suggested they could adjourn to the bar and perhaps continue the discussion.
“I’m afraid I can’t linger,” said Georgina. Linger? How pretentious. “Thank you for the invitation, though.”
All she wanted to do was escape, as quickly as possible, before any of these astute youngsters rumbled her.
Why should she feel so awkward about it? she asked herself. Why was she, an honest person, ashamed to say, “Listen up, folks, I’ve never read a word of Jane Austen and I don’t intend to”? What was wrong with that?
She’d be branded a philistine. Who cared?
These kids would despise her. So what? There wasn’t a law, you can’t be a decent person, or count yourself as having a brain, unlessyou’ve read all the works of Jane Austen. Think of all the people in the world who had never even heard of Jane Austen.
Lucky them.
She could have stormed the meeting, explaining just why she’d chosen not to read Jane Austen. She could have told them how romantic fiction was a dead duck as far as she was concerned, how the novel had to move on from boy meets girl, how cut off from reality a middle-class Englishwoman like Jane Austen must have been. To which, if any of them had half a brain, the answer would have come flying back, how can you judge, if you’ve never read her?
Just think of all the books she hadn’t read. Thousands, tens of thousands of them. Why should Jane Austen be anywhere near the top of her list? Why was it any reason to feel guilty, or at a disadvantage?
It was cultural oppression. You can’t call yourself educated if you haven’t read…
The wind and rain lashed across the quad. Two figures hurried past, clinging to one another under an umbrella in danger of turning inside out. Georgina pulled up her collar and wished she’d worn a coat rather than a jacket. She could feel her trousers flapping damply around her ankles.
Joe was apologizing for not having an umbrella. “I never use one,” he said, increasing his stride as a gust of wind buffeted them. “The porter will call you a taxi,” he added helpfully.
“No,” said Gina. “No, I don’t mind the rain. And I haven’t far to go, it’s not worth a taxi.” They dived into the cover of the lodge, where light spilled out across the flagstones. Gina said goodbye to Joe with a final insincere burst of thanks for asking her to speak, as she edged round the sign that said, the college is closed. Joe, who had seemed disposed to hover, accepted his congé, and with a graceful wave of his hand, headed inside the brightly lit lodge.
The huge wooden doors that led out to St. Giles were closed,leaving the wicket door open. With a sense of relief and elation, Georgina stepped out into the sleeting rain, oblivious of the wet, uneven pavements and the swishing of cars swirling past, headlights flickering across the black road. She hurried past the walls of the erstwhile Radcliffe Infirmary, destined for a second life as offices for the university, and narrowly avoided being run down by a cyclist, riding without a light, who shouted at her, “Out of my way, spastic,” as she jumped clear.
Thank God, here she was at last, back at the block of flats. Tonight they took on a gothic air, the dark brick and the unlit windows of the side with offices and the drawn curtains of those flats with occupants depressing her spirits still further.
The lift wasn’t working; no doubt some thoughtless inhabitant had left the iron grid open on the top floor. She squelched her way up the narrow stairs, and then had a heart-stopping moment at the front door, unable to find the keys.
By the expedient of turning out the contents of her handbag on to the doormat, she unearthed them. She shovelled the debris back into the bag, and thankfully let herself in.
The telephone was ringing. Automatically she ran over to pick it up, then remembered that whoever was calling, it wouldn’t be for her. The answer phone clicked on, and the words quacked out at her. “This
“I’m afraid I can’t linger,” said Georgina. Linger? How pretentious. “Thank you for the invitation, though.”
All she wanted to do was escape, as quickly as possible, before any of these astute youngsters rumbled her.
Why should she feel so awkward about it? she asked herself. Why was she, an honest person, ashamed to say, “Listen up, folks, I’ve never read a word of Jane Austen and I don’t intend to”? What was wrong with that?
She’d be branded a philistine. Who cared?
These kids would despise her. So what? There wasn’t a law, you can’t be a decent person, or count yourself as having a brain, unlessyou’ve read all the works of Jane Austen. Think of all the people in the world who had never even heard of Jane Austen.
Lucky them.
She could have stormed the meeting, explaining just why she’d chosen not to read Jane Austen. She could have told them how romantic fiction was a dead duck as far as she was concerned, how the novel had to move on from boy meets girl, how cut off from reality a middle-class Englishwoman like Jane Austen must have been. To which, if any of them had half a brain, the answer would have come flying back, how can you judge, if you’ve never read her?
Just think of all the books she hadn’t read. Thousands, tens of thousands of them. Why should Jane Austen be anywhere near the top of her list? Why was it any reason to feel guilty, or at a disadvantage?
It was cultural oppression. You can’t call yourself educated if you haven’t read…
The wind and rain lashed across the quad. Two figures hurried past, clinging to one another under an umbrella in danger of turning inside out. Georgina pulled up her collar and wished she’d worn a coat rather than a jacket. She could feel her trousers flapping damply around her ankles.
Joe was apologizing for not having an umbrella. “I never use one,” he said, increasing his stride as a gust of wind buffeted them. “The porter will call you a taxi,” he added helpfully.
“No,” said Gina. “No, I don’t mind the rain. And I haven’t far to go, it’s not worth a taxi.” They dived into the cover of the lodge, where light spilled out across the flagstones. Gina said goodbye to Joe with a final insincere burst of thanks for asking her to speak, as she edged round the sign that said, the college is closed. Joe, who had seemed disposed to hover, accepted his congé, and with a graceful wave of his hand, headed inside the brightly lit lodge.
The huge wooden doors that led out to St. Giles were closed,leaving the wicket door open. With a sense of relief and elation, Georgina stepped out into the sleeting rain, oblivious of the wet, uneven pavements and the swishing of cars swirling past, headlights flickering across the black road. She hurried past the walls of the erstwhile Radcliffe Infirmary, destined for a second life as offices for the university, and narrowly avoided being run down by a cyclist, riding without a light, who shouted at her, “Out of my way, spastic,” as she jumped clear.
Thank God, here she was at last, back at the block of flats. Tonight they took on a gothic air, the dark brick and the unlit windows of the side with offices and the drawn curtains of those flats with occupants depressing her spirits still further.
The lift wasn’t working; no doubt some thoughtless inhabitant had left the iron grid open on the top floor. She squelched her way up the narrow stairs, and then had a heart-stopping moment at the front door, unable to find the keys.
By the expedient of turning out the contents of her handbag on to the doormat, she unearthed them. She shovelled the debris back into the bag, and thankfully let herself in.
The telephone was ringing. Automatically she ran over to pick it up, then remembered that whoever was calling, it wouldn’t be for her. The answer phone clicked on, and the words quacked out at her. “This
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