we’d been up to?’
‘What do you mean? She’s not going to know anything about it.’
‘Of course not. But how do you think she would take it if she did find out? Hypothetically, that is.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re asking about that. It’s pretty obvious that she would have a nasty shock – we’ve talked about that before.’
He carried on drumming on the wheel.
‘So you don’t think it would be a good idea for me to tell her?’
Monica stared at him.
‘Why would you . . .’
‘Because I also feel that I need to be honest about things. More of a need than either you or she has, it seems.’
In a split second the penny dropped for her. And just as quickly she knew what the implications might be. It wasn’t he or she, the guilty parties, who would be worst affected if their affair became known: it would be her mother. No doubt about it. Twofold treachery of this nature – on the part of her lover and her only daughter – given her fragile state and her emotionally unstable situation . . . No, anything but that was Monica’s reluctant reaction. And in the circumstances she seemed to be ending up in, to make things even worse . . .
An image of her mother’s washed-out face as she lay in bed earlier that afternoon found its way into Monica’s mind’s eye, and she felt the tears welling up behind her eyes. She swallowed, and tried to pull herself together.
‘You mustn’t do that,’ she said. ‘Do you hear? You really must not do that!’
He took a deep breath and let go of the steering wheel.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. But can’t we go up for a while and talk it over, at least?’
She looked out through the rain-soaked side window at the building they were parked outside.
‘Is this where you live?’
‘It certainly is. Shall we go in?’
She glanced at her watch again, but realized that it no longer mattered much what time it was. Whether she got home at ten or eleven or even later. She opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement.
He hurried round the car, put his arm round her shoulders and steered her rapidly through the rain and in through the entrance door, which was some ten metres further up the alley in the direction of the churchyard. She had time to note that the building was four or five storeys high, quite old and with stone walls. The entrance door led into an inner courtyard with bicycle stands, a shed for rubbish, and some benches under a large tree she thought was an elm. It was all a bit reminiscent of Palitzerlaan, and she felt a slight pang of nostalgia.
‘What a lovely building,’ she said.
‘Art Nouveau,’ he said. ‘Built exactly a hundred years ago. Yes, it’s pretty impressive.’
His flat was also impressive. To say the least. Four rooms plus a kitchen, as far as she could tell; large parquet floor tiles made of light-coloured, grained wood and an open fire in the large living room. Heavy, dark furniture widely spaced – and well-filled bookshelves covering almost all of every wall. Two large, low sofas and soft carpets. She compared it with Moerckstraat, and felt a somewhat different pang.
He must be rich, she thought. Why is he bothering with the likes of us?
‘What was that name on your door?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t yours.’
‘What did you say?’ he shouted from the kitchen.
‘It didn’t say Kerran on your door.’
He came back into the living room.
‘Oh, that . . . I had a lodger last spring. A student. He insisted on having his name on the door, so that visitors could find his pad. I forgot to take it away. Would you like something to drink?’
She shook her head.
‘Can we do the talking now, and get it over with?’
She sat down on one of the sofas, and he flopped down beside her after a moment’s hesitation.
‘I hadn’t thought of restricting ourselves to talking.’
Before she had time to respond he stood up again and disappeared into the kitchen. Came back carrying a single candle in a holder. He
‘What do you mean? She’s not going to know anything about it.’
‘Of course not. But how do you think she would take it if she did find out? Hypothetically, that is.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re asking about that. It’s pretty obvious that she would have a nasty shock – we’ve talked about that before.’
He carried on drumming on the wheel.
‘So you don’t think it would be a good idea for me to tell her?’
Monica stared at him.
‘Why would you . . .’
‘Because I also feel that I need to be honest about things. More of a need than either you or she has, it seems.’
In a split second the penny dropped for her. And just as quickly she knew what the implications might be. It wasn’t he or she, the guilty parties, who would be worst affected if their affair became known: it would be her mother. No doubt about it. Twofold treachery of this nature – on the part of her lover and her only daughter – given her fragile state and her emotionally unstable situation . . . No, anything but that was Monica’s reluctant reaction. And in the circumstances she seemed to be ending up in, to make things even worse . . .
An image of her mother’s washed-out face as she lay in bed earlier that afternoon found its way into Monica’s mind’s eye, and she felt the tears welling up behind her eyes. She swallowed, and tried to pull herself together.
‘You mustn’t do that,’ she said. ‘Do you hear? You really must not do that!’
He took a deep breath and let go of the steering wheel.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I know. But can’t we go up for a while and talk it over, at least?’
She looked out through the rain-soaked side window at the building they were parked outside.
‘Is this where you live?’
‘It certainly is. Shall we go in?’
She glanced at her watch again, but realized that it no longer mattered much what time it was. Whether she got home at ten or eleven or even later. She opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement.
He hurried round the car, put his arm round her shoulders and steered her rapidly through the rain and in through the entrance door, which was some ten metres further up the alley in the direction of the churchyard. She had time to note that the building was four or five storeys high, quite old and with stone walls. The entrance door led into an inner courtyard with bicycle stands, a shed for rubbish, and some benches under a large tree she thought was an elm. It was all a bit reminiscent of Palitzerlaan, and she felt a slight pang of nostalgia.
‘What a lovely building,’ she said.
‘Art Nouveau,’ he said. ‘Built exactly a hundred years ago. Yes, it’s pretty impressive.’
His flat was also impressive. To say the least. Four rooms plus a kitchen, as far as she could tell; large parquet floor tiles made of light-coloured, grained wood and an open fire in the large living room. Heavy, dark furniture widely spaced – and well-filled bookshelves covering almost all of every wall. Two large, low sofas and soft carpets. She compared it with Moerckstraat, and felt a somewhat different pang.
He must be rich, she thought. Why is he bothering with the likes of us?
‘What was that name on your door?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t yours.’
‘What did you say?’ he shouted from the kitchen.
‘It didn’t say Kerran on your door.’
He came back into the living room.
‘Oh, that . . . I had a lodger last spring. A student. He insisted on having his name on the door, so that visitors could find his pad. I forgot to take it away. Would you like something to drink?’
She shook her head.
‘Can we do the talking now, and get it over with?’
She sat down on one of the sofas, and he flopped down beside her after a moment’s hesitation.
‘I hadn’t thought of restricting ourselves to talking.’
Before she had time to respond he stood up again and disappeared into the kitchen. Came back carrying a single candle in a holder. He
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