guest, and puts it in its original position, square against the table.
‘Stop being so spooky,’ cries Minnie, ‘both of you.’
Minette wants to say ‘and now tell it go away –’ but her mouth won’t say the words. It would make it too much there. Acknowledgement is dangerous; it gives body to the insubstantial.
Edgar turns to Minette. Edgar smiles, as a sane person, humouring, smiles at an insane one. And he takes Minette’s raincoat from the peg, wet as he already is, and races off through the wind to see if the car windows have been properly closed.
Minette is proud of her Bonnie Cashin raincoat. It cost one hundred and twenty pounds, though she told Edgar it was fifteen pounds fifty, reduced from twenty-three pounds. It has never actually been in the rain before and she fears for its safety. She can’t ask Edgar not to wear it. He would look at her in blank unfriendliness and say, ‘But I thought it was a raincoat. You described it as a raincoat. If it’s a raincoat, why can’t you use it in the rain? Or were you lying to me? It isn’t a raincoat after all?’
Honestly, she’d rather the coat shrunk than go through all that. Silly garment to have bought in the first place: Edgar was quite right. Well, would have been had he known. Minette sometimes wonders why she tells so many lies. Her head is dizzy.
The chair at the top of the table seems empty. The man with no eyes is out of the house: Edgar, coat over head, can be seen through the rain haze, stumbling past the front hedge towards the car. Will lightning strike him? Will he fall dead? No.
If the car windows are open, whose fault? Hers, Minnie’s?
‘I wish you’d seen that Mona shut the car door after her.’ Her fault, as Mona’s mother. ‘And why haven’t you woken her? This is a wonderful storm.’
And up he goes to be a better mother to Mona than Minette will ever be, waking his reluctant, sleep-heavy younger daughter to watch the storm, taking her on his knee, explaining the nature and function of electrical discharge the while: now ignoring Minette’s presence entirely. When annoyed with her, which is much of the time, for so many of Minette’s attitudes and pretensions irritate Edgar deeply, he chooses to pretend she doesn’t exist.
Edgar, Minette, Minnie and Mona, united, watching a storm from a holiday cottage. Happy families.
The storm passes: soon it is like gunfire, flashing and banging on the other side of the hills. The lights go out. A power line down, somewhere. No one shrieks, not even Mona: it merely, suddenly, becomes dark. But oh how dark the country is.
‘Well,’ says Edgar presently, ‘where are the matches? Candles?’
Where, indeed. Minette gropes, useless, trembling, up and down her silent haunted home. How foolish of Minette, knowing there was a storm coming, knowing (surely!) that country storms meant country power cuts, not to have located them earlier. Edgar finds them; he knew where they were all the time.
They go to bed. Edgar and Minette pass on the stairs. He is silent. He is not talking to her. She talks to him.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘you’re lucky. All he did was make the lights go out. The man with no eyes.’
He does not bother to reply. What can be said to a mad woman that’s in any way meaningful?
All night Edgar sleeps on the far edge of the double bed, away from her, forbidding even in his sleep. So, away from her, he will sleep for the next four or even five days. Minette lies awake for an hour or so, and finally drifts off into a stunned and unrefreshing sleep.
In the morning she is brisk and smiling for the sake of the children, her voice fluty with false cheer, like some Kensington lady in Harrods Food Hall. Sweeping the floor, before breakfast, she avoids the end of the table, and the ladderback chair. The man with no eyes has gone, but something lingers.
Edgar makes breakfast. He is formal with her in front of the children, silent when they are on their own, deaf to
‘Stop being so spooky,’ cries Minnie, ‘both of you.’
Minette wants to say ‘and now tell it go away –’ but her mouth won’t say the words. It would make it too much there. Acknowledgement is dangerous; it gives body to the insubstantial.
Edgar turns to Minette. Edgar smiles, as a sane person, humouring, smiles at an insane one. And he takes Minette’s raincoat from the peg, wet as he already is, and races off through the wind to see if the car windows have been properly closed.
Minette is proud of her Bonnie Cashin raincoat. It cost one hundred and twenty pounds, though she told Edgar it was fifteen pounds fifty, reduced from twenty-three pounds. It has never actually been in the rain before and she fears for its safety. She can’t ask Edgar not to wear it. He would look at her in blank unfriendliness and say, ‘But I thought it was a raincoat. You described it as a raincoat. If it’s a raincoat, why can’t you use it in the rain? Or were you lying to me? It isn’t a raincoat after all?’
Honestly, she’d rather the coat shrunk than go through all that. Silly garment to have bought in the first place: Edgar was quite right. Well, would have been had he known. Minette sometimes wonders why she tells so many lies. Her head is dizzy.
The chair at the top of the table seems empty. The man with no eyes is out of the house: Edgar, coat over head, can be seen through the rain haze, stumbling past the front hedge towards the car. Will lightning strike him? Will he fall dead? No.
If the car windows are open, whose fault? Hers, Minnie’s?
‘I wish you’d seen that Mona shut the car door after her.’ Her fault, as Mona’s mother. ‘And why haven’t you woken her? This is a wonderful storm.’
And up he goes to be a better mother to Mona than Minette will ever be, waking his reluctant, sleep-heavy younger daughter to watch the storm, taking her on his knee, explaining the nature and function of electrical discharge the while: now ignoring Minette’s presence entirely. When annoyed with her, which is much of the time, for so many of Minette’s attitudes and pretensions irritate Edgar deeply, he chooses to pretend she doesn’t exist.
Edgar, Minette, Minnie and Mona, united, watching a storm from a holiday cottage. Happy families.
The storm passes: soon it is like gunfire, flashing and banging on the other side of the hills. The lights go out. A power line down, somewhere. No one shrieks, not even Mona: it merely, suddenly, becomes dark. But oh how dark the country is.
‘Well,’ says Edgar presently, ‘where are the matches? Candles?’
Where, indeed. Minette gropes, useless, trembling, up and down her silent haunted home. How foolish of Minette, knowing there was a storm coming, knowing (surely!) that country storms meant country power cuts, not to have located them earlier. Edgar finds them; he knew where they were all the time.
They go to bed. Edgar and Minette pass on the stairs. He is silent. He is not talking to her. She talks to him.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘you’re lucky. All he did was make the lights go out. The man with no eyes.’
He does not bother to reply. What can be said to a mad woman that’s in any way meaningful?
All night Edgar sleeps on the far edge of the double bed, away from her, forbidding even in his sleep. So, away from her, he will sleep for the next four or even five days. Minette lies awake for an hour or so, and finally drifts off into a stunned and unrefreshing sleep.
In the morning she is brisk and smiling for the sake of the children, her voice fluty with false cheer, like some Kensington lady in Harrods Food Hall. Sweeping the floor, before breakfast, she avoids the end of the table, and the ladderback chair. The man with no eyes has gone, but something lingers.
Edgar makes breakfast. He is formal with her in front of the children, silent when they are on their own, deaf to
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