Read Online Music at Long Verney by Sylvia Townsend Warner - Free Book Online Page A

essentially craved for and fed upon was the contrast between George’s mind and her own. Where she was brilliant and malicious, he was placidly savage. Where she went to work with a dancing, prancing stiletto, George would aim one accurate condemnation and chop a head off. Several heads fell that evening, some of them heads she esteemed or had a weakness for or would have saved up for a finer examination of the evidence; but seeing them roll, she thrilled with the realisation that George, in his stupid infallible way, was right. She was enjoying herself so much, and doing so well with her womanly stiletto, that it was a shock to be told that she was looking tired and should be taken home. “You mustn’t go and have a relapse.” The injunction had a familiar ring. Who else had . . . Of course, Antonia.
    â€œGeorge, do you like hot milk?”
    â€œIt’s one of my passions. Didn’t you know? Especially with skin on it.”
    â€œSo do Tartars. I expect you’re a Tartar at heart. Well, when we’re back I’ll make you a brimming blue-and-white mug of hot milk – with a skin as tough as Pamela Hathaway’s.”
    There was not much conversation during the drive back. George was not a conversing driver. As they rounded the bend of the lane, they saw a car drawn up at Georgina’s gate. It was empty. As they walked up the path, they saw someone come from the porch and run towards them.
    â€œAunt Georgie! Oh, thank God! What happened? Are you all right?”
    â€œGeorge has been giving me dinner at Nicolino’s, and now he’s brought me back. George, you know Antonia, don’t you?”
    â€œI was so worried when you didn’t ring me up – because you’d promised you would, you know –”
    â€œIt went clean out of my head. I must be growing quite senile.”
    â€œâ€“ and when there was no answer when I tried to ring you, I decided the only thing to do was to come. And then I found I couldn’t get in. And I had just decided I must break a window when I saw a car stop and heard you coming up the path. Oh, Aunt Georgie, I’m so thankful, so thankful!”
    â€œWell, now we’ll go in by the door. George has a horrible cough, he oughtn’t to be standing about.”
    â€œIt’s Antonia who has been standing about,” remarked George. “She’s shivering. I’m going to light your fire.”
    The fire had been laid several days before. It was slow to kindle, appearing to partake in the general feeling of constraint.
    â€œOne’s glad of a fire in the evening now,” said Antonia.
    â€œYes, isn’t one?” replied George.
    They knelt before it side by side, Antonia tempting its appetite with twigs, George puffing with the bellows.
    â€œI think perhaps if we made a hole here with the poker . . .”
    â€œGood idea!”
    A Boy Scout, a Girl Guide – it was not the end to her evening that Georgina had intended. She went out to get glasses and bottles. Where on earth had Antonia put the vodka? – for on inspection the bottle she picked up proved to be rennet. From the sitting room came sounds of encouragement, of growing confidence, of disillusionment. Then silence. Then a roar. They were doing the newspaper trick, and would set fire to the chimney. “Remember my thatch,” she said, glancing in.
    George looked round. “It’s perfectly all right, Georgina. I know how to manage it.” At the same moment the newspaper burst into flame. George leaped up and trampled on it. Then came a smell of singeing; Antonia began to pat the top of her head. “Good Lord, have I set fire to your hair?” he exclaimed.
    â€œOh, it’s nothing,” Antonia said. “Frizzy hair like mine catches fire so easily.”
    â€œI suppose it does.” George himself was bald, so there was even less reason why he should speak in the tone of one pondering a new light on