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Authors: Alice Thomas Ellis
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caught sight of a familiar object out of the corner of her eye. Turning fully round in her chair she beheld the ladder fern on a three-legged stool between the windows. She laughed.
‘Something funny?’ asked Jon through a mouthful of soup.
‘Not really,’ said Jessica. ‘I was just thinking that no matter where you go you can’t get away from things.’
Eric, overhearing this, was rather displeased with her. Here she was at the edge of the world with all the seas separating her from all she’d been used to and she didn’t seem to be appreciating it properly. He was disappointed in her.
‘They change the sky, but not their minds, who sail across the sea,’ said Harry.
‘Who said that?’ asked Jon, who could recognize a quote when he heard one.
‘Horace,’ said Harry.
‘Oh yes,’ said Jon.
‘Are you a teacher?’ asked Anita.
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘I’m retired. I was in the army.’
That should have been obvious to anyone, thought Jessica. He had the unmistakable cleanliness of the professional soldier, the military bearing.
‘What are you in now?’ asked Anita, addressing Jessica because she couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say to an old soldier. She had been born after the war.
‘I’m not doing anything at the moment . . .’ said Jessica, who hated talking about work. She considered it unlucky.
‘Resting,’ said Jon.
Oh God, thought Jessica, scraping round her grapefruit skin and drifting into a reverie about the scrubbed cleanliness of officers. It was, perhaps, a reaction against the mud and blood of the battlefield, the dismembered limbs, the loosed entrails . . . With her steak before her she wished she’d ordered fish. She sawed at it half-heartedly and beef blood seeped into her broccoli.
Ronald was savouring a slice of suet crust soaked in the sauce, rich with kidney, and thinking that if his wife had been here she’d have made him inquire whether the vegetables were frozen or fresh. He himself cared not a jot one way or the other. He ate half a baked potato and a carrot.
‘Did you ever kill anyone?’ asked Jon suddenly.
Eric, coming in to remove the plates, was startled by this remarkable query, but the others, aware that it could only be aimed at the soldier in their midst, placidly sat back adjusting their napkins, although they all felt the question was rather uncalled for.
‘Oh, hundreds,’ said Harry. ‘Hundreds and hundreds.’ If he had said, no, Jon would have wanted to know why not. It was improbable that, with his apple pie before him, he would go on to probe for details of this mayhem. Jon did open his mouth but Jessica forestalled him, so he put some apple pie in it.
Jessica was not going to sit by and watch her friend being insolently interrogated by the squirt with the curls. ‘I’m starting in a play in the West End in the New Year,’ she said. She knew this self-sacrificial revelation would hold their interest and only hoped that Harry wouldn’t think she was showing off.
‘Don’t you get nervous?’ asked Anita.
‘Yes . . .’ said Jessica.
‘Nobody without nerves can give a performance,’ explained Jon.
‘There was an actor once,’ said Jessica, ‘who was always sick when the curtain went up, and one day he said to himself, “Sod this for a game of cards,” and he went in for market gardening.’
‘Why do you do it?’ asked Ronald, wiping a drop of raspberry jam from his whiskers.
‘Do what?’ asked Jessica, who had been about to go into a dream about cabbages and chrysanthemums and rows of beans.
‘Act,’ said Ronald. ‘Why do you go on the stage if you don’t like it?’
‘But I do like it,’ protested Jessica. ‘I feel most myself when I’m being someone else.’ She began to wish she hadn’t had wine with her dinner, for this was surely a most unwise statement to make to a man who made a living by diving around in the depths of other people’s motives and unrealized wishes. He had probably now
‘Something funny?’ asked Jon through a mouthful of soup.
‘Not really,’ said Jessica. ‘I was just thinking that no matter where you go you can’t get away from things.’
Eric, overhearing this, was rather displeased with her. Here she was at the edge of the world with all the seas separating her from all she’d been used to and she didn’t seem to be appreciating it properly. He was disappointed in her.
‘They change the sky, but not their minds, who sail across the sea,’ said Harry.
‘Who said that?’ asked Jon, who could recognize a quote when he heard one.
‘Horace,’ said Harry.
‘Oh yes,’ said Jon.
‘Are you a teacher?’ asked Anita.
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘I’m retired. I was in the army.’
That should have been obvious to anyone, thought Jessica. He had the unmistakable cleanliness of the professional soldier, the military bearing.
‘What are you in now?’ asked Anita, addressing Jessica because she couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say to an old soldier. She had been born after the war.
‘I’m not doing anything at the moment . . .’ said Jessica, who hated talking about work. She considered it unlucky.
‘Resting,’ said Jon.
Oh God, thought Jessica, scraping round her grapefruit skin and drifting into a reverie about the scrubbed cleanliness of officers. It was, perhaps, a reaction against the mud and blood of the battlefield, the dismembered limbs, the loosed entrails . . . With her steak before her she wished she’d ordered fish. She sawed at it half-heartedly and beef blood seeped into her broccoli.
Ronald was savouring a slice of suet crust soaked in the sauce, rich with kidney, and thinking that if his wife had been here she’d have made him inquire whether the vegetables were frozen or fresh. He himself cared not a jot one way or the other. He ate half a baked potato and a carrot.
‘Did you ever kill anyone?’ asked Jon suddenly.
Eric, coming in to remove the plates, was startled by this remarkable query, but the others, aware that it could only be aimed at the soldier in their midst, placidly sat back adjusting their napkins, although they all felt the question was rather uncalled for.
‘Oh, hundreds,’ said Harry. ‘Hundreds and hundreds.’ If he had said, no, Jon would have wanted to know why not. It was improbable that, with his apple pie before him, he would go on to probe for details of this mayhem. Jon did open his mouth but Jessica forestalled him, so he put some apple pie in it.
Jessica was not going to sit by and watch her friend being insolently interrogated by the squirt with the curls. ‘I’m starting in a play in the West End in the New Year,’ she said. She knew this self-sacrificial revelation would hold their interest and only hoped that Harry wouldn’t think she was showing off.
‘Don’t you get nervous?’ asked Anita.
‘Yes . . .’ said Jessica.
‘Nobody without nerves can give a performance,’ explained Jon.
‘There was an actor once,’ said Jessica, ‘who was always sick when the curtain went up, and one day he said to himself, “Sod this for a game of cards,” and he went in for market gardening.’
‘Why do you do it?’ asked Ronald, wiping a drop of raspberry jam from his whiskers.
‘Do what?’ asked Jessica, who had been about to go into a dream about cabbages and chrysanthemums and rows of beans.
‘Act,’ said Ronald. ‘Why do you go on the stage if you don’t like it?’
‘But I do like it,’ protested Jessica. ‘I feel most myself when I’m being someone else.’ She began to wish she hadn’t had wine with her dinner, for this was surely a most unwise statement to make to a man who made a living by diving around in the depths of other people’s motives and unrealized wishes. He had probably now
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