of her afternoon walks. As soon as she saw it she knew that she must have it, that she would not bother looking for anything else. It was too big, but she thought that the basement could be made into a flat for a nanny or housekeeper, while the top floor could be turned over to the child, when it grew up and craved independence. That way there would be no separation. The house was in good order, had only just been vacated. She would even keep the long flowereddamask curtains: the walls could be plain white, the carpets pale blue, with Freddie’s precious rugs relegated to a room which she designated vaguely as his.
He raised a few objections, but she made light of them. ‘I am not made of money, you know,’ he protested. ‘We spend nothing,’ she countered. ‘And I have never liked this flat.’ Indeed she was only just beginning to realize how much she disliked it. It seemed to her elderly, the home of an elderly person, and she had no wish to be that person. She was thirty-two and had never felt so young in her life. And she discovered that she had found an appropriate attitude towards her husband: a tender but detached amusement. A dissociation had taken place which had essentially freed her from the past.
It no longer bothered her that Freddie looked unsightly in his sleep, or that his step was heavier than her own. She felt physically in a world apart, not only from Freddie but from everybody else, unnaturally well, flushed with healthy blood, and despite her barely perceptible new weight, light, impalpable. She was tireless as she walked all afternoon, round the silent squares and terraces, no longer gazing wistfully at the park but on smiling terms with all inhabited spaces. In her inner contentment she became almost wordless, greeting Freddie in the evenings with smiles and murmured phrases, sometimes laying a hand gratefully on his own. She saw that he was disarmed, finally, not by the prospect of the child but by her own happiness. He took to settling her in her chair, as if she were very tired, very frail, whereas in truth she could have got up, gone out into the moonlight and walked, she felt, until the small hours. ‘Don’t overdo it,’ he would say, as she got up to put on a kettle for tea, and ‘All right, old thing?’ searchingly, as he departed for the day. She saw him go with relief, although she, in her turn, became anxious for him in the evening. For this reason alone—the sudden pang of separationafter hours of quietude, the sense of having moved away too far from what was familiar to her—she was at the window to look for him, at the door to greet him. He was bemused, attracted again, indulgent. They got on very well.
But she knew that she was in some way divorced from him, and dated this from the moment her hand had flown up to shield her face from Jack Peckham. There was no disloyalty in her thoughts, simply an acknowledgement that something long dormant had come to life in that instant. She saw this as secret knowledge, devoid of intention: she was not a woman who knew how to pursue her own satisfaction, particularly at the expense of someone else. She was unaware of any skills she might possess, but knew that should they ever be wanted they would be adequate to the task. She looked in the glass and saw a pleasant face, saw the red stain on the jawbone: she accepted herself, mark and all. Never again would she attempt to hide herself. All this was of very great interest to her, as if she were coming to life after a long sleep, or being allowed her freedom after long claustration. No friendship suffered, rather the contrary. Goodwill suffused her. She thought of it as the elixir of life, which she had found at last, not knowing that it had been lacking.
In this manner she was able to call on Tessa most afternoons, in the course of her long walk, or on her way to see the house. She had never been so fond of Tessa as she was at this time: it was delightful to have steered this long course
He raised a few objections, but she made light of them. ‘I am not made of money, you know,’ he protested. ‘We spend nothing,’ she countered. ‘And I have never liked this flat.’ Indeed she was only just beginning to realize how much she disliked it. It seemed to her elderly, the home of an elderly person, and she had no wish to be that person. She was thirty-two and had never felt so young in her life. And she discovered that she had found an appropriate attitude towards her husband: a tender but detached amusement. A dissociation had taken place which had essentially freed her from the past.
It no longer bothered her that Freddie looked unsightly in his sleep, or that his step was heavier than her own. She felt physically in a world apart, not only from Freddie but from everybody else, unnaturally well, flushed with healthy blood, and despite her barely perceptible new weight, light, impalpable. She was tireless as she walked all afternoon, round the silent squares and terraces, no longer gazing wistfully at the park but on smiling terms with all inhabited spaces. In her inner contentment she became almost wordless, greeting Freddie in the evenings with smiles and murmured phrases, sometimes laying a hand gratefully on his own. She saw that he was disarmed, finally, not by the prospect of the child but by her own happiness. He took to settling her in her chair, as if she were very tired, very frail, whereas in truth she could have got up, gone out into the moonlight and walked, she felt, until the small hours. ‘Don’t overdo it,’ he would say, as she got up to put on a kettle for tea, and ‘All right, old thing?’ searchingly, as he departed for the day. She saw him go with relief, although she, in her turn, became anxious for him in the evening. For this reason alone—the sudden pang of separationafter hours of quietude, the sense of having moved away too far from what was familiar to her—she was at the window to look for him, at the door to greet him. He was bemused, attracted again, indulgent. They got on very well.
But she knew that she was in some way divorced from him, and dated this from the moment her hand had flown up to shield her face from Jack Peckham. There was no disloyalty in her thoughts, simply an acknowledgement that something long dormant had come to life in that instant. She saw this as secret knowledge, devoid of intention: she was not a woman who knew how to pursue her own satisfaction, particularly at the expense of someone else. She was unaware of any skills she might possess, but knew that should they ever be wanted they would be adequate to the task. She looked in the glass and saw a pleasant face, saw the red stain on the jawbone: she accepted herself, mark and all. Never again would she attempt to hide herself. All this was of very great interest to her, as if she were coming to life after a long sleep, or being allowed her freedom after long claustration. No friendship suffered, rather the contrary. Goodwill suffused her. She thought of it as the elixir of life, which she had found at last, not knowing that it had been lacking.
In this manner she was able to call on Tessa most afternoons, in the course of her long walk, or on her way to see the house. She had never been so fond of Tessa as she was at this time: it was delightful to have steered this long course
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