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Authors: Elizabeth Taylor
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something.’
‘Those sort of smart clothes you get from Jewish Madam shops; but somehow there’s the impression that all is not well beneath – you know, one imagines grubby shoulder-straps, sordid old roll-ons. Can’t think why it is. But one does.’
‘Jewish Madam shops? Sordid roll-ons! I
must
say. Where d’you get all that from?’
‘I’m a writer,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Or … I am about to be a writer. I mean, I am
already
a writer, but…’
‘I thought we were talking about your mother,’ she said, in a voice from which patience was ebbing fast. ‘You know, and her sordid roll-ons. I didn’t know such things existed still. But I’d have thought this Major wouldn’t have cared much for all that. Where does he get his money from, anyway? My uncle was a Colonel, and he never had a halfpenny.’
‘No, this one of my mother’s is only one of those wartime Majors, but I think he rather fancies being called it, so he kept it on. He’s really in steel. Something in steel.’
‘He must be old.’
‘Why?’
‘From that war.’
‘I suppose he’s sixty-odd.’
‘Don’t! It makes me squirm.’ She squirmed.
‘You don’t like old people?’
‘I don’t choose to think about them.’
‘You’ll be old yourself one day.’
‘Why order all this food and then put me off it?’
‘What about your parents?’ Ludo asked.
‘Oh, they lark about in their way,’ she said. ‘They give awful drinks parties, with about a hundred people standing jam-packed, shouting at one another. Sometimes on a Sunday morning when I’m there I go round with a tray of stuff – pretend caviare on toast and all -and some of the men are quite
awful,
and the women say, “Oh,
how pretty”,
meaning the caviare and the bits of lemon, and the American ones say, “My, and
some
one’s been busy around here”. They’re so bright andshouty, and hateful to me, really; because they know their old men are squinting down my dress at my bosom.’
‘But you haven’t got a bosom.’
‘And shall keep it that way, thank you. I suppose your mother has one of those enormous ones sticking out of her Jewish Madam clothes.’
‘You seem strangely fascinated by my mother. I told you she had a good figure.’
‘By whose standards? The Major’s, I suppose. But what about your father?’ she asked, and she helped herself to more fried rice.
‘He got very tired, and died,’ Ludo said.
‘Oh, sorry!’ Rosie said vaguely – even rather crossly, as if she wished she had not asked. ‘This rice soon got cold, I must say.’
‘I did my best. With my father. Tried to buck him up a bit. If you don’t praise people just sometimes a little early on they die of despair, or turn into Hitlers, you know.’
‘Do they?’ Rosie asked.
CHAPTER SIX
E VEN for some time after her fall, Mrs Palfrey was too stiff to walk far, so that she found the days passing slowly. She often thought of Ludo and her pleasant evening with him, and wondered if he would ever come again, and felt that he would not. For he had been vague, had not left open the way to her renewing of the invitation. He had had a look of uncertainty – or reluctance – when she suggested it. The machinery for carrying on their acquaintance did not exist, though constant reference to him by Mrs Arbuthnot and Mrs Post unfortunately did.
‘If we went to the British Museum should we see him?’ Mrs Post asked, dangerously, had she but known it. The last thing she had ever imagined herself doing was endangering somebody, in which she was quite unlike Mrs Arbuthnot.
‘Oh, no,’ Mrs Palfrey said quickly, ‘he is tucked away in the archives.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Mrs Post.
Mrs Palfrey, feeling flustered, took herself off on one of her brief outings – just as far as the Square, where there were little hard buds on the lilac trees – she guessed they would be that boring pale mauve when they blossomed – and there was an unfolded crocus or two coming
‘Those sort of smart clothes you get from Jewish Madam shops; but somehow there’s the impression that all is not well beneath – you know, one imagines grubby shoulder-straps, sordid old roll-ons. Can’t think why it is. But one does.’
‘Jewish Madam shops? Sordid roll-ons! I
must
say. Where d’you get all that from?’
‘I’m a writer,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Or … I am about to be a writer. I mean, I am
already
a writer, but…’
‘I thought we were talking about your mother,’ she said, in a voice from which patience was ebbing fast. ‘You know, and her sordid roll-ons. I didn’t know such things existed still. But I’d have thought this Major wouldn’t have cared much for all that. Where does he get his money from, anyway? My uncle was a Colonel, and he never had a halfpenny.’
‘No, this one of my mother’s is only one of those wartime Majors, but I think he rather fancies being called it, so he kept it on. He’s really in steel. Something in steel.’
‘He must be old.’
‘Why?’
‘From that war.’
‘I suppose he’s sixty-odd.’
‘Don’t! It makes me squirm.’ She squirmed.
‘You don’t like old people?’
‘I don’t choose to think about them.’
‘You’ll be old yourself one day.’
‘Why order all this food and then put me off it?’
‘What about your parents?’ Ludo asked.
‘Oh, they lark about in their way,’ she said. ‘They give awful drinks parties, with about a hundred people standing jam-packed, shouting at one another. Sometimes on a Sunday morning when I’m there I go round with a tray of stuff – pretend caviare on toast and all -and some of the men are quite
awful,
and the women say, “Oh,
how pretty”,
meaning the caviare and the bits of lemon, and the American ones say, “My, and
some
one’s been busy around here”. They’re so bright andshouty, and hateful to me, really; because they know their old men are squinting down my dress at my bosom.’
‘But you haven’t got a bosom.’
‘And shall keep it that way, thank you. I suppose your mother has one of those enormous ones sticking out of her Jewish Madam clothes.’
‘You seem strangely fascinated by my mother. I told you she had a good figure.’
‘By whose standards? The Major’s, I suppose. But what about your father?’ she asked, and she helped herself to more fried rice.
‘He got very tired, and died,’ Ludo said.
‘Oh, sorry!’ Rosie said vaguely – even rather crossly, as if she wished she had not asked. ‘This rice soon got cold, I must say.’
‘I did my best. With my father. Tried to buck him up a bit. If you don’t praise people just sometimes a little early on they die of despair, or turn into Hitlers, you know.’
‘Do they?’ Rosie asked.
CHAPTER SIX
E VEN for some time after her fall, Mrs Palfrey was too stiff to walk far, so that she found the days passing slowly. She often thought of Ludo and her pleasant evening with him, and wondered if he would ever come again, and felt that he would not. For he had been vague, had not left open the way to her renewing of the invitation. He had had a look of uncertainty – or reluctance – when she suggested it. The machinery for carrying on their acquaintance did not exist, though constant reference to him by Mrs Arbuthnot and Mrs Post unfortunately did.
‘If we went to the British Museum should we see him?’ Mrs Post asked, dangerously, had she but known it. The last thing she had ever imagined herself doing was endangering somebody, in which she was quite unlike Mrs Arbuthnot.
‘Oh, no,’ Mrs Palfrey said quickly, ‘he is tucked away in the archives.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Mrs Post.
Mrs Palfrey, feeling flustered, took herself off on one of her brief outings – just as far as the Square, where there were little hard buds on the lilac trees – she guessed they would be that boring pale mauve when they blossomed – and there was an unfolded crocus or two coming
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