Read Online Learning to Dance by Susan Sallis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Sallis
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Irena was such an admirer, would she read it and know that he was still alive?
The papers had arrived pre-high-tide and she scooped the Magnet from the pile in the lobby and took it into the lounge. There it was, one of Jack’s less caustic comments on life in the twenty-first century: ‘Fish-Frobisher and Family’. She smiled slightly; it had always been her favourite, and she had not taken the Magnet since Jack had left her simply because the way he dealt with the Fish-Frobishers was … loving. And she wanted to hate him.
She stood there, looking at the familiar cartoons, wondering where he had been when he did this latest one, unable to stop that last terrible memory of his departure. She heard her own voice, breaking up, bewildered, incredulous … ‘Is theresomeone else?’ She had tried to laugh and mimic her own words. ‘I mean … another woman?’
She waited to hear him tell her not to be such an idiot. And he had said, ‘Yes, I suppose that’s what it was.’
She looked and looked at the Fish-Frobishers as if there might be an answer to all the questions she did not ask that day in a very hot July. Eight – no – nine weeks ago. It did not sound very long, but every day, every hour had been measured into a foretaste of the rest of her life.
She read the tiny byline and did not immediately take it in. ‘Reprinted from 1990.’ She read it again, frowned and thought it was a mistake. Then she moved along the six boxes of the cartoon story. Magnus Fish-Frobisher was grabbing his bowler hat and umbrella and making for the front door. Edith was telling him she was going to the hairdresser’s. He pecked her cheek and told her to have a lovely relaxing day. She was turning to the daughter and saying that he must think she was off to the beach, and did he not realize the sheer humiliation of sitting beneath a dryer? The daughter was saying how boring they both were, then Magnus was returning that night with a bunch of flowers, pretending he did not recognize the glamour puss who was his wife.
She remembered it because it was the very first of the series. Jack had called it totally bland, and guessed it would not run longer than a month or two at the most. But it had taken off. It was still going strong. A day-to-day diary of a strangely pretentious yet loving family.
Except that they were reprinting it. As if – as if – Jack was dead.
She pushed the paper into her canvas bag next to the sketchbook. Her heart was pounding. She knew he wasn’t dead, she knew it. If he was no longer on this earth shewould know that, too. They were connected, they had been connected since that day at art college. Jack was alive.
Someone came into the sitting room; she stood as if looking at the sea. There was an explanation; she must not panic.
Hausmann’s unmistakeable voice said, ‘I want to thank you. The coffee was good and the sick bowl was not necessary.’
She did not turn. She managed one word. ‘Good.’
There was a pause, then he said, ‘You are not all right. Are you coming to the Long Gallery this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’
Through her terror she caught a nuance of something. Diffidence. It did not go with the little she knew of Hausmann.
He said, ‘I was hoping we could talk.’
‘Not now.’
From the dining room she heard Sybil’s voice and felt an enormous relief.
‘Sybil and I are going to Lynmouth this morning.’ She turned. ‘I have to get organized. Excuse me.’
She brushed past him, screwing up the paper and forcing it into her bag. This was how it must be for Sybil. All the time.
Five
During breakfast, Judith began to feel as if her head might be about to burst. She would dearly have liked to plead some kind of malaise and shut herself in her room to make phone calls. But somehow there was no opportunity; and anyway what would she say to William Whortley other than, ‘Is Jack dead?’ And if he was in Perth with the boys, why on earth hadn’t they phoned her? The
The papers had arrived pre-high-tide and she scooped the Magnet from the pile in the lobby and took it into the lounge. There it was, one of Jack’s less caustic comments on life in the twenty-first century: ‘Fish-Frobisher and Family’. She smiled slightly; it had always been her favourite, and she had not taken the Magnet since Jack had left her simply because the way he dealt with the Fish-Frobishers was … loving. And she wanted to hate him.
She stood there, looking at the familiar cartoons, wondering where he had been when he did this latest one, unable to stop that last terrible memory of his departure. She heard her own voice, breaking up, bewildered, incredulous … ‘Is theresomeone else?’ She had tried to laugh and mimic her own words. ‘I mean … another woman?’
She waited to hear him tell her not to be such an idiot. And he had said, ‘Yes, I suppose that’s what it was.’
She looked and looked at the Fish-Frobishers as if there might be an answer to all the questions she did not ask that day in a very hot July. Eight – no – nine weeks ago. It did not sound very long, but every day, every hour had been measured into a foretaste of the rest of her life.
She read the tiny byline and did not immediately take it in. ‘Reprinted from 1990.’ She read it again, frowned and thought it was a mistake. Then she moved along the six boxes of the cartoon story. Magnus Fish-Frobisher was grabbing his bowler hat and umbrella and making for the front door. Edith was telling him she was going to the hairdresser’s. He pecked her cheek and told her to have a lovely relaxing day. She was turning to the daughter and saying that he must think she was off to the beach, and did he not realize the sheer humiliation of sitting beneath a dryer? The daughter was saying how boring they both were, then Magnus was returning that night with a bunch of flowers, pretending he did not recognize the glamour puss who was his wife.
She remembered it because it was the very first of the series. Jack had called it totally bland, and guessed it would not run longer than a month or two at the most. But it had taken off. It was still going strong. A day-to-day diary of a strangely pretentious yet loving family.
Except that they were reprinting it. As if – as if – Jack was dead.
She pushed the paper into her canvas bag next to the sketchbook. Her heart was pounding. She knew he wasn’t dead, she knew it. If he was no longer on this earth shewould know that, too. They were connected, they had been connected since that day at art college. Jack was alive.
Someone came into the sitting room; she stood as if looking at the sea. There was an explanation; she must not panic.
Hausmann’s unmistakeable voice said, ‘I want to thank you. The coffee was good and the sick bowl was not necessary.’
She did not turn. She managed one word. ‘Good.’
There was a pause, then he said, ‘You are not all right. Are you coming to the Long Gallery this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’
Through her terror she caught a nuance of something. Diffidence. It did not go with the little she knew of Hausmann.
He said, ‘I was hoping we could talk.’
‘Not now.’
From the dining room she heard Sybil’s voice and felt an enormous relief.
‘Sybil and I are going to Lynmouth this morning.’ She turned. ‘I have to get organized. Excuse me.’
She brushed past him, screwing up the paper and forcing it into her bag. This was how it must be for Sybil. All the time.
Five
During breakfast, Judith began to feel as if her head might be about to burst. She would dearly have liked to plead some kind of malaise and shut herself in her room to make phone calls. But somehow there was no opportunity; and anyway what would she say to William Whortley other than, ‘Is Jack dead?’ And if he was in Perth with the boys, why on earth hadn’t they phoned her? The
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