radiating from within a scorching consciousness of her own goodness.
‘Did you like it, Maria?’ she would ask at the end.
‘Not really,’ Maria would say, like as not scraping or prising half of it into the overflowing pedal bin. She would say it out of honesty, not out of malice, for she knew that no amount of malice could ever divert Winifred from her philanthropic path.
‘Never mind, it was good and nourishing, and tomorrow I shall cook you something more tasty. What would you like?’
‘I should like you not to cook for me.’
‘Dear Maria.’ Winifred took Maria’s hand, and held it gently between hers. Maria attempted to recoil, but suddenly found that her hand was being held with a strength which it would not be inappropriate to compare to that of a vice. ‘You are so good, and generous. It pains you, doesn’t it, to see me put myself to any trouble on your account? But I don’t mind, honestly I don’t. It’s a pleasure. Performing these little acts of kindness for you is the only real pleasure I have in the world.’
Hardly surprising, then, that Maria was not able to match her mother’s enthusiasm. She did not dislike Winifred. She was baffled rather than frightened by her. All the same, her favourite time of day came to be the evening, when Winifred would not be around, for she usually went out in the evenings, to the meetings of charitable societies, and religious organizations. Often she would return from these meetings in a state of uncontrollable zealous excitement, and would find Maria and tell her all about it, sometimes if necessary rousing her from a deep sleep or interrupting her appreciation of a favourite piece of music. And if Maria were to lock the door again, she would simply hammer upon it until it was opened, or until the other two girls came to see what was the matter and the commotion became so great that Maria was no longer capable of ignoring it.
When Bobby asked Maria if he could stay with her for a night or two, therefore, she felt obliged to warn him about Winifred. She warned him that his sleep would probably be disturbed. But this warning turned out to have been unnecessary, and while Bobby was staying with her, Winifred said nothing to Maria, never once spoke to her or attempted to enter her room.
Bobby was now eighteen. He had left school, and was looking for a job. He had been unemployed for only a few months but already he was prone to fits of depression which lasted for anything up to a week, and his parents seemed to think that a short holiday with Maria in Oxford would do him good. This had been the purpose of their visit, to deposit Bobby. When the last of the biscuits had been eaten, and their parents had driven away, brother and sister were left, alone together in Maria’s room. Bear in mind that these two had hardly spoken to each other for more than five years.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Bobby,’ said Maria, after a long, but, it seemed to her, companionable silence.
‘Do you get lonely here, on your own?’
‘Yes, I do. Do you like it, living at home?’
‘No, I don’t. I want to leave. I’m glad I was able to come down here.’
‘You’re always welcome. You’ll always be welcome, with me, wherever I am. You look very well.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. Do I look well?’
‘No, Maria,’ said her brother. ‘You look older. And tireder. Do I really look well?’
‘No,’ said Maria. ‘You look sad, and worried.’
‘Perhaps things will turn out all right.’
They both smiled.
‘Is Sefton well?’ asked Maria.
‘He’s fine. I was talking to him only the other day. He was in fine spirits. We were in the sitting room, and I was asking him a few questions. I said to him, What’s it all about, then? What do you think I should do? How do you view the career opportunities open to a man like myself, as an outsider, so to speak? As an impartial observer. You don’t let these things get you down, I can see that, I said. Come on,
‘Did you like it, Maria?’ she would ask at the end.
‘Not really,’ Maria would say, like as not scraping or prising half of it into the overflowing pedal bin. She would say it out of honesty, not out of malice, for she knew that no amount of malice could ever divert Winifred from her philanthropic path.
‘Never mind, it was good and nourishing, and tomorrow I shall cook you something more tasty. What would you like?’
‘I should like you not to cook for me.’
‘Dear Maria.’ Winifred took Maria’s hand, and held it gently between hers. Maria attempted to recoil, but suddenly found that her hand was being held with a strength which it would not be inappropriate to compare to that of a vice. ‘You are so good, and generous. It pains you, doesn’t it, to see me put myself to any trouble on your account? But I don’t mind, honestly I don’t. It’s a pleasure. Performing these little acts of kindness for you is the only real pleasure I have in the world.’
Hardly surprising, then, that Maria was not able to match her mother’s enthusiasm. She did not dislike Winifred. She was baffled rather than frightened by her. All the same, her favourite time of day came to be the evening, when Winifred would not be around, for she usually went out in the evenings, to the meetings of charitable societies, and religious organizations. Often she would return from these meetings in a state of uncontrollable zealous excitement, and would find Maria and tell her all about it, sometimes if necessary rousing her from a deep sleep or interrupting her appreciation of a favourite piece of music. And if Maria were to lock the door again, she would simply hammer upon it until it was opened, or until the other two girls came to see what was the matter and the commotion became so great that Maria was no longer capable of ignoring it.
When Bobby asked Maria if he could stay with her for a night or two, therefore, she felt obliged to warn him about Winifred. She warned him that his sleep would probably be disturbed. But this warning turned out to have been unnecessary, and while Bobby was staying with her, Winifred said nothing to Maria, never once spoke to her or attempted to enter her room.
Bobby was now eighteen. He had left school, and was looking for a job. He had been unemployed for only a few months but already he was prone to fits of depression which lasted for anything up to a week, and his parents seemed to think that a short holiday with Maria in Oxford would do him good. This had been the purpose of their visit, to deposit Bobby. When the last of the biscuits had been eaten, and their parents had driven away, brother and sister were left, alone together in Maria’s room. Bear in mind that these two had hardly spoken to each other for more than five years.
‘It’s nice to see you again, Bobby,’ said Maria, after a long, but, it seemed to her, companionable silence.
‘Do you get lonely here, on your own?’
‘Yes, I do. Do you like it, living at home?’
‘No, I don’t. I want to leave. I’m glad I was able to come down here.’
‘You’re always welcome. You’ll always be welcome, with me, wherever I am. You look very well.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. Do I look well?’
‘No, Maria,’ said her brother. ‘You look older. And tireder. Do I really look well?’
‘No,’ said Maria. ‘You look sad, and worried.’
‘Perhaps things will turn out all right.’
They both smiled.
‘Is Sefton well?’ asked Maria.
‘He’s fine. I was talking to him only the other day. He was in fine spirits. We were in the sitting room, and I was asking him a few questions. I said to him, What’s it all about, then? What do you think I should do? How do you view the career opportunities open to a man like myself, as an outsider, so to speak? As an impartial observer. You don’t let these things get you down, I can see that, I said. Come on,
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