Blaming (Virago Modern Classics)

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Authors: Elizabeth Taylor
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worth. “I have a splitting headache,” she cried.
    “She’ll only make it worse that way,” said Dora sensibly, “and give me one, too. And I have a really long day ahead of me.”
    “Would you like a sip of water?” Amy asked Isobel.
    “She’ll only wet the bed,” said Dora. “And if she does that again, I shall tell that Michael.”
    “Who is that Michael?”
    “My husband,” Dora said with casual dignity.
    “Water! Water!” shrieked Isobel, as if she were the Ancient Mariner finally gone off his head.
    Amy held the mug to her lips and Isobel gulped and sobbed alternately.
    “Do you want to go to the lavatory?”
    “No,” said Isobel, pushing away the mug, firmlysnuggling down in bed. Amy said, “If I tell you a little story, will you promise to go to sleep, afterwards, or at least lie quietly?”
    “Only if it’s true,” Dora said.
    Amy sat down on the end of lsobel’s bed, her hands clasped in her lap so that she did not scratch her scalp. “When I was a little girl,” she began, in what she hoped was a lulling voice, “I had a doll called Gwendoline.”
    “It doesn’t sound very exciting,” Dora sighed, and lay down flat and resigned herself to sleep. Amy whispered on, about Gwendoline’s golden hair and moving eyelids, and soon, most relievedly, heard Isobel sucking her thumb. She continued talking monotonous nonsense for a little longer, knowing from old experience that to stop too soon, might bring on a sudden, protesting reawakening, with the job to be done all over again. At last, she ventured to creep away, although dreading a sound of stirring from the now darkened room. She crossed the landing but, instead of going downstairs, she went into her bedroom for a little respite. It was after ten o’clock. Cheesecake must be finished by now and coffee being drunk below in the sitting-room. The sound of voices had drifted one flight up. Quite soon, perhaps, the guests would go home because of their work and their good works tomorrow. They would have a long day ahead of them, like Dora. Yes, it must be nearly over, Amy decided, and she sat on the edge of her bed and went into what Nick had called ‘one of her trances’ – simply staring ahead like a half-wit, eyes slightly unfocused, and her hands in her lap as still as stones. She was letting time flow over her; she was hardly there. Minute after minute, she feltsliding by, as if a dock were ticking in her head, and
that
the only sign of life. Lately, she had often sat like this, sinking onto the arm of a chair, spellbound and armoured by her own stillness. Now, all she was conscious of – and that dimly – was of having soon to move, and she did not want to, and put it off.
    A tap on the door shattered her. She sprang from the bed, and when James came in, was standing as if caught red-handed in the middle of the room.
    “Are you all right, Mother?”
    “Yes, dear, perfectly. I heard Isobel crying and came up to her. Just came in here to tidy my face.”
    Though not believing her, he accepted her explanation thankfully.
    “Lovely party,” she added, and went to the glass and began to push her hair about carefully, then, brushing her shoulders, despite the white blouse, she glimpsed his worried face. She felt that she could never be his mother again, except as a liability.
    “You should have told Maggie or me about Isobel. I won’t have her tyrannising you.”
    She turned from the glass, and smiled at him. “I can look after myself,” she said, though it was obvious to everyone that she could not. Then so could any child of five, he thought. He said, “And, moreover, you’ve been clearing up in the scullery, Maggie said.
Verboten.
You are a guest.”
    “In my son’s house?”
    “Yes,” he said, and bravely added, “for the present, you are someone we want to look after, spoil a bit Now come down and have some coffee.”
    He is really very nice, she thought, as if she had justmet him for the first time, and felt she

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