removed his bicycle clips. Tossing them in his hand, and smiling at them, he announced that he was starving. Miss Howe, with Tiger in her arms, seemed reluctant to get back to her television set, and watched them as they both went up the stairs. Then, very slowly, all the doors in the house closed.
If she gave him the melon, Ruth thought, all that was retrievable of the chicken casserole, and most of the apple tart, she could pretend she was not hungry and the day would not be lost. Ramming her feet back into her shoes, she mentally rehearsed an explanation, should he need one. He did not. He ate carefully but not uncritically and did not praise her or thank her. Why should he, she thought. It looked disgusting. The apple tart had finally burst its pastry bounds and she had had to scrape it together and serve it in a pudding bowl. She looked at the fragments longingly; she could have eaten the lot.
‘Why don’t you relax while I make the coffee?’ she said.
He lay full length on the sofa, lit a small cheroot, and closed his eyes.
‘Bliss,’ he agreed.
I have made him comfortable, Ruth thought, with pride. When she returned with the tray he appeared to be asleep. She placed it carefully on the long low table, then retired to an armchair, uncertain of what to do. Her face, she knew, wore its unredeemed expression again, desirous of pleasing, yet in its very anxiety failing to please. She drank her third, then fourth cup of coffee that evening, replacing the cup quietly in the saucer as if she were in a sickroom.
Richard, with a sudden gesture, raised his head and
shoulders, stretched out a hand, drained his cup of coffee, and said, ‘No more, thanks,’ before sinking back on the sofa, with his arms folded behind his head.
‘Dear Ruth,’ he said, after a longish pause. ‘Tell me what to do.’
‘About what?’ She felt a little encouraged.
‘About so many things. About Harriet, for example.’
‘Harriet?’
‘Poor girl ran away from home this evening and came to me. That’s why I was a bit late, incidentally, I couldn’t leave her alone.’
‘No, of course not. What’s the matter with her?’
‘Fed up with her husband. Child getting on her nerves. She just couldn’t take any more. I left her in the flat. I suppose I’d better be getting back to her soon.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Ruth slowly. ‘Who’s looking after the child?’
‘The happy father, I take it. It was his idea to have it. Any fool could see that Harriet wasn’t ready for such an experience.’
‘Is it very young?’
‘Eight months, I think. I’m not too sure.’ He laughed. ‘Harriet doesn’t seem too sure herself.’
‘Does Harriet intend to go back?’ asked Ruth, who was worried about the sleeping arrangements at Richard’s flat.
‘I can’t let her.’ He was suddenly very brisk. ‘I think her only hope is to get away from her home surroundings for a bit. She’s so confused, poor love. I could send her to these friends of mine in Somerset, but she’s not keen.’
Ruth could guess why.
‘She’s got no money of her own, of course. None of my wretched children have. The thing is, if she went to Somerset, she could make use of the kiln. That’s what she really needs, a sense of her own identity. Before her marriage she was a very promising potter.’
The small part of Ruth that was still sane wondered why they had to talk about this tiresome person. Surely they had things to say to each other? She thought longingly of Helen who always managed to ignore the existence of other women unless she decided to allow them to become her friends. And Anthea! Anthea would not put up with this for one moment. Anthea would be talking about herself. Ruth felt several degrees less worthy than she had at the beginning of the evening. And there was no chance of beginning again; she felt too tired.
‘I think Harriet ought to go home,’ she said, knowing she was making a mistake. ‘She sounds thoroughly spoilt to
If she gave him the melon, Ruth thought, all that was retrievable of the chicken casserole, and most of the apple tart, she could pretend she was not hungry and the day would not be lost. Ramming her feet back into her shoes, she mentally rehearsed an explanation, should he need one. He did not. He ate carefully but not uncritically and did not praise her or thank her. Why should he, she thought. It looked disgusting. The apple tart had finally burst its pastry bounds and she had had to scrape it together and serve it in a pudding bowl. She looked at the fragments longingly; she could have eaten the lot.
‘Why don’t you relax while I make the coffee?’ she said.
He lay full length on the sofa, lit a small cheroot, and closed his eyes.
‘Bliss,’ he agreed.
I have made him comfortable, Ruth thought, with pride. When she returned with the tray he appeared to be asleep. She placed it carefully on the long low table, then retired to an armchair, uncertain of what to do. Her face, she knew, wore its unredeemed expression again, desirous of pleasing, yet in its very anxiety failing to please. She drank her third, then fourth cup of coffee that evening, replacing the cup quietly in the saucer as if she were in a sickroom.
Richard, with a sudden gesture, raised his head and
shoulders, stretched out a hand, drained his cup of coffee, and said, ‘No more, thanks,’ before sinking back on the sofa, with his arms folded behind his head.
‘Dear Ruth,’ he said, after a longish pause. ‘Tell me what to do.’
‘About what?’ She felt a little encouraged.
‘About so many things. About Harriet, for example.’
‘Harriet?’
‘Poor girl ran away from home this evening and came to me. That’s why I was a bit late, incidentally, I couldn’t leave her alone.’
‘No, of course not. What’s the matter with her?’
‘Fed up with her husband. Child getting on her nerves. She just couldn’t take any more. I left her in the flat. I suppose I’d better be getting back to her soon.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Ruth slowly. ‘Who’s looking after the child?’
‘The happy father, I take it. It was his idea to have it. Any fool could see that Harriet wasn’t ready for such an experience.’
‘Is it very young?’
‘Eight months, I think. I’m not too sure.’ He laughed. ‘Harriet doesn’t seem too sure herself.’
‘Does Harriet intend to go back?’ asked Ruth, who was worried about the sleeping arrangements at Richard’s flat.
‘I can’t let her.’ He was suddenly very brisk. ‘I think her only hope is to get away from her home surroundings for a bit. She’s so confused, poor love. I could send her to these friends of mine in Somerset, but she’s not keen.’
Ruth could guess why.
‘She’s got no money of her own, of course. None of my wretched children have. The thing is, if she went to Somerset, she could make use of the kiln. That’s what she really needs, a sense of her own identity. Before her marriage she was a very promising potter.’
The small part of Ruth that was still sane wondered why they had to talk about this tiresome person. Surely they had things to say to each other? She thought longingly of Helen who always managed to ignore the existence of other women unless she decided to allow them to become her friends. And Anthea! Anthea would not put up with this for one moment. Anthea would be talking about herself. Ruth felt several degrees less worthy than she had at the beginning of the evening. And there was no chance of beginning again; she felt too tired.
‘I think Harriet ought to go home,’ she said, knowing she was making a mistake. ‘She sounds thoroughly spoilt to
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