for a pot of tea, I think.’
While she was fussing over cups and spoons, she asked, her tone as casual as if she were inquiring where she might find the sugar, ‘How have things been between you? Recently I mean.’
He hesitated, reluctant to confide in her. But it was clear she was keen to help and it was somehow comforting not to be conducting this search entirely alone. ‘We’re not newlyweds any more, Mrs Grey. But I believe our marriage is strong.’
She stopped her tea preparations and gazed at him.
‘You’re not convinced,’ he said.
‘It does not matter a jot whether I am convinced, my dear. That is not at issue here.’
‘Did she say something to you?’
Grey stared out into the garden and her hair caught the sunlight, turning the silver to bright white.
‘I don’t think it was anything specif—’
‘So she did say something! What the hell was it?’ Now he stood up, looming over her. He could feel his veins engorging, the rage stirred and beginning to surge.
Grey’s expression looked more pitying than alarmed, which only fuelled James’s ire. ‘Come on,’ he said loudly, ‘answer me!’
In a voice that was studiedly calmer and quieter than before, she said, ‘This.’ She gestured towards him. ‘She told me about this. Your aggression. She told me about your fights, James.’
‘We have had disagreements. Every couple has dis—’
‘She was not referring to
disagreements
, James. She was referring to violent displays of temper. I can see for myself the broken crockery here today.’
‘Today is hardly typical.’
‘She told me that there was a constant
tension
in the house.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Her exact words were, “I feel as if the ground is covered with eggshells. And I’m tiptoeing my way through them.”’
‘Eggshells? I know what that’s about. That’s my punishment for demanding quiet when I work. Any scholar would be the same. It’s impossible to do serious reading with an infernal racket going on.’
‘What infernal racket?’
‘Harry shouting and shrieking when he’s playing. I lost my temper a few times.’ He could picture the tears trickling down his son’s cheeks, the little boy standing in the garden crying after James had exploded again, Florence holding Harry tight, explaining that it was not his fault, not his fault at all, James standing apart from them, too ashamed to step forward and hug Harry himself – a shame whose sting he felt again now. But what he said stiffly was, ‘I’m sure the Master would have been the same in my position.’
The silver-haired author of half a dozen books and a couple of hundred learned articles eyed him coolly. ‘Yes. Even I might struggle to do my needlepoint with that distraction.’
James realized his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grey. I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t worry, Dr Zennor. I’ve been condescended to by far greater men than yourself.’ She now placed the teapot at the centre of the table and took a seat. ‘Florence was worried about you. She said you were drinking heavily.’
‘For heaven’s sake, can a man not drink a glass of Scotch in his own home?’
‘At high table the other night, you had Perkins return to the cellar at least twice.’
‘So you think my wife left me because I’m some kind of dipsomaniac?’
‘No one is saying your wife has left you.’
‘She’s not here, is she?’
‘No, she is not. But there is no evidence that she has left you, in the rather melodramatic sense of that word. You don’t know where she is. And you don’t know why she’s gone.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Well, I think you need to begin by putting yourself in her shoes.’
James straightened his back, as if to signal that the discussion was over. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Grey. I appreciate your efforts. But nothing you have told me will help me get my wife back.’
‘Is that what you want? To get her back?’
‘Of course, that’s what I bloody want!’ His voice cracked at that
While she was fussing over cups and spoons, she asked, her tone as casual as if she were inquiring where she might find the sugar, ‘How have things been between you? Recently I mean.’
He hesitated, reluctant to confide in her. But it was clear she was keen to help and it was somehow comforting not to be conducting this search entirely alone. ‘We’re not newlyweds any more, Mrs Grey. But I believe our marriage is strong.’
She stopped her tea preparations and gazed at him.
‘You’re not convinced,’ he said.
‘It does not matter a jot whether I am convinced, my dear. That is not at issue here.’
‘Did she say something to you?’
Grey stared out into the garden and her hair caught the sunlight, turning the silver to bright white.
‘I don’t think it was anything specif—’
‘So she did say something! What the hell was it?’ Now he stood up, looming over her. He could feel his veins engorging, the rage stirred and beginning to surge.
Grey’s expression looked more pitying than alarmed, which only fuelled James’s ire. ‘Come on,’ he said loudly, ‘answer me!’
In a voice that was studiedly calmer and quieter than before, she said, ‘This.’ She gestured towards him. ‘She told me about this. Your aggression. She told me about your fights, James.’
‘We have had disagreements. Every couple has dis—’
‘She was not referring to
disagreements
, James. She was referring to violent displays of temper. I can see for myself the broken crockery here today.’
‘Today is hardly typical.’
‘She told me that there was a constant
tension
in the house.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Her exact words were, “I feel as if the ground is covered with eggshells. And I’m tiptoeing my way through them.”’
‘Eggshells? I know what that’s about. That’s my punishment for demanding quiet when I work. Any scholar would be the same. It’s impossible to do serious reading with an infernal racket going on.’
‘What infernal racket?’
‘Harry shouting and shrieking when he’s playing. I lost my temper a few times.’ He could picture the tears trickling down his son’s cheeks, the little boy standing in the garden crying after James had exploded again, Florence holding Harry tight, explaining that it was not his fault, not his fault at all, James standing apart from them, too ashamed to step forward and hug Harry himself – a shame whose sting he felt again now. But what he said stiffly was, ‘I’m sure the Master would have been the same in my position.’
The silver-haired author of half a dozen books and a couple of hundred learned articles eyed him coolly. ‘Yes. Even I might struggle to do my needlepoint with that distraction.’
James realized his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Grey. I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t worry, Dr Zennor. I’ve been condescended to by far greater men than yourself.’ She now placed the teapot at the centre of the table and took a seat. ‘Florence was worried about you. She said you were drinking heavily.’
‘For heaven’s sake, can a man not drink a glass of Scotch in his own home?’
‘At high table the other night, you had Perkins return to the cellar at least twice.’
‘So you think my wife left me because I’m some kind of dipsomaniac?’
‘No one is saying your wife has left you.’
‘She’s not here, is she?’
‘No, she is not. But there is no evidence that she has left you, in the rather melodramatic sense of that word. You don’t know where she is. And you don’t know why she’s gone.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Well, I think you need to begin by putting yourself in her shoes.’
James straightened his back, as if to signal that the discussion was over. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Grey. I appreciate your efforts. But nothing you have told me will help me get my wife back.’
‘Is that what you want? To get her back?’
‘Of course, that’s what I bloody want!’ His voice cracked at that
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