preferred to meet the day of her inevitable revolt with a united front. But Blanche hoped that Bertie might have his own private thoughts about her: hoped, though had no way of knowing.
She turned in to a supermarket to buy a bottle of wine and encountered her virtuous neighbour, Mrs Duff, whose anxious hand on Blanche’s arm belied her reassuring smile and whose overtures of friendship Blanche had so far resisted, sensing in the woman a need to sympathize which might prove too much for her own comfort. Alone of all her acquaintances, Blanche thought, this woman treated her as if she might be wounded, and perversely she felt irritated rather than grateful. Blanche found it intolerable to have witnesses at her defeats; therefore she gave no sign of being defeated. Or so she hoped.
‘A little warmer at last,’ offered Mrs Duff. ‘We shall soonbe out in the garden again.’ For they shared adjoining gardens behind their respective mansion flats, and although Blanche never sat there she sometimes looked down from her window at Mrs Duff, taking the afternoon air, in a print blouse and a dazzling white skirt, on high summer days.
They made a little conversation about the weather, what it had been like, what it seemed to be about to be like, what was promised for the days ahead, in tones of great cordiality, as such acquaintances will. Blanche felt a pang of regret that she was not able to respond to Mrs Duff’s overtures in a spirit of open-mindedness or the sort of mutual congratulation that would bring a smile to Mrs Duff’s face. Her enormous consciousness of her own defeat had removed her, apparently for ever, from such an exchange of compliments. There was an innocence about Mrs Duff that Blanche rejected, as no longer hers to share. It was as if she herself had lost her own innocence, could think only in tortured worldly terms, must apply her censorship to every action, every word, and was oddly fearful of revealing herself to others. Yet despite all this, the little girl, perhaps because of her wordlessness, had struck some response from Blanche, had penetrated her defences, and, perhaps for that very reason, was seen to be significant.
Blanche watched Mrs Duff’s figure marching trimly in the direction of home and, after a short delay, followed her out into the street. The damp evening closed round her, numbing her responses. Looking up, she saw at the bus stop on the other side of the road Mrs Beamish and Elinor, who had evidently managed an appointment with the doctor after all. Instinctively, she raised her hand and waved. Mrs Beamish nodded and smiled, then patted her daughter on the shoulder and indicated Blanche. After a second’s thought Elinor lifted up her arm and waved back.
‘Yes,’ said Blanche later on the telephone to Barbara. ‘Quite an interesting day. Not bad at all.’
FOUR
At the last moment, as she was about to leave her apartment, Blanche heard the telephone. When she learned that Barbara had succumbed to influenza, she put down her bag, walked to the kitchen and began to assemble supplies, planning in her mind the asparagus soup, the braised wing of chicken, the casserole for Jack’s dinner that would occupy her for the rest of the day. Like a soldier at the barricades, she maintained herself in a state of grim good health, ever fearful of the hazards of falling ill. She had therefore survived the mild ’flu epidemic that had claimed her sister-in-law and seemed to herald the untimely arrival of summer; it had arrived with the warm but still wet weather that now dripped morbidly from the leaves of chestnut trees and greeted every morning with a spectacular show of vapour, the impotent sun a hazy white smudge in an otherwise colourless sky. The delicate steam of her soup, scenting the kitchen, made her think of greenhouses, of wet grass, and of the sun breaking through to shine on rain-spotted windows. Sweating the onion for her casserole and chopping the leek and the carrot, she
She turned in to a supermarket to buy a bottle of wine and encountered her virtuous neighbour, Mrs Duff, whose anxious hand on Blanche’s arm belied her reassuring smile and whose overtures of friendship Blanche had so far resisted, sensing in the woman a need to sympathize which might prove too much for her own comfort. Alone of all her acquaintances, Blanche thought, this woman treated her as if she might be wounded, and perversely she felt irritated rather than grateful. Blanche found it intolerable to have witnesses at her defeats; therefore she gave no sign of being defeated. Or so she hoped.
‘A little warmer at last,’ offered Mrs Duff. ‘We shall soonbe out in the garden again.’ For they shared adjoining gardens behind their respective mansion flats, and although Blanche never sat there she sometimes looked down from her window at Mrs Duff, taking the afternoon air, in a print blouse and a dazzling white skirt, on high summer days.
They made a little conversation about the weather, what it had been like, what it seemed to be about to be like, what was promised for the days ahead, in tones of great cordiality, as such acquaintances will. Blanche felt a pang of regret that she was not able to respond to Mrs Duff’s overtures in a spirit of open-mindedness or the sort of mutual congratulation that would bring a smile to Mrs Duff’s face. Her enormous consciousness of her own defeat had removed her, apparently for ever, from such an exchange of compliments. There was an innocence about Mrs Duff that Blanche rejected, as no longer hers to share. It was as if she herself had lost her own innocence, could think only in tortured worldly terms, must apply her censorship to every action, every word, and was oddly fearful of revealing herself to others. Yet despite all this, the little girl, perhaps because of her wordlessness, had struck some response from Blanche, had penetrated her defences, and, perhaps for that very reason, was seen to be significant.
Blanche watched Mrs Duff’s figure marching trimly in the direction of home and, after a short delay, followed her out into the street. The damp evening closed round her, numbing her responses. Looking up, she saw at the bus stop on the other side of the road Mrs Beamish and Elinor, who had evidently managed an appointment with the doctor after all. Instinctively, she raised her hand and waved. Mrs Beamish nodded and smiled, then patted her daughter on the shoulder and indicated Blanche. After a second’s thought Elinor lifted up her arm and waved back.
‘Yes,’ said Blanche later on the telephone to Barbara. ‘Quite an interesting day. Not bad at all.’
FOUR
At the last moment, as she was about to leave her apartment, Blanche heard the telephone. When she learned that Barbara had succumbed to influenza, she put down her bag, walked to the kitchen and began to assemble supplies, planning in her mind the asparagus soup, the braised wing of chicken, the casserole for Jack’s dinner that would occupy her for the rest of the day. Like a soldier at the barricades, she maintained herself in a state of grim good health, ever fearful of the hazards of falling ill. She had therefore survived the mild ’flu epidemic that had claimed her sister-in-law and seemed to herald the untimely arrival of summer; it had arrived with the warm but still wet weather that now dripped morbidly from the leaves of chestnut trees and greeted every morning with a spectacular show of vapour, the impotent sun a hazy white smudge in an otherwise colourless sky. The delicate steam of her soup, scenting the kitchen, made her think of greenhouses, of wet grass, and of the sun breaking through to shine on rain-spotted windows. Sweating the onion for her casserole and chopping the leek and the carrot, she
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