Read Online The Jealous One by Celia Fremlin - Free Book Online Page A

in a dead bird? Let him get up, make toast, have his Sunday morning spoilt. It was his visitor.
    She went to the door.
    ‘Peter!’ she yelled up the stairs; and then, going up to the landing: ‘Peter! Wake up! Come on down!’
    Silence, of course. She went into her son’s room and shook him violently by the shoulder.
    ‘Wake up, Peter! Your friend Walker is up, and waitingfor his breakfast. Do go down and look after him, for goodness ’ sake!’
    ‘What a fuss!’ Peter sat up, and rubbed his eyes. Then the full unreasonableness of the demand broke over him.
    ‘But it’s Sunday !’he protested. ‘I don’t have to get up at this hour on Sunday!’
    ‘You have to this Sunday,’ said Rosamund with relish. ‘Because you have a visitor. I keep telling you, he’s down there in the kitchen waiting for his breakfast. You can’t just leave him there.’
    ‘But why not?’ Peter’s greenish flecked eyes were round with mingled sleepiness and surprise. ‘Walker doesn’t mind.’
    Rosamund realised with a shock that this was perfectly true. Walker didn’t mind. He probably had not experienced one moment’s embarrassment during that (to her) ghastly interlude in the kitchen. She was the one who minded. She was the one who was made uneasy by a guest who was doing nothing, saying nothing. But young people—or was it just boys?—simply did not feel these sort of emotions. They spoke if they had something to say; moved if they had something to do. If they hadn’t, they might be bored, but it wouldn’t occur to them to be embarrassed. This was an adult—or was it a feminine?—or even just an old-fashioned ?—state of mind.
    ‘You have an obsession about visitors, Mummy,’ said Peter tolerantly, as if he had been following her train of thought exactly. ‘But it’s all right. Honestly. Walker’s a marvellous chap that way, he never expects anyone to fuss over him.’
    This was putting it mildly, Rosamund thought, as the daunting picture of someone trying to fuss over Walker flashed for a moment through her mind. But anyway, there seemed no point in arguing any more; Peter’s head was firmly under the blankets again, and downstairs she could hear the kettle dancing and shrieking its protests at her neglect , boiling its heart out, no doubt, under the interested, untroubled gaze of Walker.
    Lindy arrived just in time for their eleven o’clock breakfast . That is to say, she dropped in at eleven o’clock, and Rosamund—as had been her policy ever since she became aware of the attraction between her husband and Lindy—had begged—pressed—her to stay. The nicer, the more hospitable , she was to Lindy, the less anyone could possibly regard her as a jealous wife: that was her reasoning. And not being regarded as something was half way to not being it, thought Rosamund uneasily, as she smilingly set a plate of bacon and mushrooms before Lindy. Perhaps, if I go on smiling at her, inviting her in, laughing at her jokes, pushing her and Geoffrey together—perhaps all this un-jealous behaviour rolled all together into one great heavy ball may some day roll back and crush my actual jealousy to death? Or perhaps (more practical thought, this), perhaps Geoffrey will get sick and tired of her if I keep stuffing her down his throat? Which of these is my motive really? And to think it all looks like being tolerant and good-natured! Is this always the secret of the tolerant, broad-minded wife?
    ‘Won’t you have some more coffee, Lindy?’ she urged warmly. ‘It’s nice and strong, this time, the way you like it.’
    Lindy passed her cup with a murmur of thanks and a smile. For a second the two smiles met in mid air, like warring aircraft; and then both fled, as if for cover, to Geoffrey. Both women spoke to him at once:
    ‘Do you think we should phone your mother about what time we’re coming?’ said Rosamund: and: ‘Do tell me more about that funny couple last night,’ said Lindy. ‘The Pursers’; and there