Read Online Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont by Elizabeth Taylor - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Taylor
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help saying, ‘Mabel, Edith what? Or are you mad? Talking to yourself.’
‘Trying to guess your name. You look quite like a Mabel to me. I settle for Mabel.’
‘Do you
know
what someone called Mabel looks like?’ she asked in a dangerous tone.
‘I told you, I am only trying to guess.’
‘If you
must
know, my name’s Rosie.’
‘Well, Rosie, from Pinner, where are we going for a drink?’
‘You rile me,’ she said, turning one shoulder. ‘And what’s more you get on my nerves.’
‘My name’s Ludovic. Ludo.’
‘You have to be joking,’ she said automatically.
Presently, in the silence in which they were sitting, he had an idea. He took from a pocket Mrs Palfrey’s five-pound note. He smoothed it carefully and, holding it by one corner, dangled it in front of Rosie. ‘Do you know this trick?’ he asked. As she did not answer, he went on quickly, ‘You’d think it quite simple. You’ll probably think
me
simple for suggesting it. But you’d be surprised. All you have to do is to catch it when I let go, and if you can, you keep it.’
She looked at him with astonishment – her first change of expression from disdain.
‘Come on!’ he said coaxingly, as if to a child. ‘Just snatch at it with your little paw.’
He let go of the note and she caught it between thumband finger and stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then she resumed her disdain and he in his turn looked astonished.
‘I’ve never seen that happen before,’ he said.
She held out the note to him, waving it impatiently, to be rid of it.
‘No, no, it’s yours,’ he said. ‘That was the bargain. All the same, I couldn’t be more amazed. Perhaps it was because you were sitting down. Not to make any difference to its being yours, but to satisfy my curiosity, see if you can do it again.’
‘Oh, belt up,’ she said. She flicked the note in his direction and went over to the spin-dryer with her polythene bag.
He was about to lose her.
‘Let’s go to the Chinese,’ he said desperately, when she turned towards the street door. ‘Rosie,’ he added pleadingly.
From habit she assumed a look of heavy boredom, of protective scorn; and then – ‘Rosie!’ he said again, softly – something in her face faltered, the drooping lines of it wavered, as if against her will. There had not, so far, been much variety in her expression, but here at last was something new. It was hunger, he thought.
A rather noisy little band of commercial travellers had invaded, quite late, the lounge of the Claremont. They were gathering overnight for a conference in the morning, and some uneasiness and false
bonhomie
hungover them as one after another (and there was sometimes a good-humoured scramble), they got up to ring the bell for the waiter. Antonio came grudgingly, and in the end stood about, holding a tray, waiting to serve the next round.
The little band of regulars had gone to bed, which was as well; for of them only Mrs Burton could have borne the noise. She had been in one of her deep sleeps for an hour; only a parched mouth would awaken her.
Mrs Palfrey lay and listened to the murmur of a married couple in the next room. It was unrhythmical and intermittent, an exchange grown casual and homely over the years. She knew – looking back – how precious it could be, though not valued at the time.
His
low voice sometimes ran along with
her
lighter more floating one, speaking at the same time, and then for minutes they fell silent, moved about the room, opened and shut drawers: things were put down, dropped; furniture pushed about. The two were settling in for the night, peaceably, and at their accustomed pace; and Mrs Palfrey, hearing them, felt lulled and comforted.
‘It was really my week-end for going home,’ Rosie explained, stripping a spare-rib neatly with her sharp little teeth. ‘But my parents have gone winter-sporting.’
She had become less laconic in the darkness of the restaurant, with its stretches of shadow and
‘Trying to guess your name. You look quite like a Mabel to me. I settle for Mabel.’
‘Do you
know
what someone called Mabel looks like?’ she asked in a dangerous tone.
‘I told you, I am only trying to guess.’
‘If you
must
know, my name’s Rosie.’
‘Well, Rosie, from Pinner, where are we going for a drink?’
‘You rile me,’ she said, turning one shoulder. ‘And what’s more you get on my nerves.’
‘My name’s Ludovic. Ludo.’
‘You have to be joking,’ she said automatically.
Presently, in the silence in which they were sitting, he had an idea. He took from a pocket Mrs Palfrey’s five-pound note. He smoothed it carefully and, holding it by one corner, dangled it in front of Rosie. ‘Do you know this trick?’ he asked. As she did not answer, he went on quickly, ‘You’d think it quite simple. You’ll probably think
me
simple for suggesting it. But you’d be surprised. All you have to do is to catch it when I let go, and if you can, you keep it.’
She looked at him with astonishment – her first change of expression from disdain.
‘Come on!’ he said coaxingly, as if to a child. ‘Just snatch at it with your little paw.’
He let go of the note and she caught it between thumband finger and stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then she resumed her disdain and he in his turn looked astonished.
‘I’ve never seen that happen before,’ he said.
She held out the note to him, waving it impatiently, to be rid of it.
‘No, no, it’s yours,’ he said. ‘That was the bargain. All the same, I couldn’t be more amazed. Perhaps it was because you were sitting down. Not to make any difference to its being yours, but to satisfy my curiosity, see if you can do it again.’
‘Oh, belt up,’ she said. She flicked the note in his direction and went over to the spin-dryer with her polythene bag.
He was about to lose her.
‘Let’s go to the Chinese,’ he said desperately, when she turned towards the street door. ‘Rosie,’ he added pleadingly.
From habit she assumed a look of heavy boredom, of protective scorn; and then – ‘Rosie!’ he said again, softly – something in her face faltered, the drooping lines of it wavered, as if against her will. There had not, so far, been much variety in her expression, but here at last was something new. It was hunger, he thought.
A rather noisy little band of commercial travellers had invaded, quite late, the lounge of the Claremont. They were gathering overnight for a conference in the morning, and some uneasiness and false
bonhomie
hungover them as one after another (and there was sometimes a good-humoured scramble), they got up to ring the bell for the waiter. Antonio came grudgingly, and in the end stood about, holding a tray, waiting to serve the next round.
The little band of regulars had gone to bed, which was as well; for of them only Mrs Burton could have borne the noise. She had been in one of her deep sleeps for an hour; only a parched mouth would awaken her.
Mrs Palfrey lay and listened to the murmur of a married couple in the next room. It was unrhythmical and intermittent, an exchange grown casual and homely over the years. She knew – looking back – how precious it could be, though not valued at the time.
His
low voice sometimes ran along with
her
lighter more floating one, speaking at the same time, and then for minutes they fell silent, moved about the room, opened and shut drawers: things were put down, dropped; furniture pushed about. The two were settling in for the night, peaceably, and at their accustomed pace; and Mrs Palfrey, hearing them, felt lulled and comforted.
‘It was really my week-end for going home,’ Rosie explained, stripping a spare-rib neatly with her sharp little teeth. ‘But my parents have gone winter-sporting.’
She had become less laconic in the darkness of the restaurant, with its stretches of shadow and
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