somehow they inspire
more affection, they make more fun.’
‘To
me,’ said Chris, while the Sunday afternoon lazed on and the rain splashed at
the windows, ‘the lower classes always inspire more affection —looking back,
it’s the cooks and the greengrocers and the dressmakers that I remember with warmth,
not the people I’ve met on social occasions. Bill was rich, of course, and a
decent husband. I missed Bill when he died. But that was love, it really was.
I’m talking about affection.’
‘I
know,’ said Hurley. ‘Our dinner to come: I feel a certain affection for
everyone we’ve asked. Nearly everyone. I don’t know Helen Suzy very well, and
Margaret Damien hardly at all, and yet I can’t get Margaret out of my head with
her aggressive teeth and her honey-and-cream philosophy of Les Autres.’
‘Perhaps
you should paint her,’ said Chris.
‘I
haven’t done a portrait for years. I don’t know if I could any more,’ Hurley
said, but he sounded reflective, so that Chris wondered if really he would like
to sleep with Margaret. Chris thought of this without resentment. She herself
had a minor attachment to a French orchestral conductor whom she saw nearly
always when she went to Paris; she had a flat there and he stayed with her. But
her real life was with Hurley and his with her.
‘Hilda
is convinced’, she said, ‘that William was in some way enticed into noticing
Margaret in the first place.’
‘Hilda
has an exaggerated idea of her son’s value, I should say,’ said Hurley.
‘Well,
he’s quite something on the marriage market. She has left everything, or almost
everything, to William. He’s the eldest son. It’s in trust for him, and he
gets it when Hilda dies. She thought that a good arrangement. She told me so
herself. But you can’t say he isn’t a catch for a girl.’
‘They’ll
have to wait a long time,’ said Hurley. ‘Hilda’s flourishing. She’ll live for
ever.’
‘Let’s
hope so. But she really is worried about her new daughter-in-law. It was so
unlikely that they should just happen to meet in the fruit section of Marks
& Spencer’s. It actually could be a put-up job. She could have picked him
up deliberately.’
‘Look,’
said Hurley, ‘she spoke to him. He didn’t need to answer at length, he didn’t
need to strike up an acquaintance. Do you realize that among the number of
young people who get together these days very very few begin by being
introduced?’
‘Yes, I
do know all that. Only Hilda is an old friend, Hurley. She told me that it was
very spooky there in Fife at the wedding. Nothing you could put your finger on.
‘Oh,
that’s Scotland. All the families are odd, very odd.’
‘Hilda
said’, Chris went on, ‘that they weren’t so odd. In fact they were too much all
right.’
‘She
thinks they’re after her money or her son’s money. If I may say so,’ said
Hurley, ‘you rich ladies always think in terms of money. The way you go on
about it you’d think you were short of the stuff. You never stop talking about
who’s married who, and what the fortune is.’
Chris
didn’t refute this, although the accusation wasn’t very true. She had plenty of
other subjects to discuss, and generally did so. However, she said, ‘It’s a
fascinating subject, Hurley, when you think, or half-think, just possibly a
young man and his mother have been plotted against. You said yourself that you
felt Margaret was strange.’
‘Strange,
yes,’ he said, ‘very strange.’
It was
time for drinks. Their conversation became rather contrapuntal. He lamented the
fact that he hadn’t been near his studio the whole afternoon.
‘It’s
Sunday,’ she said, as if that were a factor of any sort.
He was
vaguely looking at the mantelpiece. ‘I adore the Salvation Army,’ he said, with
what relevance nobody will ever know.
‘Nivea
cream’, Chris said presently, as she sipped her vodka and tonic, ‘is my
Proust’s madeleine. The only reason I use it.
more affection, they make more fun.’
‘To
me,’ said Chris, while the Sunday afternoon lazed on and the rain splashed at
the windows, ‘the lower classes always inspire more affection —looking back,
it’s the cooks and the greengrocers and the dressmakers that I remember with warmth,
not the people I’ve met on social occasions. Bill was rich, of course, and a
decent husband. I missed Bill when he died. But that was love, it really was.
I’m talking about affection.’
‘I
know,’ said Hurley. ‘Our dinner to come: I feel a certain affection for
everyone we’ve asked. Nearly everyone. I don’t know Helen Suzy very well, and
Margaret Damien hardly at all, and yet I can’t get Margaret out of my head with
her aggressive teeth and her honey-and-cream philosophy of Les Autres.’
‘Perhaps
you should paint her,’ said Chris.
‘I
haven’t done a portrait for years. I don’t know if I could any more,’ Hurley
said, but he sounded reflective, so that Chris wondered if really he would like
to sleep with Margaret. Chris thought of this without resentment. She herself
had a minor attachment to a French orchestral conductor whom she saw nearly
always when she went to Paris; she had a flat there and he stayed with her. But
her real life was with Hurley and his with her.
‘Hilda
is convinced’, she said, ‘that William was in some way enticed into noticing
Margaret in the first place.’
‘Hilda
has an exaggerated idea of her son’s value, I should say,’ said Hurley.
‘Well,
he’s quite something on the marriage market. She has left everything, or almost
everything, to William. He’s the eldest son. It’s in trust for him, and he
gets it when Hilda dies. She thought that a good arrangement. She told me so
herself. But you can’t say he isn’t a catch for a girl.’
‘They’ll
have to wait a long time,’ said Hurley. ‘Hilda’s flourishing. She’ll live for
ever.’
‘Let’s
hope so. But she really is worried about her new daughter-in-law. It was so
unlikely that they should just happen to meet in the fruit section of Marks
& Spencer’s. It actually could be a put-up job. She could have picked him
up deliberately.’
‘Look,’
said Hurley, ‘she spoke to him. He didn’t need to answer at length, he didn’t
need to strike up an acquaintance. Do you realize that among the number of
young people who get together these days very very few begin by being
introduced?’
‘Yes, I
do know all that. Only Hilda is an old friend, Hurley. She told me that it was
very spooky there in Fife at the wedding. Nothing you could put your finger on.
‘Oh,
that’s Scotland. All the families are odd, very odd.’
‘Hilda
said’, Chris went on, ‘that they weren’t so odd. In fact they were too much all
right.’
‘She
thinks they’re after her money or her son’s money. If I may say so,’ said
Hurley, ‘you rich ladies always think in terms of money. The way you go on
about it you’d think you were short of the stuff. You never stop talking about
who’s married who, and what the fortune is.’
Chris
didn’t refute this, although the accusation wasn’t very true. She had plenty of
other subjects to discuss, and generally did so. However, she said, ‘It’s a
fascinating subject, Hurley, when you think, or half-think, just possibly a
young man and his mother have been plotted against. You said yourself that you
felt Margaret was strange.’
‘Strange,
yes,’ he said, ‘very strange.’
It was
time for drinks. Their conversation became rather contrapuntal. He lamented the
fact that he hadn’t been near his studio the whole afternoon.
‘It’s
Sunday,’ she said, as if that were a factor of any sort.
He was
vaguely looking at the mantelpiece. ‘I adore the Salvation Army,’ he said, with
what relevance nobody will ever know.
‘Nivea
cream’, Chris said presently, as she sipped her vodka and tonic, ‘is my
Proust’s madeleine. The only reason I use it.
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