Read Online The Driver's Seat by Muriel Spark - Free Book Online Page A

old corner.’
    ‘Will
you feel a presence? Is that how you’ll know?’
    ‘Not
really a presence,’ Lise says. ‘The lack of an absence, that’s what it is. I
know I’ll find it. I keep on making mistakes, though.’ She starts to cry, very
slightly sniffing, weeping, and they stop on the steps while Mrs Fiedke
produces a trembling pink face-tissue from her bag for Lise to dab her eyes
with and blow her nose on. Sniffing, Lise throws the shredded little snitch of
paper away and again takes Mrs Fiedke’s arm to resume their descent. ‘Too much
self-control, which arises from fear and timidity, that’s what’s wrong with
them. They’re cowards, most of them.’
    ‘Oh, I
always believe that,’ says Mrs Fiedke. ‘No doubt about it. The male sex.’
    They
have reached the road where the traffic thunders past in the declining
sunlight.
    ‘Where
do we cross?’ Lise says, looking to right and left of the overwhelming street.
    ‘They
are demanding equal rights with us,’ says Mrs Fiedke. ‘That’s why I never vote
with the Liberals. Perfume, jewellery, hair down to their shoulders, and I’m
not talking about the ones who were born like that. I mean, the ones that can’t
help it should be put on an island. It’s the others I’m talking about. There
was a time when they would stand up and open the door for you. They would take
their hat off. But they want their equality today. All I say is that if God had
intended them to be as good as us he wouldn’t have made them different from us
to the naked eye. They don’t want to be all dressed alike any more. Which is
only a move against us. You couldn’t run an army like that, let alone the male
sex. With all due respects to Mr Fiedke, may he rest in peace, the male sex is
getting out of hand. Of course, Mr Fiedke knew his place as a man, give him his
due.’
    ‘We’ll
have to walk up to the intersection,’ Lise says, guiding Mrs Fiedke in the
direction of a distant policeman surrounded by a whirlpool of traffic. ‘We’ll
never get a taxi here.’
    ‘Fur
coats and flowered poplin shirts on their backs,’ says Mrs Fiedke as she winds
along, conducted by Lise this way and that to avoid the oncoming people in the
street. ‘If we don’t look lively,’ she says, ‘they will be taking over the
homes and the children, and sitting about having chats while we go and fight to
defend them and work to keep them. They won’t be content with equal rights
only. Next thing they’ll want the upper hand, mark my words. Diamond earrings,
I’ve read in the paper.’
    ‘It’s
getting late,’ says Lise. Her lips are slightly parted and her nostrils and
eyes, too, are a fragment more open than usual; she is a stag scenting the
breeze, moving step by step, inhibiting her stride to accommodate Mrs Fiedke’s
pace, she seems at the same time to search for a certain air-current, a glimpse
and an intimation.
    ‘I
clean mine with toothpaste when I’m travelling,’ confides Mrs Fiedke. ‘The
better stuff’s in the bank back home, of course. The insurance is too high, isn’t
it? But you have to bring a few bits and pieces. I clean them with my
toothbrush and ordinary toothpaste, then I rub them with the hand-towel. They
come up very nicely. You can’t trust the jewellers. They can always take them
out and replace them with a fake.’.
    ‘It’s
getting late,’ says Lise. ‘There are so many faces. Where did all the faces
come from?’
    ‘I
ought to take a nap,’ says Mrs Fiedke, ‘so that I won’t feel too tired when my
nephew arrives. Poor thing. We have to leave for Capri tomorrow morning. All
the cousins, you know. They’ve taken such a charming villa and the past will
never be mentioned. My brother made that clear to them. I made it clear to my
brother.’
    They
have reached the circular intersection and turn into a sidestreet where a few
yards ahead at the next corner there is a taxi-rank occupied by one taxi. This
one taxi is taken by someone else just as