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

the universe.
    Georgina retired. When she came back with the tray, they were reclining from their labours on the hearthrug. The Girl Guide had ash on her nose, the Boy Scout was wheezing.
    â€œWhat will you drink, children? Whisky, vodka? Some orange juice for you, Antonia?”
    â€œBut where is my hot milk? You promised me hot milk, Georgina.”
    Affronted by this unchivalrous reminder, Georgina contented herself by suavely supposing Antonia would like hot milk, too.
    â€œI’d love some. Let me make it!” She half rose, thought better of it, sank down again; as Georgina left the room, she heardAntonia say, “But why don’t you try iodine? Sailors never catch cold.”
    The kitchen was warm and exclusive. With leisurely movements, Georgina took a bottle of milk from the refrigerator, selected two suitable mugs, opened the lid of the Aga stove, and took down a heavy saucepan. For one does not spend a lifetime enjoying English literature without being made aware of the nature and capabilities of milk. Milk, proverbially mild, is a devil when roused by boiling, and in a moment will writhe out of the pan and spread itself all over the place – waiting with fiendish malice till your back is turned before doing so. Profiting by the strenuously acquired wisdom of novelists and essayists, Georgina did not intend to be caught like this. She put the saucepan on the hot plate and emptied the bottle of milk into it. Half the amount would have been quite enough, but she had enjoyed the gesture of emptying, a gesture at once lavish and contemptuous. They would just have to wait rather longer – what of that? Besides, presumably the skin would be all that much thicker. Words rose in her mind: “If you want to have proper skin on your boiled milk, it’s hopeless to use less than a pint.” Other words floated in from the sitting room – soothing, diagnosing words from Antonia to George, who liberally as to a midwife was declaring the state of his bronchial tubes. George would be all right if he didn’t eat so much – but Antonia didn’t raise this issue. Meanwhile, the milk lay quietly in its saucepan.
    An hour ago, heads had been rolling, and Canon Toller, pierced in a dozen places, had been tossed aside, the sawdust trickling from his reputation as an apostle to youth. Now George was maundering on the hearthrug and she was in the kitchen – alone, ageing, disregarded, haggard with fatigue, still not over her influenza but expected to be as strong as a horse, with the garden full of apples and the sink full of dirty plates and dishes – waiting for milk to come to the boil. The voiceshad become lower, more confidential – bunions, probably; the milk was unchanged except that from time to time a vague, sneering frown seemed to cross its smooth brow. Antonia said something not perfectly audible about it perhaps getting worse if you lived alone. George, perfectly audible, replied, “The truth is, Georgina’s totally selfish.” And at the same moment the milk exploded and spread itself all over the top of the Aga.
    Georgina filled the two mugs and carried them into the sitting room and set them down without a word, sincerely hoping her guests would scald themselves. They did not. Antonia sipped, and said how delicious. George sipped, and asked if he could have some sugar in his.
    â€œOh, do you take sugar in yours?” Antonia said, plainly making a note of it.
    â€œAnd with porridge. But there I like it brown,” said George, as plainly expecting a note to be made.
    And when they had emptied their mugs they thanked her and went away – musingly, and slightly flushed.
    She heard their diminishing voices, and their lingering farewells. She heard George cough, and Antonia deplore. She heard them start their cars and drive away. Presently they would set out on an entirely novel way of life, hyphenated into George-and-Antonia – one of those late