securely adopted, and Grace had renounced all interest in them, Christie drove Geraldine out, and a long and humiliating process it was, and entered his day-long marriage to the greedy if blissful flower-child California; and thus Geraldine found herself the mother of two children whom she neither liked particularly nor had the means to support, and was no longer heard to make remarks such as—
‘No such thing as a bad child, only bad parents.’
or
‘People have only themselves to blame.’
—and was much the nicer for it.
nineteen
B Y THE TIME THE waiter takes away their empty plates the Italiano has almost emptied. Marjorie, nevertheless, consults the menu and orders zabaglione for Chloe and herself. Marjorie never gives up, never saves herself, thinks Chloe. She invites trouble, in order to face it. She struggles in some monstrous swimming-pool of dire events, forever almost drowning, forever bobbing up again, reproachful and gasping for breath, and forever declining to stretch out her hand and be saved.
‘How’s your mother?’ inquires Chloe. It was Helen who pushed Marjorie into the pool, in the first place, and that’s why she won’t get out.
Yes. Listen to her now.
‘Mother? Mother’s marvellous!’ says Marjorie. ‘She’ll be seventy next week. She was in Vogue last month. Didn’t you see? No? I thought you’d be sure to read Vogue . She gives fashionable dinner parties for the gay political crowd. All very camp. I don’t know if she knows that’s what it is, but it’s something for old ladies to be appreciated by somebody, isn’t it, and they all adore each other over the lace napery and the flower pieces and the Coq à la Tunisie cooked by a sublime little Suliman imported from the Bosphorus.’
‘I hope he washes the napery,’ says Chloe, to whom tablecloths have always been a burden, for her husband Oliver cannot digest food without one, and she has no washing machine.
‘I do them for her,’ says Marjorie. ‘I collect them on Sunday, do them by hand in luke-warm suds on Sunday afternoon, dry them in my little yard, and send them back in a taxi on Monday morning from the office. I wish I could move in with her and look after her properly but you know how independent she’s always been.’
‘You do quite a lot of washing, these days,’ says Chloe. ‘What with your mother’s table cloths and Patrick’s undies.’
‘What else do I have to do in my spare time?’ asks Marjorie. ‘And who else would do it?’
The zabaglione, astonishingly, is rich, warm and good. The waiter even smiles as he offers it. Perhaps it was shame, rather than resentment, which had so afflicted him. Marjorie smiles back. She has, after all, won a victory.
‘She could pay a laundress,’ Chloe ventures.
‘Oh no.’ Marjorie is shocked. ‘She has to be very careful. You know how worried the elderly become about their futures—having so little of it left, I suppose. She’s even having to sell the Frognal house.’
‘Not before time.’ Chloe has not liked Helen since she overheard her commenting on Esther’s liberalism in letting her daughter associate with the village children. Chloe, that is, the bar-maid’s daughter. Or so Chloe assumed.
The Frognal house, scene of Helen’s early happiness with Dick, has been unoccoupied for the past fifteen years, while Helen toys with the notion of selling it. Occasionally hippies or squatters move in, and move out again, of their own accord.
‘She has a sentimental attachment to it,’ says Marjorie. ‘It’s hard for her.’
‘I expect it’s past repair now,’ says Chloe. ‘And that’s what she’s been waiting for. It will have to be pulled down, there’ll be planning permission for flats, and she’ll make a fortune.’
‘It’s not like that at all,’ says Marjorie. ‘Nothing could destroy that house. It’s solid concrete. She’s not a calculating person at all, she just needs the money.’
Over the years Helen has sold the
‘No such thing as a bad child, only bad parents.’
or
‘People have only themselves to blame.’
—and was much the nicer for it.
nineteen
B Y THE TIME THE waiter takes away their empty plates the Italiano has almost emptied. Marjorie, nevertheless, consults the menu and orders zabaglione for Chloe and herself. Marjorie never gives up, never saves herself, thinks Chloe. She invites trouble, in order to face it. She struggles in some monstrous swimming-pool of dire events, forever almost drowning, forever bobbing up again, reproachful and gasping for breath, and forever declining to stretch out her hand and be saved.
‘How’s your mother?’ inquires Chloe. It was Helen who pushed Marjorie into the pool, in the first place, and that’s why she won’t get out.
Yes. Listen to her now.
‘Mother? Mother’s marvellous!’ says Marjorie. ‘She’ll be seventy next week. She was in Vogue last month. Didn’t you see? No? I thought you’d be sure to read Vogue . She gives fashionable dinner parties for the gay political crowd. All very camp. I don’t know if she knows that’s what it is, but it’s something for old ladies to be appreciated by somebody, isn’t it, and they all adore each other over the lace napery and the flower pieces and the Coq à la Tunisie cooked by a sublime little Suliman imported from the Bosphorus.’
‘I hope he washes the napery,’ says Chloe, to whom tablecloths have always been a burden, for her husband Oliver cannot digest food without one, and she has no washing machine.
‘I do them for her,’ says Marjorie. ‘I collect them on Sunday, do them by hand in luke-warm suds on Sunday afternoon, dry them in my little yard, and send them back in a taxi on Monday morning from the office. I wish I could move in with her and look after her properly but you know how independent she’s always been.’
‘You do quite a lot of washing, these days,’ says Chloe. ‘What with your mother’s table cloths and Patrick’s undies.’
‘What else do I have to do in my spare time?’ asks Marjorie. ‘And who else would do it?’
The zabaglione, astonishingly, is rich, warm and good. The waiter even smiles as he offers it. Perhaps it was shame, rather than resentment, which had so afflicted him. Marjorie smiles back. She has, after all, won a victory.
‘She could pay a laundress,’ Chloe ventures.
‘Oh no.’ Marjorie is shocked. ‘She has to be very careful. You know how worried the elderly become about their futures—having so little of it left, I suppose. She’s even having to sell the Frognal house.’
‘Not before time.’ Chloe has not liked Helen since she overheard her commenting on Esther’s liberalism in letting her daughter associate with the village children. Chloe, that is, the bar-maid’s daughter. Or so Chloe assumed.
The Frognal house, scene of Helen’s early happiness with Dick, has been unoccoupied for the past fifteen years, while Helen toys with the notion of selling it. Occasionally hippies or squatters move in, and move out again, of their own accord.
‘She has a sentimental attachment to it,’ says Marjorie. ‘It’s hard for her.’
‘I expect it’s past repair now,’ says Chloe. ‘And that’s what she’s been waiting for. It will have to be pulled down, there’ll be planning permission for flats, and she’ll make a fortune.’
‘It’s not like that at all,’ says Marjorie. ‘Nothing could destroy that house. It’s solid concrete. She’s not a calculating person at all, she just needs the money.’
Over the years Helen has sold the
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