money. But not too much. I could be perfectly happy on a thousand a year.
Pounds, I mean.”
“So could a great many English people who have to live on a fraction of
that.”
“Well, say five hundred … provided of course I had other things to make
life worth living.”
“What other things?”
“Darling, don’t cross-examine me…. All I know is that Brad needs to
learn what happiness there can be in life, and he ought to stop being
such a hermit. But I’m all against him giving up his ideals, whatever Julian
says.”
“It seems to me I’m the only person who’s satisfied with him as he
is.”
“Are you, darling? Entirely satisfied?”
She gazed at me measuredly, as if the question needed a careful answer.
But there wasn’t time, for at that moment Brad arrived. He looked nervous,
and almost as shy as when I had first seen him. He said he hadn’t thought
he’d be able to come, but at the very last he’d managed it. He was sorry he
was so late and hoped he hadn’t kept her waiting.
“Did you come up by tube?” I asked.
“No. I took a taxi.”
“I’ll send for some fresh tea,” my mother said, and rang the bell, but
nobody came; the servants were preparing for their evening out and hadn’t
expected to serve any more. I said I’d go to the kitchen and see about it,
which I did, and then went upstairs to change.
* * * * *
Looking back now, I can see so much more than then. Even
when you are
supposed to be adult for your age, it’s hard to think of grownups as in the
same world; you only want to feel you can be in theirs, and you just hope any
mistake won’t be noticed. And yet you are aware of things often more acutely
than ever afterwards, your mind has antennae roaming into the unknown; you
can even walk into it with eyes peering, but the step that isn’t there always
brings you up with a shock and a jolt.
I had that shock about Brad, though I couldn’t put any sufficient reason
for it into words. When a man, after working three times harder than he
should, slows down to twice as hard, there doesn’t seem much for any of his
friends to worry about. Nor when the same man spends a wet Sunday afternoon
listening to a charming woman play Chopin, instead of drenching himself to
the skin on Box Hill.
Brad gave notice to the College authorities and they were very reasonable
about it. They waived the full term they could have held him for, and said he
could leave whenever he wanted. And my parents postponed again their return
to New York—still presumably on my account.
Meanwhile my mother kept on attending his lectures, at which he never (she
said) gave her a look or a smile; but he did break a few of his other rules,
whether it was she who tempted him or not. He began going to piano recitals,
theaters, movies, and private views—sometimes alone with her, sometimes
with my father or me also. There was nothing to stir gossip, much less
scandal, in our fairly sophisticated circle; Julian Spee had escorted her
similarly when he was less busy. She had often been in the throes of some fad
or other, and perhaps my father figured that Brad was just an unusually
masculine successor to Dalcroze Eurhythmics, Japanese flower arrangement, or
the English Speaking Union. And it was sometimes my father himself who would
make the date; he would say—“Oh, by the way, Christine, I’ve got a card
for Marincourt’s new exhibition—it’s next Tuesday at the Wigmore
Galleries. I shan’t have time to go myself, but you might take Brad and show
him what passes for art nowadays….” But when he had issued these
invitations he had an odd look of only half pleasure whether they were
accepted or not.
That diary of mine jots down all the times Brad came to the house to dine.
On Wednesdays it was, most often, and as the weeks passed it came to be every
Wednesday, and always quite informally, without special invitation, with few
or no other guests, and with plenty
Pounds, I mean.”
“So could a great many English people who have to live on a fraction of
that.”
“Well, say five hundred … provided of course I had other things to make
life worth living.”
“What other things?”
“Darling, don’t cross-examine me…. All I know is that Brad needs to
learn what happiness there can be in life, and he ought to stop being
such a hermit. But I’m all against him giving up his ideals, whatever Julian
says.”
“It seems to me I’m the only person who’s satisfied with him as he
is.”
“Are you, darling? Entirely satisfied?”
She gazed at me measuredly, as if the question needed a careful answer.
But there wasn’t time, for at that moment Brad arrived. He looked nervous,
and almost as shy as when I had first seen him. He said he hadn’t thought
he’d be able to come, but at the very last he’d managed it. He was sorry he
was so late and hoped he hadn’t kept her waiting.
“Did you come up by tube?” I asked.
“No. I took a taxi.”
“I’ll send for some fresh tea,” my mother said, and rang the bell, but
nobody came; the servants were preparing for their evening out and hadn’t
expected to serve any more. I said I’d go to the kitchen and see about it,
which I did, and then went upstairs to change.
* * * * *
Looking back now, I can see so much more than then. Even
when you are
supposed to be adult for your age, it’s hard to think of grownups as in the
same world; you only want to feel you can be in theirs, and you just hope any
mistake won’t be noticed. And yet you are aware of things often more acutely
than ever afterwards, your mind has antennae roaming into the unknown; you
can even walk into it with eyes peering, but the step that isn’t there always
brings you up with a shock and a jolt.
I had that shock about Brad, though I couldn’t put any sufficient reason
for it into words. When a man, after working three times harder than he
should, slows down to twice as hard, there doesn’t seem much for any of his
friends to worry about. Nor when the same man spends a wet Sunday afternoon
listening to a charming woman play Chopin, instead of drenching himself to
the skin on Box Hill.
Brad gave notice to the College authorities and they were very reasonable
about it. They waived the full term they could have held him for, and said he
could leave whenever he wanted. And my parents postponed again their return
to New York—still presumably on my account.
Meanwhile my mother kept on attending his lectures, at which he never (she
said) gave her a look or a smile; but he did break a few of his other rules,
whether it was she who tempted him or not. He began going to piano recitals,
theaters, movies, and private views—sometimes alone with her, sometimes
with my father or me also. There was nothing to stir gossip, much less
scandal, in our fairly sophisticated circle; Julian Spee had escorted her
similarly when he was less busy. She had often been in the throes of some fad
or other, and perhaps my father figured that Brad was just an unusually
masculine successor to Dalcroze Eurhythmics, Japanese flower arrangement, or
the English Speaking Union. And it was sometimes my father himself who would
make the date; he would say—“Oh, by the way, Christine, I’ve got a card
for Marincourt’s new exhibition—it’s next Tuesday at the Wigmore
Galleries. I shan’t have time to go myself, but you might take Brad and show
him what passes for art nowadays….” But when he had issued these
invitations he had an odd look of only half pleasure whether they were
accepted or not.
That diary of mine jots down all the times Brad came to the house to dine.
On Wednesdays it was, most often, and as the weeks passed it came to be every
Wednesday, and always quite informally, without special invitation, with few
or no other guests, and with plenty
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