Read Online In the Memorial Room by Janet Frame - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Janet Frame
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animals; lost and found; and sometimes the marriage column. Then I’d read the back page which would have a late news story of a murder or robbery or the story, continued, of a disaster which had half-filled the front page.
After reading the newspaper I sat down to write, looking out of the window from time to time at the palm trees and the mountains. I wrote all morning after which I made myself lunch, pottered around the small house keeping it in order as I had promised to do, sweeping the carpet with the carpet sweeper and so on. Or if the weather were fine I washed my shirt and socks and pegged them on the clothes line that was strung over the private terrace; and being up there and in the sun I’d stretch out in the green deckchair, which had the name of a hotel in Venice on the back, and I’d close my eyes and sleep a while or lie looking down over the olive grove to the water.
Later in the day when people began to stir again after their meal, I’d go on the promenade and join the throngs of people walking up and down beside the sea. Then when four o’clock came I had the opportunity to call on the one or two English inhabitants of the city who had told me they ‘took tea’ at four o’clock and if I were walking that way I could join them. This was how I came to meet Haniel and Louise Markham, who had arrived from London about the same time as I arrived from New Zealand. Their apartment overlooked the Casino, and the avenue of oranges.
I knew the ages of Haniel and Louise because someone had told me; I think it was Connie Watercress. Haniel who had known Rose Hurndell in his early twenties when he married was now thirty-nine. Louise was forty-seven. He was tall, slim with golden hair thinning to an ash grey. His face was delicately constructed and pale. His mouth was small and red-lipped. He was clean shaven. He moved with grace and his voice was soft. Louise had put on weight. (I had seen a photograph of her in her younger days.) She was stout, dressed in a brown costume with a cream-coloured blouse and a tie. Although her arms were not long in proportion to her body, her reach was long as her shoulders were wide and powerfully built and acted as an effective hinge when she leaned forward to grasp her teacup or the plate of cakes that she had made, round volcano-shaped pastries with a preserved cherry swimming in its lake of red syrup on each peak.
Haniel and Louise introduced me to Harvey Pulsifer, who had arrived that afternoon from America for a skiing holiday in one of the local resorts. He and Haniel, whom he had known in London when he was there as an economics student, were leaving the next day for one of the mountain villages. Haniel said he did not ski himself but he was accompanying his friend.
Before ten minutes of my visit had passed we began to speak of Rose Hurndell.
—My wife was her constant companion, Haniel said.
His eyes were small and pale blue. He concentrated them on his wife’s face. His head leaned forward a little.
Louise laughed rather loudly.
—Rose and I were great chums, she said. —I looked after her. We came down here in the late fifties. Haniel said, ‘Go with her to Menton, to the Villa Florita.’ And I did.
—I was in London then, wasn’t I, with my parents. It was my last year at school. I met Haniel at the Victoria and Albert, Harvey said.
—I was looking at the china. And I moved to the glass room.
—I was in the glass room.
Just then Louise clattered her teacup, and spilled a little of the tea, about two spoonsful, on the blue carpet.
Harvey jumped to his feet and went to the small kitchen and returned with a cloth. He bent to the carpet and rubbed at it hard because it was an error. He erased it at last.
He stood up.
—Now, he said, —it does not show.
We each inspected it to see if it showed. We agreed it did not.
—So you are the new Watercress-Armstrong Fellow, Louise said, stretching out her wide foot and making a last rubbing movement
After reading the newspaper I sat down to write, looking out of the window from time to time at the palm trees and the mountains. I wrote all morning after which I made myself lunch, pottered around the small house keeping it in order as I had promised to do, sweeping the carpet with the carpet sweeper and so on. Or if the weather were fine I washed my shirt and socks and pegged them on the clothes line that was strung over the private terrace; and being up there and in the sun I’d stretch out in the green deckchair, which had the name of a hotel in Venice on the back, and I’d close my eyes and sleep a while or lie looking down over the olive grove to the water.
Later in the day when people began to stir again after their meal, I’d go on the promenade and join the throngs of people walking up and down beside the sea. Then when four o’clock came I had the opportunity to call on the one or two English inhabitants of the city who had told me they ‘took tea’ at four o’clock and if I were walking that way I could join them. This was how I came to meet Haniel and Louise Markham, who had arrived from London about the same time as I arrived from New Zealand. Their apartment overlooked the Casino, and the avenue of oranges.
I knew the ages of Haniel and Louise because someone had told me; I think it was Connie Watercress. Haniel who had known Rose Hurndell in his early twenties when he married was now thirty-nine. Louise was forty-seven. He was tall, slim with golden hair thinning to an ash grey. His face was delicately constructed and pale. His mouth was small and red-lipped. He was clean shaven. He moved with grace and his voice was soft. Louise had put on weight. (I had seen a photograph of her in her younger days.) She was stout, dressed in a brown costume with a cream-coloured blouse and a tie. Although her arms were not long in proportion to her body, her reach was long as her shoulders were wide and powerfully built and acted as an effective hinge when she leaned forward to grasp her teacup or the plate of cakes that she had made, round volcano-shaped pastries with a preserved cherry swimming in its lake of red syrup on each peak.
Haniel and Louise introduced me to Harvey Pulsifer, who had arrived that afternoon from America for a skiing holiday in one of the local resorts. He and Haniel, whom he had known in London when he was there as an economics student, were leaving the next day for one of the mountain villages. Haniel said he did not ski himself but he was accompanying his friend.
Before ten minutes of my visit had passed we began to speak of Rose Hurndell.
—My wife was her constant companion, Haniel said.
His eyes were small and pale blue. He concentrated them on his wife’s face. His head leaned forward a little.
Louise laughed rather loudly.
—Rose and I were great chums, she said. —I looked after her. We came down here in the late fifties. Haniel said, ‘Go with her to Menton, to the Villa Florita.’ And I did.
—I was in London then, wasn’t I, with my parents. It was my last year at school. I met Haniel at the Victoria and Albert, Harvey said.
—I was looking at the china. And I moved to the glass room.
—I was in the glass room.
Just then Louise clattered her teacup, and spilled a little of the tea, about two spoonsful, on the blue carpet.
Harvey jumped to his feet and went to the small kitchen and returned with a cloth. He bent to the carpet and rubbed at it hard because it was an error. He erased it at last.
He stood up.
—Now, he said, —it does not show.
We each inspected it to see if it showed. We agreed it did not.
—So you are the new Watercress-Armstrong Fellow, Louise said, stretching out her wide foot and making a last rubbing movement
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