Read Online A Start in Life by Anita Brookner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anita Brookner
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bathroom to wash his hands he admired the initialled pale green guest towels matching the tooth mugs in plastic opaline. Through the bedroom door he caught a glimpse of a counterpane heavily swagged and pleated in blue-grey satin and a kidney shaped dressing table. The kitchen was immaculate, every surface swept clean of evidence. It looked as if nothing had ever been cooked there, but the battery of mixers, choppers, blenders, and freezers was impressive.
‘I make everything myself,’ said Mrs Jacobs. ‘My ice cream is particularly good. Would you like to try some?’
She gave him a generous helping in a fluted octagonal glass dish which his mother would have relegated to the kitchen, if she had allowed it into the house at all. George basked in the warmth of the flat and the coldness of the ice cream. He particularly liked the way Sally took his plate away the moment he had set it down, how she ran to the kitchen and washed it up. He liked her rather
strenuous and obviously expensive silk dresses with their scarves at the neck and their jackets to match; he liked her double string of pearls, worn with the clasp at the side, and her very large diamond ring; he liked the way she talked about her husband.
‘Ernest was very good to me,’ she said. ‘Of course, he was much older than me. More like a father, really. I couldn’t say I had a
young
time of it with him. But he looked after me so well. Everything was always taken care of. I never had to make a decision all the time I was married to him.’ From her black patent leather bag she extracted a handkerchief generously bordered with lace and wiped her eyes.
George, who had been sitting in his favourite attitude, his legs crossed to show his fine ankles, his face propped up on his hand, the little finger bearing the signet ring with his father’s crest slightly raised, felt a long forgotten flicker of desire. Not necessarily for Mrs Jacobs but for the high degree of comfort that seemed to go with her.
He sat down next to her on the sofa, rather heavily; he must watch his weight. He placed a hand over hers and murmured, ‘Poor little Sally.’ Mrs Jacobs cried harder. George slipped an arm round her and said, ‘You know I’ll help in any way I can.’ And why not? he answered unknown accusers. I have a precious thin time of it at home these days. Sometimes Helen doesn’t even bother to get dressed, and as for that woman, she never could cook anyway. And the place is never clean. I’ve spoiled Helen, that’s the truth of it. A woman should look after a man, not the other way round. Papa would never have dreamed of doing anything in the house. I’ve done enough.
Later Mrs Jacobs made them both a cup of tea, heavily sugared, and served in broad shallow cups. She produced a cut glass jar full of home-made biscuits and draped a tiny embroidered napkin over his knee. George ate hungrily. Down in the car was the half pound of tongue
and the tin of artichoke hearts that Mrs Cutler had asked him to bring home for dinner. At least, she had asked for the tongue and something to go with it; George rather fancied himself as a gourmet and they were getting to know him on the ground floor at Fortnum’s. He glanced at his watch, registering the time with a start of genuine surprise. They would be well into their drinks at home by now. And that, too, was something they ought to watch.
On the way back to Oakwood Court, driving along with the evening sun on his face, he thought he might buy Sally something to cheer her up. With Ruth at home again, paying rent for her room, Helen did not talk about money as much as she used to. Helen had always been a bit close, in his opinion; he liked a touch of lavishness himself. Helen used to remind him that she earned more than he did. Well, nobody could say that now, since neither of them was earning anything. They were living on the money from the shop, his mother’s legacy, and Helen’s royalties. Ruth’s contribution went
‘I make everything myself,’ said Mrs Jacobs. ‘My ice cream is particularly good. Would you like to try some?’
She gave him a generous helping in a fluted octagonal glass dish which his mother would have relegated to the kitchen, if she had allowed it into the house at all. George basked in the warmth of the flat and the coldness of the ice cream. He particularly liked the way Sally took his plate away the moment he had set it down, how she ran to the kitchen and washed it up. He liked her rather
strenuous and obviously expensive silk dresses with their scarves at the neck and their jackets to match; he liked her double string of pearls, worn with the clasp at the side, and her very large diamond ring; he liked the way she talked about her husband.
‘Ernest was very good to me,’ she said. ‘Of course, he was much older than me. More like a father, really. I couldn’t say I had a
young
time of it with him. But he looked after me so well. Everything was always taken care of. I never had to make a decision all the time I was married to him.’ From her black patent leather bag she extracted a handkerchief generously bordered with lace and wiped her eyes.
George, who had been sitting in his favourite attitude, his legs crossed to show his fine ankles, his face propped up on his hand, the little finger bearing the signet ring with his father’s crest slightly raised, felt a long forgotten flicker of desire. Not necessarily for Mrs Jacobs but for the high degree of comfort that seemed to go with her.
He sat down next to her on the sofa, rather heavily; he must watch his weight. He placed a hand over hers and murmured, ‘Poor little Sally.’ Mrs Jacobs cried harder. George slipped an arm round her and said, ‘You know I’ll help in any way I can.’ And why not? he answered unknown accusers. I have a precious thin time of it at home these days. Sometimes Helen doesn’t even bother to get dressed, and as for that woman, she never could cook anyway. And the place is never clean. I’ve spoiled Helen, that’s the truth of it. A woman should look after a man, not the other way round. Papa would never have dreamed of doing anything in the house. I’ve done enough.
Later Mrs Jacobs made them both a cup of tea, heavily sugared, and served in broad shallow cups. She produced a cut glass jar full of home-made biscuits and draped a tiny embroidered napkin over his knee. George ate hungrily. Down in the car was the half pound of tongue
and the tin of artichoke hearts that Mrs Cutler had asked him to bring home for dinner. At least, she had asked for the tongue and something to go with it; George rather fancied himself as a gourmet and they were getting to know him on the ground floor at Fortnum’s. He glanced at his watch, registering the time with a start of genuine surprise. They would be well into their drinks at home by now. And that, too, was something they ought to watch.
On the way back to Oakwood Court, driving along with the evening sun on his face, he thought he might buy Sally something to cheer her up. With Ruth at home again, paying rent for her room, Helen did not talk about money as much as she used to. Helen had always been a bit close, in his opinion; he liked a touch of lavishness himself. Helen used to remind him that she earned more than he did. Well, nobody could say that now, since neither of them was earning anything. They were living on the money from the shop, his mother’s legacy, and Helen’s royalties. Ruth’s contribution went
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