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Authors: Ruth Rendell
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Mrs. Dunne admired it. They had looked at the small, torn, dirty piece of paper, written on in pencil, and then glanced at each other and Lady Thinnesse said, “What does she mean, she isn’t equal to it? Isn’t she well? Does she mean she isn’t up to it? Your debates can be rather strenuous, Felicity.”
“Living with Silas can’t be any bed of roses,” was all Felicity said.
I was disappointed. I had looked forward to meeting the Fragonard woman who carried her washing about on a tray and hung it on the line at dusk.
“Wait a little, said the thorn tree,” said Elsa.
“That’s all very well,” I said, “but we’ve only got two more days here. Can’t we go and call on her?”
“I don’t think we could do that, I really don’t. He is rather strange, Silas Sanger. Rude, you know, and often drunk. He wouldn’t ask one in if he was in one of his moods, and he mostly is. In a mood, I mean. He doesn’t like anyone much except Felicity—he adores her.”
“Doesn’t he like this Bell?”
“I’ve only seen them together once,” said Elsa, “and he didn’t take any notice of her at all, not any notice. He didn’t speak one word to her.”
“Are they married?” It was more important in 1968 than it became soon after that.
“Frankly, I wouldn’t think so.”
The debate was postponed and we went home without meeting Bell or Silas Sanger, Elsa promising to take me there again soon. This I didn’t take very seriously. I knew I should have to spend the Christmas holiday with my father. Or try somehow to maneuver my father to spend Christmas at Cosette’s. For Cosette was still at Garth Manor, withdrawn, quiet, grieving, it seemed, and apparently unable to make up her mind whether or not to move. Then she told me she meant to take the holiday she and Douglas had intended to spend together in Barbados. It was arranged for Christmas and the New Year. She had never cancelled those arrangements, and she would go. This announcement was curious in that it was a preparation for another announcement she was to make as soon as she returned, something far more momentous, something to stun us all. In the meantime I could comment to Elsa and to Dawn Castle’s daughter, Diana, how very odd it was of Cosette to return to the hotel on Barbados where she and Douglas had stayed twice before, to return there alone and a widow, anticipating the pain and bitter nostalgia surely such a revisiting must evoke.
I thought I was condemned to sharing my father’s Christmas, and then he told me, with apparent insouciance, that he had been invited to spend it with my mother’s cousin, that Cousin Lily who had been in such high spirits at Douglas’s funeral. And he wanted to go, he was looking forward to it. I hadn’t been asked, he said, but he would inquire if he could bring me. This was spoken in such a tone of gloom and grudging unwillingness that I almost laughed out loud. “Please don’t,” I said. “Please don’t trouble, you’ll have a great time without me, you’ll be better on your own.” He gave me a sidelong look, he asked if I thought it would be all right. And then I understood he felt he was doing a daring thing, a thing likely to give rise to gossip, for my father belonged in that generation, the last perhaps to think this way, who believed there was something improper and even scandalous in sleeping under the same roof alone with a member of the opposite sex. “Times have changed,” I said. “No one would care.” He seemed disappointed.
Thus I was free to go to Thornham Hall with the Lioness.
Two memorable things happened that Christmas. The first was Felicity’s quiz.
Felicity was apparently as famous for her quizzes as her debates. She composed them herself, using the Encyclopaedia Britannica, Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, Steinberg’s Dictionary of British History, and the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. The quiz forms were typed by her and she did as many carbons as the
“Living with Silas can’t be any bed of roses,” was all Felicity said.
I was disappointed. I had looked forward to meeting the Fragonard woman who carried her washing about on a tray and hung it on the line at dusk.
“Wait a little, said the thorn tree,” said Elsa.
“That’s all very well,” I said, “but we’ve only got two more days here. Can’t we go and call on her?”
“I don’t think we could do that, I really don’t. He is rather strange, Silas Sanger. Rude, you know, and often drunk. He wouldn’t ask one in if he was in one of his moods, and he mostly is. In a mood, I mean. He doesn’t like anyone much except Felicity—he adores her.”
“Doesn’t he like this Bell?”
“I’ve only seen them together once,” said Elsa, “and he didn’t take any notice of her at all, not any notice. He didn’t speak one word to her.”
“Are they married?” It was more important in 1968 than it became soon after that.
“Frankly, I wouldn’t think so.”
The debate was postponed and we went home without meeting Bell or Silas Sanger, Elsa promising to take me there again soon. This I didn’t take very seriously. I knew I should have to spend the Christmas holiday with my father. Or try somehow to maneuver my father to spend Christmas at Cosette’s. For Cosette was still at Garth Manor, withdrawn, quiet, grieving, it seemed, and apparently unable to make up her mind whether or not to move. Then she told me she meant to take the holiday she and Douglas had intended to spend together in Barbados. It was arranged for Christmas and the New Year. She had never cancelled those arrangements, and she would go. This announcement was curious in that it was a preparation for another announcement she was to make as soon as she returned, something far more momentous, something to stun us all. In the meantime I could comment to Elsa and to Dawn Castle’s daughter, Diana, how very odd it was of Cosette to return to the hotel on Barbados where she and Douglas had stayed twice before, to return there alone and a widow, anticipating the pain and bitter nostalgia surely such a revisiting must evoke.
I thought I was condemned to sharing my father’s Christmas, and then he told me, with apparent insouciance, that he had been invited to spend it with my mother’s cousin, that Cousin Lily who had been in such high spirits at Douglas’s funeral. And he wanted to go, he was looking forward to it. I hadn’t been asked, he said, but he would inquire if he could bring me. This was spoken in such a tone of gloom and grudging unwillingness that I almost laughed out loud. “Please don’t,” I said. “Please don’t trouble, you’ll have a great time without me, you’ll be better on your own.” He gave me a sidelong look, he asked if I thought it would be all right. And then I understood he felt he was doing a daring thing, a thing likely to give rise to gossip, for my father belonged in that generation, the last perhaps to think this way, who believed there was something improper and even scandalous in sleeping under the same roof alone with a member of the opposite sex. “Times have changed,” I said. “No one would care.” He seemed disappointed.
Thus I was free to go to Thornham Hall with the Lioness.
Two memorable things happened that Christmas. The first was Felicity’s quiz.
Felicity was apparently as famous for her quizzes as her debates. She composed them herself, using the Encyclopaedia Britannica, Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, Steinberg’s Dictionary of British History, and the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. The quiz forms were typed by her and she did as many carbons as the
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