don’t suppose Uncle Aubrey can be bothered to write to you every day,” said Hilary outrageously. “I expect he thinks you’re
silly, really.” She looked uncertainly at her half sister. “Soppy Janet,” she said.
Janet did not answer. She did not even look angry. The expression of her eyes was sad and sorrowful; her dejected appearance
depressed Hilary. Sighing gently, she stood on one leg and scratched the back of her knee with the toe of her sandal. She
had not intended to steal the letter but she could not possibly replace it now without Janet noticing. The corners of her
mouth turned downwards, she sighed again.
Janet was relieved, rather than upset, because the letter she expected had not come. Lately, Aubrey’s long, poetic letters
had begun to bore her. She was no longer impressed by his poetry—most of it, she considered, was too bad to be flattering
to her and the good bits had a familiar ring. Her critical attitude distressed her although she was sure that her feelings
for Aubrey were unchanged. She did not love him less because she could not bear to. It was so much more important to love
than to be loved: if she should cease to love Aubrey, what would happen to her? Her heart would be empty, her life a desert.
She had been thinking a good deal about the death of love in the past few weeks and had often wept in private.
She heard Hilary sigh and looked down on her with lofty pity. “Other people’s letters are much duller than you think they’re
going to be,” she said kindly. “Isn’t it your turn to lay breakfast?”
“I suppose so,” Hilary agreed, and went with leaden feet into the dining-room.
Scowling at the sunlight that lay in dusty shafts across the table, she slapped the place mats down on the dark, polished
wood and set out the cutlery. She took the pepper and salt from the sideboard, the coloured tile for the coffee pot and the
bottle of Worcester sauce for Auntie. The napkins, rolled in their rings of Italian straw, were jumbled among the knives and
forks. Glancing over her shoulder, she took the letter out of her pocket, opened it, screwed up the pages to make it look
like an old letter, and stuffed it at the back of the linen drawer. This action made her feel worse, not better. She frowned
at her reflection in the silver sugar-basin. The curved sides widened her face into a fat, pale slab in which wicked, piggy
eyes glinted angrily. She thought she had never seen anything so horrible, so empty of hope.
“Ugly beast,” she addressed the face. “Horrible Hilary. Everyone hates you.”
Depression dragged her down into the pit. She was unwanted, set apart from other people. She read letters that did not belong
to her and, in her incurable greed, stole chocolate biscuits from the larder. She felt her badness grow inside her like a
dark flower. She wanted to shout, to stamp her feet and cry. She heard her mother talking to Peregrine in a loving voice as
she came down the stairs.
“Put on your blue jersey, darling, the weather’s changed. Hurry, or we’ll start breakfast without you.”
Hilary pushed her porridge round her plate. She made a contour map with islands of porridge and rivers of milk.
“Don’t mess your food about,” her mother said. “Look how nicely Peregrine behaves.”
Beside his sister, Peregrine ate daintily, his napkin tied round his neck. He hated to get his clothes dirty; if he were to
drop porridge on his trousers they would have to be changed immediately. After his first, nervous glance at Hilary as he slid
into his seat, he had been too embarrassed to look at her. He knew, though he had forgotten how or why, that he had let her
down and the knowledge of his own inadequacy distressed him.
Opposite the children, Auntie mumbled at her food and read the
New Statesman.
Her mouth was pouchy and lined and soft, her whole face sagged in worn creases like an old leather handbag. White drifts
of talcum powder
silly, really.” She looked uncertainly at her half sister. “Soppy Janet,” she said.
Janet did not answer. She did not even look angry. The expression of her eyes was sad and sorrowful; her dejected appearance
depressed Hilary. Sighing gently, she stood on one leg and scratched the back of her knee with the toe of her sandal. She
had not intended to steal the letter but she could not possibly replace it now without Janet noticing. The corners of her
mouth turned downwards, she sighed again.
Janet was relieved, rather than upset, because the letter she expected had not come. Lately, Aubrey’s long, poetic letters
had begun to bore her. She was no longer impressed by his poetry—most of it, she considered, was too bad to be flattering
to her and the good bits had a familiar ring. Her critical attitude distressed her although she was sure that her feelings
for Aubrey were unchanged. She did not love him less because she could not bear to. It was so much more important to love
than to be loved: if she should cease to love Aubrey, what would happen to her? Her heart would be empty, her life a desert.
She had been thinking a good deal about the death of love in the past few weeks and had often wept in private.
She heard Hilary sigh and looked down on her with lofty pity. “Other people’s letters are much duller than you think they’re
going to be,” she said kindly. “Isn’t it your turn to lay breakfast?”
“I suppose so,” Hilary agreed, and went with leaden feet into the dining-room.
Scowling at the sunlight that lay in dusty shafts across the table, she slapped the place mats down on the dark, polished
wood and set out the cutlery. She took the pepper and salt from the sideboard, the coloured tile for the coffee pot and the
bottle of Worcester sauce for Auntie. The napkins, rolled in their rings of Italian straw, were jumbled among the knives and
forks. Glancing over her shoulder, she took the letter out of her pocket, opened it, screwed up the pages to make it look
like an old letter, and stuffed it at the back of the linen drawer. This action made her feel worse, not better. She frowned
at her reflection in the silver sugar-basin. The curved sides widened her face into a fat, pale slab in which wicked, piggy
eyes glinted angrily. She thought she had never seen anything so horrible, so empty of hope.
“Ugly beast,” she addressed the face. “Horrible Hilary. Everyone hates you.”
Depression dragged her down into the pit. She was unwanted, set apart from other people. She read letters that did not belong
to her and, in her incurable greed, stole chocolate biscuits from the larder. She felt her badness grow inside her like a
dark flower. She wanted to shout, to stamp her feet and cry. She heard her mother talking to Peregrine in a loving voice as
she came down the stairs.
“Put on your blue jersey, darling, the weather’s changed. Hurry, or we’ll start breakfast without you.”
Hilary pushed her porridge round her plate. She made a contour map with islands of porridge and rivers of milk.
“Don’t mess your food about,” her mother said. “Look how nicely Peregrine behaves.”
Beside his sister, Peregrine ate daintily, his napkin tied round his neck. He hated to get his clothes dirty; if he were to
drop porridge on his trousers they would have to be changed immediately. After his first, nervous glance at Hilary as he slid
into his seat, he had been too embarrassed to look at her. He knew, though he had forgotten how or why, that he had let her
down and the knowledge of his own inadequacy distressed him.
Opposite the children, Auntie mumbled at her food and read the
New Statesman.
Her mouth was pouchy and lined and soft, her whole face sagged in worn creases like an old leather handbag. White drifts
of talcum powder
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