Read Online In the Memorial Room by Janet Frame - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janet Frame
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upon the tea stain. —Are you going to write about Rose?
As she spoke I saw the muscles in her throat tighten.
—No, I hadn’t planned to.
—Her sister Elizabeth is here. She and her husband have retired here. Elizabeth is editing her letters. You know?
—Yes, I said. —I’m living in their small house.
—Oh, you are! We had thought of asking you would you live here. There’s a complete apartment downstairs. Private. Quite complete. You would not have to know we were above you. I don’t have a very light tread but I take care. Haniel has a light tread. And we don’t play musical instruments. A record now and again in the evening. If you are changing your apartment again, then, there’s our apartment downstairs. Shall we show it to you?
I said that I would not be moving immediately from where I was.
—And you’re writing a novel. We’ve read about you. You write historical novels. Are you a bestseller?
My book Wairau Days had been a bestseller in New Zealand.
—One of my books sold quite well, I said.
Just then Haniel finished his cup of tea and he and Harvey, with a smile and a pleased to have met you, left the room.
—These men! Louise sighed as she watched them go.
I had not seen such a used face since I looked on the old maid of all work at the hotel where I stayed.
—I’m a busy woman, Louise said. —I miss Rose of course. And Haniel’s only a boy, really. He was on the stage in London.
—Really?
—Yes.
—Did Rose Hurndell have false teeth? I asked suddenly.
Louise replied calmly.
—She had the top ones out when she first came to London. He was a good dentist. But things have changed.
—Yes, things have changed. I’m English too. At least I was born there.
—Were you? What part?
—Sussex.
—Oh.
—I must go now, I said, standing.
—Your time is your own, Louise said. Her lips made a tasting motion and she made a sour face.
—It isn’t, you know, I said. —You have spoken the first lie in approximately three thousand words. My time is my own! Should I be grateful to you for the lie?
She looked confused; she did not understand me.
—I have a big powerful car, she said. —I will drive you home.
—No, I said. —I will walk.
I walked back.
10
A week later I made my visit to George and Liz Lee, in their home on the road to the mountain village of Sainte-Agnès. They too had invited me for tea. I caught the three o’clock bus from the Gare Routière not far from the railway station and sat myself in a back seat where I would not be disturbed by passengers joining and leaving the bus en route. The weather had been fine for seven days although a storm and lowered temperatures were predicted for the next morning. I could see the clouds massing over the mountains.
The road was narrow, with scarcely enough room for oncoming traffic to pass, and the ravines were steep with the road falling immediately from its edge into a tangle of wild woods, mimosa trees, olive trees, and, along the rising slopes, the grey cloud of the many lavender bushes, seen as a cloud in spite of the fact that I wore my glasses.
Without my glasses all shapes were blurred. This duality of seeing posed a problem for me if I were to carry out my plan of describing only what was external and visible, the common property of human sight. For instance, when I looked from my window in the early morning when I had just got up I could see clearly on the roof of a villa about a hundred metres away two human figures pointing and gesticulating and sometimes leaning close, and in the imperceptible change from seeing to supposing I might have reported that I saw two people, up early, as I was, to enjoy the morning and look out over the sea from the best vantage point – the roof of their apartment. When I put on my glasses, however, I could see clearly that I had been looking at two tall narrow chimneys standing side by side. And if my sight worsened, as I feared it would, how could I be sure that the two
As she spoke I saw the muscles in her throat tighten.
—No, I hadn’t planned to.
—Her sister Elizabeth is here. She and her husband have retired here. Elizabeth is editing her letters. You know?
—Yes, I said. —I’m living in their small house.
—Oh, you are! We had thought of asking you would you live here. There’s a complete apartment downstairs. Private. Quite complete. You would not have to know we were above you. I don’t have a very light tread but I take care. Haniel has a light tread. And we don’t play musical instruments. A record now and again in the evening. If you are changing your apartment again, then, there’s our apartment downstairs. Shall we show it to you?
I said that I would not be moving immediately from where I was.
—And you’re writing a novel. We’ve read about you. You write historical novels. Are you a bestseller?
My book Wairau Days had been a bestseller in New Zealand.
—One of my books sold quite well, I said.
Just then Haniel finished his cup of tea and he and Harvey, with a smile and a pleased to have met you, left the room.
—These men! Louise sighed as she watched them go.
I had not seen such a used face since I looked on the old maid of all work at the hotel where I stayed.
—I’m a busy woman, Louise said. —I miss Rose of course. And Haniel’s only a boy, really. He was on the stage in London.
—Really?
—Yes.
—Did Rose Hurndell have false teeth? I asked suddenly.
Louise replied calmly.
—She had the top ones out when she first came to London. He was a good dentist. But things have changed.
—Yes, things have changed. I’m English too. At least I was born there.
—Were you? What part?
—Sussex.
—Oh.
—I must go now, I said, standing.
—Your time is your own, Louise said. Her lips made a tasting motion and she made a sour face.
—It isn’t, you know, I said. —You have spoken the first lie in approximately three thousand words. My time is my own! Should I be grateful to you for the lie?
She looked confused; she did not understand me.
—I have a big powerful car, she said. —I will drive you home.
—No, I said. —I will walk.
I walked back.
10
A week later I made my visit to George and Liz Lee, in their home on the road to the mountain village of Sainte-Agnès. They too had invited me for tea. I caught the three o’clock bus from the Gare Routière not far from the railway station and sat myself in a back seat where I would not be disturbed by passengers joining and leaving the bus en route. The weather had been fine for seven days although a storm and lowered temperatures were predicted for the next morning. I could see the clouds massing over the mountains.
The road was narrow, with scarcely enough room for oncoming traffic to pass, and the ravines were steep with the road falling immediately from its edge into a tangle of wild woods, mimosa trees, olive trees, and, along the rising slopes, the grey cloud of the many lavender bushes, seen as a cloud in spite of the fact that I wore my glasses.
Without my glasses all shapes were blurred. This duality of seeing posed a problem for me if I were to carry out my plan of describing only what was external and visible, the common property of human sight. For instance, when I looked from my window in the early morning when I had just got up I could see clearly on the roof of a villa about a hundred metres away two human figures pointing and gesticulating and sometimes leaning close, and in the imperceptible change from seeing to supposing I might have reported that I saw two people, up early, as I was, to enjoy the morning and look out over the sea from the best vantage point – the roof of their apartment. When I put on my glasses, however, I could see clearly that I had been looking at two tall narrow chimneys standing side by side. And if my sight worsened, as I feared it would, how could I be sure that the two
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