a decorated china shaving-bowl, several cut-throat razors arranged in a fan, a row of pipes in an ebony rack, a riding crop, a fly swat, a gold tinder-box, a watch on a chain. On the wall behind this display were sporting prints, mostly horses racing, their front and back legs splayed, the riders top-hatted.
Mary had wandered the entire length of the gallery – making detours round the larger items, stopping to stare into a gilt-framed mirror – before she was aware of the most prominent feature. Sliding glass doors on the eastern wall gave on to a long balcony. From where she stood the light from the chandeliers made it difficult to see into the semidarkness outside, but a great profusion of flowering plants was just visible, and creepers, small trees in tubs and, Mary held her breath, a small pale face watching her from the shadows, a disembodied face, for the night sky and the room’s reflections in the glass made it impossible to seeclothes or hair. It continued to stare at her, unblinking, a perfectly oval face; then it moved backwards and sideways into the shadows and disappeared. Mary exhaled noisily. The reflected room shook as the glass doors opened. A young woman, her hair tied back severely, stepped a little stiffly into the room and extended her hand. ‘Come outside,’ she said. ‘It’s pleasanter.’
A few stars had already broken through a sky of bruised pastels, and yet it was easy enough to make out the sea, the mooring poles, and even the dark outlines of the cemetery island. Directly below the balcony, forty feet down, was a deserted courtyard. The concentrated mass of potted flowers gave off a penetrating fragrance, almost sickly. The woman lowered herself into a canvas chair with a little gasp of pain.
‘It is beautiful,’ she said, as though Mary had spoken. ‘I spend as much time as possible out here.’ Mary nodded. The balcony extended about half the length of the room. ‘My name is Caroline. Robert’s wife.’
Mary shook her hand, introduced herself and sat down in a chair facing her. A small white table separated them, and on it was a single biscuit on a plate. In the flowering ivy that covered the wall behind them a cricket was singing. Again, Caroline stared at Mary as though she herself could not be seen; her eyes moved steadily from Mary’s hair, to her eyes, to her mouth, and on down to where the table obstructed her view.
‘Is it yours?’ Mary said, fingering the sleeve of the nightdress.
The question appeared to bring Caroline out of a day-dream. She sat up in her chair, folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs, as though adopting an advised posture for conversation. When she spoke, her tone was forced, pitched a little higher than before. ‘Yes, I made it myself sitting out here. I like embroidery.’
Mary complimented her on her work, and there followed a silence in which Caroline appeared to struggle to find something to say. With a nervous start she registered Mary’s passing glance at the biscuit and immediately she was holding the plate out to her. ‘Please take it.’
‘Thank you.’ Mary tried to eat the biscuit slowly.
Caroline watched her anxiously. ‘You must be hungry. Would you like something to eat?’
‘Yes please.’
But Caroline did not stir immediately. Instead she said, ‘I’m sorry Robert isn’t here. He asked me to apologize. He’s gone to his bar. On business, of course. A new manager starts tonight.’
Mary looked up from the empty plate. ‘His bar?’
With great difficulty Caroline began to rise, speaking through evident pain. She shook her head when Mary offered help. ‘He owns a bar. It’s a kind of hobby, I guess. It’s the place he took you to.’
‘He never mentioned he owned it,’ Mary said.
Caroline picked up the plate and walked to the door. When she got there she had to turn her whole body to look at Mary. She said neutrally, ‘You know more about it than I do, I’ve never been there.’
She returned
Mary had wandered the entire length of the gallery – making detours round the larger items, stopping to stare into a gilt-framed mirror – before she was aware of the most prominent feature. Sliding glass doors on the eastern wall gave on to a long balcony. From where she stood the light from the chandeliers made it difficult to see into the semidarkness outside, but a great profusion of flowering plants was just visible, and creepers, small trees in tubs and, Mary held her breath, a small pale face watching her from the shadows, a disembodied face, for the night sky and the room’s reflections in the glass made it impossible to seeclothes or hair. It continued to stare at her, unblinking, a perfectly oval face; then it moved backwards and sideways into the shadows and disappeared. Mary exhaled noisily. The reflected room shook as the glass doors opened. A young woman, her hair tied back severely, stepped a little stiffly into the room and extended her hand. ‘Come outside,’ she said. ‘It’s pleasanter.’
A few stars had already broken through a sky of bruised pastels, and yet it was easy enough to make out the sea, the mooring poles, and even the dark outlines of the cemetery island. Directly below the balcony, forty feet down, was a deserted courtyard. The concentrated mass of potted flowers gave off a penetrating fragrance, almost sickly. The woman lowered herself into a canvas chair with a little gasp of pain.
‘It is beautiful,’ she said, as though Mary had spoken. ‘I spend as much time as possible out here.’ Mary nodded. The balcony extended about half the length of the room. ‘My name is Caroline. Robert’s wife.’
Mary shook her hand, introduced herself and sat down in a chair facing her. A small white table separated them, and on it was a single biscuit on a plate. In the flowering ivy that covered the wall behind them a cricket was singing. Again, Caroline stared at Mary as though she herself could not be seen; her eyes moved steadily from Mary’s hair, to her eyes, to her mouth, and on down to where the table obstructed her view.
‘Is it yours?’ Mary said, fingering the sleeve of the nightdress.
The question appeared to bring Caroline out of a day-dream. She sat up in her chair, folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs, as though adopting an advised posture for conversation. When she spoke, her tone was forced, pitched a little higher than before. ‘Yes, I made it myself sitting out here. I like embroidery.’
Mary complimented her on her work, and there followed a silence in which Caroline appeared to struggle to find something to say. With a nervous start she registered Mary’s passing glance at the biscuit and immediately she was holding the plate out to her. ‘Please take it.’
‘Thank you.’ Mary tried to eat the biscuit slowly.
Caroline watched her anxiously. ‘You must be hungry. Would you like something to eat?’
‘Yes please.’
But Caroline did not stir immediately. Instead she said, ‘I’m sorry Robert isn’t here. He asked me to apologize. He’s gone to his bar. On business, of course. A new manager starts tonight.’
Mary looked up from the empty plate. ‘His bar?’
With great difficulty Caroline began to rise, speaking through evident pain. She shook her head when Mary offered help. ‘He owns a bar. It’s a kind of hobby, I guess. It’s the place he took you to.’
‘He never mentioned he owned it,’ Mary said.
Caroline picked up the plate and walked to the door. When she got there she had to turn her whole body to look at Mary. She said neutrally, ‘You know more about it than I do, I’ve never been there.’
She returned
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