Posy didn’t know, hadn’t noticed her, hadn’t been told.
Could she be dead? But they would know that, would have been told.
Posy looked theatrically around, saying with a wail, ‘This is all so unbelievable. Unbelievable. Unbelievable.’
The Venns turned to their luggage – Christian Jaffe himself bore it away – apparently finished with Kip. In her room, Posy unpacked her valise and carefully put things in the drawers, like someone planning a long visit. At first she had thought they should be staying nearer the hospital, but now she was glad to be in this cosier ambiance, with an optimistic, smiling woman at the desk, and the sound downstairs of healthful stamping of snow off boots, the rattle of skis being donned outside, skiers returning joyfully to the slopes. They would get Father sorted out.
She was tired. They’d driven all night, taking turns at the wheel, having to change over to the wrong side of the road at Boulogne. French roads were so straight, the same defect as the French character, revealing a Gallic lack of imagination, a repellent literalness. She and Rupert had been quarreling over what was probably going to happen next. Father would or wouldn’t be awake, he would or wouldn’t be glad to see them, the new girl-wife would be there (of Posy’s own age), and the famous and embarrassing baby. They touched on one especially delicate matter: If Father should die, would he have already changed his will to include the baby, or made it totally in the baby’s favor and that of the new wife? Butthey were embarrassed talking about such things, and guiltily dropped the matter almost as soon as it came up.
They had gone directly to the hospital before coming to the hotel, so they already knew the reality, Father in a coma with no prospect of recognizing them, at least not very soon, and the teenaged boy the only person looking after the baby, and the girl-wife in a coma of her own. Posy saw it would be up to her and Rupert to decide what must be done, but she felt this as an imposition. She struggled against anger. Her father had had no compunctions about going off with the American bird and putting them all out of his life, and now he needed them back in it. Of course they would do the right thing.
Of Pamela’s two children, Posy had been the more censorious about Father, the more rebellious, and the more irritating to him. Perhaps this made her sadder and more frightened now. She had never been able to please him, while he had completely approved of Rupert, for instance of his present job in the City selling bonds. ‘A good thing to have a practical money person in the family,’ he had said, expressing surprise that it was Rupert, and thereby conveying that he had expected it would be Posy who would have such a soulless, mercenary career. Rupert had read history and philosophy, and had seemed headed for a donnish life, tutoring or writing, except he was rather fond of parties and London life too. Pamela had been worried at one point that he might be gay, but Adrian had scoffed and said he himself had been just like Rupert at that age. All the same, they were relieved when Rupert for a time was seeing something of Henrietta Shaw and some other nice girls.
Now, they none of them quite understood what Rupert did, but it involved bonds, and sitting at the computer all day. He hated it, really, should have gone on to read law, should have gone to Australia to work on a sheep ranch, or signed onto a freighter. Pamela had said that a strong, active young man like Rupert ought to be outdoors, and when asked by his father what he saw himself doing – this was when he had been seventeen or so – he had been unable to think of anything whatsoever. Venn had laughed and said that probably meant that Rupert would write a novel, but Rupert had no literary aspirations either. Posy could imagine writing a novel, but she knew that Father, the great publisher, would never take it seriously.
She sat on the bed
Could she be dead? But they would know that, would have been told.
Posy looked theatrically around, saying with a wail, ‘This is all so unbelievable. Unbelievable. Unbelievable.’
The Venns turned to their luggage – Christian Jaffe himself bore it away – apparently finished with Kip. In her room, Posy unpacked her valise and carefully put things in the drawers, like someone planning a long visit. At first she had thought they should be staying nearer the hospital, but now she was glad to be in this cosier ambiance, with an optimistic, smiling woman at the desk, and the sound downstairs of healthful stamping of snow off boots, the rattle of skis being donned outside, skiers returning joyfully to the slopes. They would get Father sorted out.
She was tired. They’d driven all night, taking turns at the wheel, having to change over to the wrong side of the road at Boulogne. French roads were so straight, the same defect as the French character, revealing a Gallic lack of imagination, a repellent literalness. She and Rupert had been quarreling over what was probably going to happen next. Father would or wouldn’t be awake, he would or wouldn’t be glad to see them, the new girl-wife would be there (of Posy’s own age), and the famous and embarrassing baby. They touched on one especially delicate matter: If Father should die, would he have already changed his will to include the baby, or made it totally in the baby’s favor and that of the new wife? Butthey were embarrassed talking about such things, and guiltily dropped the matter almost as soon as it came up.
They had gone directly to the hospital before coming to the hotel, so they already knew the reality, Father in a coma with no prospect of recognizing them, at least not very soon, and the teenaged boy the only person looking after the baby, and the girl-wife in a coma of her own. Posy saw it would be up to her and Rupert to decide what must be done, but she felt this as an imposition. She struggled against anger. Her father had had no compunctions about going off with the American bird and putting them all out of his life, and now he needed them back in it. Of course they would do the right thing.
Of Pamela’s two children, Posy had been the more censorious about Father, the more rebellious, and the more irritating to him. Perhaps this made her sadder and more frightened now. She had never been able to please him, while he had completely approved of Rupert, for instance of his present job in the City selling bonds. ‘A good thing to have a practical money person in the family,’ he had said, expressing surprise that it was Rupert, and thereby conveying that he had expected it would be Posy who would have such a soulless, mercenary career. Rupert had read history and philosophy, and had seemed headed for a donnish life, tutoring or writing, except he was rather fond of parties and London life too. Pamela had been worried at one point that he might be gay, but Adrian had scoffed and said he himself had been just like Rupert at that age. All the same, they were relieved when Rupert for a time was seeing something of Henrietta Shaw and some other nice girls.
Now, they none of them quite understood what Rupert did, but it involved bonds, and sitting at the computer all day. He hated it, really, should have gone on to read law, should have gone to Australia to work on a sheep ranch, or signed onto a freighter. Pamela had said that a strong, active young man like Rupert ought to be outdoors, and when asked by his father what he saw himself doing – this was when he had been seventeen or so – he had been unable to think of anything whatsoever. Venn had laughed and said that probably meant that Rupert would write a novel, but Rupert had no literary aspirations either. Posy could imagine writing a novel, but she knew that Father, the great publisher, would never take it seriously.
She sat on the bed
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