havenât in my time ⦠well, never mind. I just mean that I always assumed that, well, the theatre, the general air about you. Oh dear, Iâm not doing terribly well, am I?â
I was losing the battle to assimilate the components of this fragmented confession and simultaneous jâaccuse .
âJust yesterday, Mother, you asked Geraldine, a woman youâd known for less than an hour, if she was a lesbian, and now, here you are, asking your son if heâs ⦠I suppose I should be flattered that at least you have the grace to find the inquiry an awkward one.â
âAre you absolutely sure Gerald isnât a lesbian? I did like her. She seemed more interesting than any of the other girls youâve brought home.â
âYou really have no idea, have you, how offensive your remarks can be?â
âOh Will, donât be so corseted. Sometimes you can be ridiculously Victorian.â
I saw no reason to prolong the discussion, so disciplining a desire to defend myself against this absurd claim, I kissed Mother on the forehead and wished her goodnight.
âI am pleased about Christmas, Will. Truly I am.â
I walked into the hallway and found Brian, who tried unsuccessfully to assume the position of a person who hadnât been lurking and listening.
âYou have to be a ghost if youâre going to be a spy, Brian, not a fucking poltergeist.â
I went upstairs to bed. Iâd scour the next dayâs papers for rooms to let.
The next day was Sunday, and there were no papers to scour. I flicked through Saturdayâs Argus , and found a
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