moved, wasn’t going to move. But it was all right; he too had vanished. Too much relieved at their disappearance to call them back to shut the door— anything rather than have either of them back, for any reason whatsoever—Rosamund surreptitiously shut the door herself under cover of fetching a dish from the sideboard. At last she was able to turn her attention back to her guests, who by now were happily discussing the flavour of octopus as served in Sicily. Lindy was happy, that is to say, and so were the two men. Norah seemed less happy, as Lindy had just that moment managed to elicit from her, in the most public manner possible, that in twenty-two years she had never once attempted to cook octopus for her husband in spite of knowing that it was hisvery favourite dish. William was looking almost aggressively smug and understood.
Rosamund was half listening to the talk, half to the sounds through the wall from the kitchen. The expert, almost telepathic ear of motherhood—or is it just housewife-hood ?—could ascertain through nine inches of brick and plaster that the boys were only having bread and jam and cornflakes, and that in a very few minutes they would be finished. Would Walker go then, or what? Please, God, prayed Rosamund, as she distributed stewed pears and cream, Don’t let Walker stay the night. Oh, dear God, don’t let him!
CHAPTER VI
But Walker did stay the night. When Rosamund stumbled sleepily into the kitchen in her dressing-gown the next morning there he was, neatly and completely dressed, sitting at the kitchen table expectantly. On Sunday morning, too, she protested to herself in silent horror, closing her eyes for a second in the dim hope that perhaps when she opened them he would have disappeared. On Sunday morning, at barely half past eight! Just when she had been planning to make a pot of tea for herself and Geoffrey and to go back to bed with it for hours and hours. And if this wretched boy must stay for the night, why couldn’t he at least lounge about in bed till midday, wasting the whole morning, like other boys? She opened her eyes, without much hope, and sure enough, there he still was, looking at her. Sooner or later somebody must say something, and clearly it wasn’t going to be him.
‘Hullo,’ she said, as unchillingly as she could. ‘I’m just going to make some tea. Would you like some?’
‘Yes, please.’
He could say things like that all right. It was an exaggeration to claim that he didn’t talk at all, Rosamund reminded herself contritely. She filled the kettle, lit the gas, terribly conscious all the time of the ghastly unoccupied-ness of her unwanted guest. Did he have to just sit there like that, doing nothing?
‘Wouldn’t you like the paper?’ she suggested brightly. ‘I expect it’s arrived by now. It’ll be out on the step.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Walker, swivelling his polite, expressionless gaze from the corner of the ceiling to his hostess’ face. Then, as if this degree of activity was all that anyone could possibly demand of him, he proceeded to wait, politely expectant, for Rosamund to say something else.
‘The kettle won’t be long now,’ she remarked desperately; and then, when Walker made no reply, she went on: ‘Wouldn’t you like to make yourself some toast? We’re always disgracefully late on Sundays—we shan’t be having breakfast for ages.’
‘No, it’s all right, thank you,’ said Walker. ‘I’d rather wait.’
And wait you shall, thought Rosamund grimly, swilling out the teapot with boiling water. Convention forbade her venting her annoyance on the silent figure, whose total lack of occupation seemed to be positively boring into her back as she bent over the sink; and so, instead, her thoughts turned wrathfully towards her son, the irresponsible author of it all, sleeping peacefully upstairs. What did he mean by bringing in this dreadful silent friend and dumping him on Rosamund to entertain, like a cat bringing
Rosamund was half listening to the talk, half to the sounds through the wall from the kitchen. The expert, almost telepathic ear of motherhood—or is it just housewife-hood ?—could ascertain through nine inches of brick and plaster that the boys were only having bread and jam and cornflakes, and that in a very few minutes they would be finished. Would Walker go then, or what? Please, God, prayed Rosamund, as she distributed stewed pears and cream, Don’t let Walker stay the night. Oh, dear God, don’t let him!
CHAPTER VI
But Walker did stay the night. When Rosamund stumbled sleepily into the kitchen in her dressing-gown the next morning there he was, neatly and completely dressed, sitting at the kitchen table expectantly. On Sunday morning, too, she protested to herself in silent horror, closing her eyes for a second in the dim hope that perhaps when she opened them he would have disappeared. On Sunday morning, at barely half past eight! Just when she had been planning to make a pot of tea for herself and Geoffrey and to go back to bed with it for hours and hours. And if this wretched boy must stay for the night, why couldn’t he at least lounge about in bed till midday, wasting the whole morning, like other boys? She opened her eyes, without much hope, and sure enough, there he still was, looking at her. Sooner or later somebody must say something, and clearly it wasn’t going to be him.
‘Hullo,’ she said, as unchillingly as she could. ‘I’m just going to make some tea. Would you like some?’
‘Yes, please.’
He could say things like that all right. It was an exaggeration to claim that he didn’t talk at all, Rosamund reminded herself contritely. She filled the kettle, lit the gas, terribly conscious all the time of the ghastly unoccupied-ness of her unwanted guest. Did he have to just sit there like that, doing nothing?
‘Wouldn’t you like the paper?’ she suggested brightly. ‘I expect it’s arrived by now. It’ll be out on the step.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Walker, swivelling his polite, expressionless gaze from the corner of the ceiling to his hostess’ face. Then, as if this degree of activity was all that anyone could possibly demand of him, he proceeded to wait, politely expectant, for Rosamund to say something else.
‘The kettle won’t be long now,’ she remarked desperately; and then, when Walker made no reply, she went on: ‘Wouldn’t you like to make yourself some toast? We’re always disgracefully late on Sundays—we shan’t be having breakfast for ages.’
‘No, it’s all right, thank you,’ said Walker. ‘I’d rather wait.’
And wait you shall, thought Rosamund grimly, swilling out the teapot with boiling water. Convention forbade her venting her annoyance on the silent figure, whose total lack of occupation seemed to be positively boring into her back as she bent over the sink; and so, instead, her thoughts turned wrathfully towards her son, the irresponsible author of it all, sleeping peacefully upstairs. What did he mean by bringing in this dreadful silent friend and dumping him on Rosamund to entertain, like a cat bringing
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