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Authors: Julian Barnes
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to panic. “Well, I suppose it didn’t matter in a way.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“In what way?” Merrill liked to say—to herself and to others—that while she didn’t believe in disagreement and unpleasantness, she did believe in telling things straight.
“In … well, the … people they were waiting to bury … if it was that cold … you know what I mean.”
Merrill did, but chose to remain implacable. “A true soldier always buries his dead. You should know that.”
“Yes,” said Janice, remembering The Thin Red Line but not liking to mention it. Odd how Merrill chose to comport herself like some high-faluting military widow. Janice knew that Tom had been drafted. Janice knew a thing or two more about him, for that matter. What they said on campus. What she’d seen with her own eyes.
“Of course, I never met your husband, but everyone spoke so highly of him.”
“Tom was wonderful,” said Merrill. “It was a love match.”
“He was very popular, they all told me.”
“Popular?” Merrill repeated the word as if it were peculiarly inadequate in the circumstances.
“That’s what people said.”
“You just have to face the future,” said Merrill. “Look it full in the face. That’s the only way.” Tom had told her this when he was dying.
Better to face the future than the past, thought Janice. Did she really have no idea? Janice remembered a sudden view from a bathroom window, down behind a hedge, a red-faced man unzipping, a woman putting out her hand, the man pushing at her head, the woman refusing, an argument in dumbshow as the party’s noise swirled below her, the man putting his hand on the woman’s neck, pushing her down, the woman spitting on the man’s thing, the man slapping her across the top of the head, all in twenty seconds or so, a cameo of lust and rage, the couple parting, the war hero and love match and famous campus groper zipping himself up again, someone rattling the handle of the bathroom, Janice finding her way downstairs and asking Bill to take her home immediately, Bill commenting on her colour and speculating about that extra glass or two she must have downed when he wasn’t looking, Janice snapping at him in the car and then apologizing. Over the years, she had forced herself to forget this scene, pushing it to the back of her mind, almost as if it were about Bill and herself in some way. Then, after Bill had died, and she had met Merrill, there was another reason for trying to forget it.
“People said I would never get over it.” Merrill’s manner seemed to Janice monstrously complacent. “That’s the truth. I shall never get over it. It was a love match.”
Janice buttered some toast. At least here they didn’t deliver your toast already buttered, as they did at some other places. That was another American habit she couldn’t get used to. She tried to unscrew the lid of a small pot of honey, but her wrist wasn’t strong enough. Then she tried the bramble jelly, with equal lack of success. Merrill seemed not to notice. Janice put a triangle of ungarnished toast into her mouth.
“Bill never looked at another woman in thirty years.” Aggression had risen in Janice like a burp. She preferred to agree with other people in conversation, and she tried to please, but sometimes the pressure of doing this made her say things which surprised her. Not the thing itself, but the fact that she said it. And when Merrill failed to respond, it made her insist.
“Bill never looked at another woman in thirty years.”
“I’m sure you’re right, my dear.”
“When he died, I was bereft. Quite bereft. I felt my life had come to an end. Well it has. I try not to feel sorry for myself, I keep myself entertained, no I suppose distracted is more the word, but I know that’s my lot, really. I’ve had my life, and now I’ve buried it.”
“Tom used to tell me that just seeing me across a room made his heart lift.”
“Bill never forgot a
“In what way?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“In what way?” Merrill liked to say—to herself and to others—that while she didn’t believe in disagreement and unpleasantness, she did believe in telling things straight.
“In … well, the … people they were waiting to bury … if it was that cold … you know what I mean.”
Merrill did, but chose to remain implacable. “A true soldier always buries his dead. You should know that.”
“Yes,” said Janice, remembering The Thin Red Line but not liking to mention it. Odd how Merrill chose to comport herself like some high-faluting military widow. Janice knew that Tom had been drafted. Janice knew a thing or two more about him, for that matter. What they said on campus. What she’d seen with her own eyes.
“Of course, I never met your husband, but everyone spoke so highly of him.”
“Tom was wonderful,” said Merrill. “It was a love match.”
“He was very popular, they all told me.”
“Popular?” Merrill repeated the word as if it were peculiarly inadequate in the circumstances.
“That’s what people said.”
“You just have to face the future,” said Merrill. “Look it full in the face. That’s the only way.” Tom had told her this when he was dying.
Better to face the future than the past, thought Janice. Did she really have no idea? Janice remembered a sudden view from a bathroom window, down behind a hedge, a red-faced man unzipping, a woman putting out her hand, the man pushing at her head, the woman refusing, an argument in dumbshow as the party’s noise swirled below her, the man putting his hand on the woman’s neck, pushing her down, the woman spitting on the man’s thing, the man slapping her across the top of the head, all in twenty seconds or so, a cameo of lust and rage, the couple parting, the war hero and love match and famous campus groper zipping himself up again, someone rattling the handle of the bathroom, Janice finding her way downstairs and asking Bill to take her home immediately, Bill commenting on her colour and speculating about that extra glass or two she must have downed when he wasn’t looking, Janice snapping at him in the car and then apologizing. Over the years, she had forced herself to forget this scene, pushing it to the back of her mind, almost as if it were about Bill and herself in some way. Then, after Bill had died, and she had met Merrill, there was another reason for trying to forget it.
“People said I would never get over it.” Merrill’s manner seemed to Janice monstrously complacent. “That’s the truth. I shall never get over it. It was a love match.”
Janice buttered some toast. At least here they didn’t deliver your toast already buttered, as they did at some other places. That was another American habit she couldn’t get used to. She tried to unscrew the lid of a small pot of honey, but her wrist wasn’t strong enough. Then she tried the bramble jelly, with equal lack of success. Merrill seemed not to notice. Janice put a triangle of ungarnished toast into her mouth.
“Bill never looked at another woman in thirty years.” Aggression had risen in Janice like a burp. She preferred to agree with other people in conversation, and she tried to please, but sometimes the pressure of doing this made her say things which surprised her. Not the thing itself, but the fact that she said it. And when Merrill failed to respond, it made her insist.
“Bill never looked at another woman in thirty years.”
“I’m sure you’re right, my dear.”
“When he died, I was bereft. Quite bereft. I felt my life had come to an end. Well it has. I try not to feel sorry for myself, I keep myself entertained, no I suppose distracted is more the word, but I know that’s my lot, really. I’ve had my life, and now I’ve buried it.”
“Tom used to tell me that just seeing me across a room made his heart lift.”
“Bill never forgot a
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