Read Online Letters From an Unknown Woman by Gerard Woodward - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gerard Woodward
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been a regular customer at the bank and was now a regular customer at the Tea Rooms. ‘I’m not following you, you understand.’ Despite its name, the English Rose was not a genteel establishment frequented by Victorian ladies sipping Darjeeling. It was, rather, a rough and ready eating house, serving hot-pots and pies to hungry working men and women, clerks from the nearby council offices, shopworkers from the high street, artisans who ate chops with their fingers and then loudly licked the tips of them. Butchers used to come in, Tory now recalled, bloodstained and sweaty, for their steaks. There was one who had taken the cheese and onion flan for lunch every day, as though he could not stand the sight of any more blood.
Donald always had devils on horseback with a glass of milk. She felt she’d got to know Donald from the top down, because in the early days of their relationship she would stand over him while he sat at a table, choosing from the menu. She became familiar with the crown of his head, with its brushed-back wiry hair that sometimes stood up in spikes that trembled or vibrated, like tuning forks, when Donald spoke. She got to know the over-furrowed brow, which was very high, giving him the tousled widow’s peak of the soon-to-be-bald. (In fact, to her surprise, Donald had done a good job of keeping his hair, just the littlest bald spot opening at the top after a few years.) Then she came to know the eyes, which would turn up to look at her with a mysterious twinkle when he ordered his devils on horseback, making a little joke each time about how he was struggling with the choice, then ordered the same thing yet again. ‘Let me see, what’ll I have? My, my so much choice, so little time. Well, just for a change I think I’ll be daring and have … devils on horseback.’ He could be funny when he wanted to.
But mostly he was serious. He had a way of speaking that made everything he said sound profoundly important. Perhaps it was the accent, which Tory always associated with bank managers, solicitors and other purveyors of probity and prudence. He would underscore statements with a piercing stare from rather feline eyes, which made it impossible to doubt anything he said. Once under his spell, there was no escape for Tory. Not that she ever desired escape, not seriously anyway. Occasionally she experienced an engulfing sense of dread that she had made some awful mistake in marrying Donald and should instead have thrown in her lot with Clarence Dundry and a life similar to her mother’s, that of a bank clerk’s wife. But such fears were usually shortlived. Donald’s maturity, learning and practical sense made him seem a sensible yet adventurous option. He was a craftsman, a businessman, a self-made intellectual. As their marriage progressed Tory slowly began to feel it wasn’t love she was experiencing, rather a sense of awe and admiration. They had lived their first few years together in a spirit of mutual respect. Tory felt that she was not so much loved as curated. Donald treated her as a precious and rare specimen, always concerned for her safety and comfort, and proud to show her off to his friends. She, in turn, enjoyed the way his talk soared far above the heads of all around them.
Things began to change when the children arrived. They seemed to unsettle and disconcert him. He didn’t know quite what to do with them. His aura of authority and wisdom began to wane. He became distant and distracted. He was embarrassed when, for financial reasons, they had to move back into Peter Street, and he did little to disguise his glee when Mrs Head emigrated to the estuary. The children seemed to embarrass him as well – when they were babies at least. As they grew up, and he started to take more notice of them, he became a strict father, though he was never particularly severe. She only had one clear memory of him playing with the children when, one Christmas, he picked up a rug and pretended to be
Donald always had devils on horseback with a glass of milk. She felt she’d got to know Donald from the top down, because in the early days of their relationship she would stand over him while he sat at a table, choosing from the menu. She became familiar with the crown of his head, with its brushed-back wiry hair that sometimes stood up in spikes that trembled or vibrated, like tuning forks, when Donald spoke. She got to know the over-furrowed brow, which was very high, giving him the tousled widow’s peak of the soon-to-be-bald. (In fact, to her surprise, Donald had done a good job of keeping his hair, just the littlest bald spot opening at the top after a few years.) Then she came to know the eyes, which would turn up to look at her with a mysterious twinkle when he ordered his devils on horseback, making a little joke each time about how he was struggling with the choice, then ordered the same thing yet again. ‘Let me see, what’ll I have? My, my so much choice, so little time. Well, just for a change I think I’ll be daring and have … devils on horseback.’ He could be funny when he wanted to.
But mostly he was serious. He had a way of speaking that made everything he said sound profoundly important. Perhaps it was the accent, which Tory always associated with bank managers, solicitors and other purveyors of probity and prudence. He would underscore statements with a piercing stare from rather feline eyes, which made it impossible to doubt anything he said. Once under his spell, there was no escape for Tory. Not that she ever desired escape, not seriously anyway. Occasionally she experienced an engulfing sense of dread that she had made some awful mistake in marrying Donald and should instead have thrown in her lot with Clarence Dundry and a life similar to her mother’s, that of a bank clerk’s wife. But such fears were usually shortlived. Donald’s maturity, learning and practical sense made him seem a sensible yet adventurous option. He was a craftsman, a businessman, a self-made intellectual. As their marriage progressed Tory slowly began to feel it wasn’t love she was experiencing, rather a sense of awe and admiration. They had lived their first few years together in a spirit of mutual respect. Tory felt that she was not so much loved as curated. Donald treated her as a precious and rare specimen, always concerned for her safety and comfort, and proud to show her off to his friends. She, in turn, enjoyed the way his talk soared far above the heads of all around them.
Things began to change when the children arrived. They seemed to unsettle and disconcert him. He didn’t know quite what to do with them. His aura of authority and wisdom began to wane. He became distant and distracted. He was embarrassed when, for financial reasons, they had to move back into Peter Street, and he did little to disguise his glee when Mrs Head emigrated to the estuary. The children seemed to embarrass him as well – when they were babies at least. As they grew up, and he started to take more notice of them, he became a strict father, though he was never particularly severe. She only had one clear memory of him playing with the children when, one Christmas, he picked up a rug and pretended to be
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