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Authors: Elizabeth Taylor
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might grow to like him. Meekly, she followed him downstairs. How the hell can I get out of this, and go home tomorrow? she was wondering.
7
When she arrived to stay for a day or two, Martha was wearing the same old raincoat in which she had faced the cool weather in Istanbul.
Although she had written of having so much interest in Laurel House, she did not look about her or seem to notice anything. Even when taken to the window and shown the river, she seemed to find it a mere stream. Once reconciled to the fact that, despite delays and excuses, Martha must eventually be invited, Amy had done her best, had bought flowers, which she did not do nowadays, and arranged them carefully, had tried to see her faded, but pretty house through the eyes of a foreign stranger, had felt that she could approve it.
Ernie had opened the door to Martha, and she had shaken hands with him. Both shocked and excited by this, he had turned her over to Amy, who had tried to get to the hall first. There was always a rush for that front door. He went down to the kitchen, a little cheered up. He had been depressed lately. There was trouble now with his permanent false teeth. When he had returned from the dentist’s wearing them, he had seemed radiant. “Oh, madam, what a relief to be able to give you a nice white smile again. All the wasted years I didn’t smile.” He had given her a skeleton’s grin, and had seen her lower her eyes.
But having a guest in the house would make a change. The thought of cooking for an Americanappealed to him. Beef olives for supper. He reckoned he was a dab hand with beef olives. Funny she didn’t bring any luggage, he thought – only that shoulder-bag. There had been nothing for him to carry up.
He decided to have a little rest from his teeth, and he put them carefully into a cup of water, then began to beat the steak with a rolling-pin, and he thought about his non-existent wife, and tried to knock her into shape, too.
It was growing dark. Amy showed Martha her bedroom, and drew curtains across the view of the back courtyard.
“Very
art nouveau,”
Martha said, throwing her raincoat on the bed. The fret-worked furniture was white-painted and the wall-paper was a bilious green and cream William Morris design of chrysanthemums. Amy had spent the morning clearing out drawers and relining them. Now, with pride, she opened an empty clothes-cupboard, but thinking of the lack of luggage, closed it again. She had asked her to stay to make amends for all the previous neglect, and had decided to take trouble over the visit. “There is this little table for writing if you want to,” she said. “Just switch on the fire any time you want to work up here.”
Amy had been brought up with a reverence for creative expression, although the form Martha’s took embarrassed her. She had not known what to make of that book, the humourless study of sexuality, the desperate foray into a man’s – a married man’s – world, or, rather, a narrow aspect of it. The stresses and despair, and bloody-mindedness. No one had any money, but they managed to drink bourbon, woreracoon coats, travelled, or had travelled. Perhaps in this spare room of hers, another sad little story would be added to.
“Well, come down when you’re ready,” she said, hesitating by the door.
“Why, I’m ready now,” said Martha. “I’ve something to show you in this,” she said, taking up the smelly leather bag from Istanbul. “Something special.”
They went downstairs, and Martha strolled about the sitting-room, looking at pictures, without comment. There were two of Nick’s, hanging above bookshelves, and she paused over these, but still without saying anything, then turned to watch instead Ernie who had brought in tea. She studied him carefully, as he fussed over the tray, lisping to himself worriedly about having slopped a little milk. Before he had really set out the tray to his liking, Martha took a biscuit from a dish and began
7
When she arrived to stay for a day or two, Martha was wearing the same old raincoat in which she had faced the cool weather in Istanbul.
Although she had written of having so much interest in Laurel House, she did not look about her or seem to notice anything. Even when taken to the window and shown the river, she seemed to find it a mere stream. Once reconciled to the fact that, despite delays and excuses, Martha must eventually be invited, Amy had done her best, had bought flowers, which she did not do nowadays, and arranged them carefully, had tried to see her faded, but pretty house through the eyes of a foreign stranger, had felt that she could approve it.
Ernie had opened the door to Martha, and she had shaken hands with him. Both shocked and excited by this, he had turned her over to Amy, who had tried to get to the hall first. There was always a rush for that front door. He went down to the kitchen, a little cheered up. He had been depressed lately. There was trouble now with his permanent false teeth. When he had returned from the dentist’s wearing them, he had seemed radiant. “Oh, madam, what a relief to be able to give you a nice white smile again. All the wasted years I didn’t smile.” He had given her a skeleton’s grin, and had seen her lower her eyes.
But having a guest in the house would make a change. The thought of cooking for an Americanappealed to him. Beef olives for supper. He reckoned he was a dab hand with beef olives. Funny she didn’t bring any luggage, he thought – only that shoulder-bag. There had been nothing for him to carry up.
He decided to have a little rest from his teeth, and he put them carefully into a cup of water, then began to beat the steak with a rolling-pin, and he thought about his non-existent wife, and tried to knock her into shape, too.
It was growing dark. Amy showed Martha her bedroom, and drew curtains across the view of the back courtyard.
“Very
art nouveau,”
Martha said, throwing her raincoat on the bed. The fret-worked furniture was white-painted and the wall-paper was a bilious green and cream William Morris design of chrysanthemums. Amy had spent the morning clearing out drawers and relining them. Now, with pride, she opened an empty clothes-cupboard, but thinking of the lack of luggage, closed it again. She had asked her to stay to make amends for all the previous neglect, and had decided to take trouble over the visit. “There is this little table for writing if you want to,” she said. “Just switch on the fire any time you want to work up here.”
Amy had been brought up with a reverence for creative expression, although the form Martha’s took embarrassed her. She had not known what to make of that book, the humourless study of sexuality, the desperate foray into a man’s – a married man’s – world, or, rather, a narrow aspect of it. The stresses and despair, and bloody-mindedness. No one had any money, but they managed to drink bourbon, woreracoon coats, travelled, or had travelled. Perhaps in this spare room of hers, another sad little story would be added to.
“Well, come down when you’re ready,” she said, hesitating by the door.
“Why, I’m ready now,” said Martha. “I’ve something to show you in this,” she said, taking up the smelly leather bag from Istanbul. “Something special.”
They went downstairs, and Martha strolled about the sitting-room, looking at pictures, without comment. There were two of Nick’s, hanging above bookshelves, and she paused over these, but still without saying anything, then turned to watch instead Ernie who had brought in tea. She studied him carefully, as he fussed over the tray, lisping to himself worriedly about having slopped a little milk. Before he had really set out the tray to his liking, Martha took a biscuit from a dish and began
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