was useful when she got flustered.
She looked across at Merrill, who was wearing a burgundy jacket over a purple skirt. On her lapel was a gilt brooch large enough to be a small sculpture. Her hair, cut short, was an improbable bright straw, and seemed not to care that it was unconvincing; instead, it merely said, this is to remind you that I was once a blonde—some sort of blonde, anyway. More an aide-memoire than a hair-colouring, thought Janice. It was a pity about Merrill: she didn’t seem to understand that after a certain age women should no longer pretend to be what they had once been. They should submit to time. Neutrality, discretion, dignity were called for. Merrill’s refusal must be something to do with being American.
What the two of them had in common, apart from widowhood, were flat suede shoes with special gripper soles. Janice had found them in a mail-order catalogue, and Merrill had surprised her by asking for a pair too. They were very good on wet pavements, as Janice still called them, and it did rain an awful lot up here in the Pacific North–West. People constantly told her it must remind her of England, and she always said Yes, always meaning No.
“I mean, he didn’t think they ought to be allowed in the armed forces, but he wasn’t prejudiced.”
In response, Merrill stabbed her egg. “Everyone was a darned sight more discreet about their private business when I was young.”
“Me too,” said Janice hastily. “I mean, when I was too. Which would have been at about the same time.” Merrill glanced at her, and Janice, reading a reproof, added, “Though of course in a different part of the world.”
“Tom always said you could tell from the way they walked. Not that it bothers me.” Yet Merrill did seem a little bothered.
“How do they walk?” In asking the question, Janice felt transported back into adolescence, back before marriage.
“Oh, you know,” said Merrill.
Janice watched Merrill eat a mouthful of poached egg. If she was being given a hint, she couldn’t imagine what it might be. She hadn’t noticed how their waiter walked. “I don’t,” she said, feeling her ignorance as culpable, almost infantile.
“With their hands out,” Merrill wanted to say. Instead, uncharacteristically, she turned her head and shouted, “Coffee,” surprising both Janice and the waiter. Perhaps she was calling for a demonstration.
When she turned back, she was composed again. “Tom was in Korea,” she said. “Oak leaves and clusters.”
“My Bill did his National Service. Well, everyone had to then.”
“It was so cold, if you put your tea on the ground, it turned to a mug of brown ice.”
“He missed Suez. He was in the reserves but they didn’t call him up.”
“It was so cold you had to tip your razor out of its case into warm water before you could use it.”
“He quite enjoyed it. He was a good mixer, Bill.”
“It was so cold, if you put your hand on the side of a tank, your skin came away.”
“Probably a better mixer than me, if the truth be known.”
“Even the gas froze solid. The gas.”
“There was a very cold winter back in England. Just after the war. Forty-six, I think, or maybe it was forty-seven.”
Merrill felt suddenly impatient. What did her Tom’s suffering have to do with a cold spell in Europe? Really. “How’s your granola?” she asked.
“Hard on the teeth. I’ve got this molar.” Janice picked a hazelnut out of her bowl and tapped it on the side. “Looks a bit like a tooth, doesn’t it?” She giggled, in a way that further annoyed Merrill. “What do you think about these implant things?”
“Tom had every tooth in his head when he died.”
“So did Bill.” This was far from true, but it would be letting him down to say anything less.
“They couldn’t get a shovel into the ground to bury their dead.”
“Who couldn’t?” Under Merrill’s stare, Janice worked it out. “Yes, of course.” She felt herself beginning
She looked across at Merrill, who was wearing a burgundy jacket over a purple skirt. On her lapel was a gilt brooch large enough to be a small sculpture. Her hair, cut short, was an improbable bright straw, and seemed not to care that it was unconvincing; instead, it merely said, this is to remind you that I was once a blonde—some sort of blonde, anyway. More an aide-memoire than a hair-colouring, thought Janice. It was a pity about Merrill: she didn’t seem to understand that after a certain age women should no longer pretend to be what they had once been. They should submit to time. Neutrality, discretion, dignity were called for. Merrill’s refusal must be something to do with being American.
What the two of them had in common, apart from widowhood, were flat suede shoes with special gripper soles. Janice had found them in a mail-order catalogue, and Merrill had surprised her by asking for a pair too. They were very good on wet pavements, as Janice still called them, and it did rain an awful lot up here in the Pacific North–West. People constantly told her it must remind her of England, and she always said Yes, always meaning No.
“I mean, he didn’t think they ought to be allowed in the armed forces, but he wasn’t prejudiced.”
In response, Merrill stabbed her egg. “Everyone was a darned sight more discreet about their private business when I was young.”
“Me too,” said Janice hastily. “I mean, when I was too. Which would have been at about the same time.” Merrill glanced at her, and Janice, reading a reproof, added, “Though of course in a different part of the world.”
“Tom always said you could tell from the way they walked. Not that it bothers me.” Yet Merrill did seem a little bothered.
“How do they walk?” In asking the question, Janice felt transported back into adolescence, back before marriage.
“Oh, you know,” said Merrill.
Janice watched Merrill eat a mouthful of poached egg. If she was being given a hint, she couldn’t imagine what it might be. She hadn’t noticed how their waiter walked. “I don’t,” she said, feeling her ignorance as culpable, almost infantile.
“With their hands out,” Merrill wanted to say. Instead, uncharacteristically, she turned her head and shouted, “Coffee,” surprising both Janice and the waiter. Perhaps she was calling for a demonstration.
When she turned back, she was composed again. “Tom was in Korea,” she said. “Oak leaves and clusters.”
“My Bill did his National Service. Well, everyone had to then.”
“It was so cold, if you put your tea on the ground, it turned to a mug of brown ice.”
“He missed Suez. He was in the reserves but they didn’t call him up.”
“It was so cold you had to tip your razor out of its case into warm water before you could use it.”
“He quite enjoyed it. He was a good mixer, Bill.”
“It was so cold, if you put your hand on the side of a tank, your skin came away.”
“Probably a better mixer than me, if the truth be known.”
“Even the gas froze solid. The gas.”
“There was a very cold winter back in England. Just after the war. Forty-six, I think, or maybe it was forty-seven.”
Merrill felt suddenly impatient. What did her Tom’s suffering have to do with a cold spell in Europe? Really. “How’s your granola?” she asked.
“Hard on the teeth. I’ve got this molar.” Janice picked a hazelnut out of her bowl and tapped it on the side. “Looks a bit like a tooth, doesn’t it?” She giggled, in a way that further annoyed Merrill. “What do you think about these implant things?”
“Tom had every tooth in his head when he died.”
“So did Bill.” This was far from true, but it would be letting him down to say anything less.
“They couldn’t get a shovel into the ground to bury their dead.”
“Who couldn’t?” Under Merrill’s stare, Janice worked it out. “Yes, of course.” She felt herself beginning
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