Read Online The Millstone by Margaret Drabble - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Drabble
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and you couldn't possibly keep a child on what you've got."
"People," I said, "bring up families of four on ten pounds a week."
"Nonsense," said Roger. Though it wasn't nonsense.
Our discussion paused for a while as our coffee arrived and was poured out. While he was stirring in his sugar, he said, "You don't feel like getting married, do you?"
"Not particularly," I said. "In fact, not at all."
"That's a pity," he said, "because I thought you might like to marry me."
"Good heavens, Roger," I said, touched and impressed,
"how extremely noble of you. How lucky for you that I declined before you offered."
"We could always get divorced more or less instantly," he said.
"I don't see that that would do any good to anyone," I said. "Think of your career."
"That's true," said Roger. "Still, it would have its compensations."
"I can't think of any," I said. "I think it's a ridiculous notion. But nice, just the same."
"Good," he said. "I'm glad you liked it."
And there our conversation seemed to rest as I could not think how to continue it: the thought of marrying Roger was pleasantly exciting and most unattractive, and I glanced at his smooth hands with a kind of horror. His cheek to touch was always firm and taut like a child's, and his teeth were very clean and even. We drank our coffee in silence, and I watched all the people at the other tables: to me, sober and slightly sick, they all looked disgusting as they sank heavily into their chairs over plates of food that would have kept a child alive for a week. No wonder, I thought, that waiters always dislike their clients so much, when they see them at such sordid moments. I had myself taken a particular dislike to the couple at the next table, both fat Americans, both bulging from their ill-chosen clothes: she had been making a nuisance of herself throughout the meal, sending things back, changing her order, asking for things that weren't on the menu. She had started off with melon and had choked on the ginger, which she had applied with ludicrous liberality. From their highly intermittent conversation, I gathered that they spent their time eating all over Europe. I thought of the woman in the doctor's, who had been of the same build, though for different reasons.
They started on their coffee just as we were finishing ours. I watched her pour it out, with her fat dimpled
beringed hands, and then I watched her reach for the sugar, except it wasn't the sugar, it was the ginger, which was in a small glass dish and which had been on their table throughout the meal. I knew it was the ginger; my attention had been drawn to it by the choking episode. Anyway, it was too fine for brown sugar and rather too pale. Fascinated, I watched her take a spoonful and stir it into her cup. It didn't quite mix and I was afraid that she was going to notice in time, but she didn't. She didn't take a drink for quite a while, but when she did she really gulped it down. I watched her face closely: her expression changed, her eyes twitched, and she put the cup down rather quickly. But she said nothing. She must have noticed, but she said nothing. In fact she finished the cup. I have never made up my mind whether she was too drunk to know what she had done or had too bad a palate; or whether she knew quite well but wasn't going to admit her error. Only waiters err.
Roger drove me home, as ever. We parted in the car in the road outside: it was not necessary to make any formal move towards discontinuing our contact because I knew quite well that Roger would not ring or try to see me again. He said that if I wanted help of any sort I was to get in touch with him, but I wouldn't want help, would I, he said. No, I agreed. Will you announce it in
The Times,
he asked, and I said certainly, why not: but thinking such announcements a waste of money, myself.
So much for Joe and Roger. I was of course acquainted with a few other people but most of them were neither here nor there. The only people that
"People," I said, "bring up families of four on ten pounds a week."
"Nonsense," said Roger. Though it wasn't nonsense.
Our discussion paused for a while as our coffee arrived and was poured out. While he was stirring in his sugar, he said, "You don't feel like getting married, do you?"
"Not particularly," I said. "In fact, not at all."
"That's a pity," he said, "because I thought you might like to marry me."
"Good heavens, Roger," I said, touched and impressed,
"how extremely noble of you. How lucky for you that I declined before you offered."
"We could always get divorced more or less instantly," he said.
"I don't see that that would do any good to anyone," I said. "Think of your career."
"That's true," said Roger. "Still, it would have its compensations."
"I can't think of any," I said. "I think it's a ridiculous notion. But nice, just the same."
"Good," he said. "I'm glad you liked it."
And there our conversation seemed to rest as I could not think how to continue it: the thought of marrying Roger was pleasantly exciting and most unattractive, and I glanced at his smooth hands with a kind of horror. His cheek to touch was always firm and taut like a child's, and his teeth were very clean and even. We drank our coffee in silence, and I watched all the people at the other tables: to me, sober and slightly sick, they all looked disgusting as they sank heavily into their chairs over plates of food that would have kept a child alive for a week. No wonder, I thought, that waiters always dislike their clients so much, when they see them at such sordid moments. I had myself taken a particular dislike to the couple at the next table, both fat Americans, both bulging from their ill-chosen clothes: she had been making a nuisance of herself throughout the meal, sending things back, changing her order, asking for things that weren't on the menu. She had started off with melon and had choked on the ginger, which she had applied with ludicrous liberality. From their highly intermittent conversation, I gathered that they spent their time eating all over Europe. I thought of the woman in the doctor's, who had been of the same build, though for different reasons.
They started on their coffee just as we were finishing ours. I watched her pour it out, with her fat dimpled
beringed hands, and then I watched her reach for the sugar, except it wasn't the sugar, it was the ginger, which was in a small glass dish and which had been on their table throughout the meal. I knew it was the ginger; my attention had been drawn to it by the choking episode. Anyway, it was too fine for brown sugar and rather too pale. Fascinated, I watched her take a spoonful and stir it into her cup. It didn't quite mix and I was afraid that she was going to notice in time, but she didn't. She didn't take a drink for quite a while, but when she did she really gulped it down. I watched her face closely: her expression changed, her eyes twitched, and she put the cup down rather quickly. But she said nothing. She must have noticed, but she said nothing. In fact she finished the cup. I have never made up my mind whether she was too drunk to know what she had done or had too bad a palate; or whether she knew quite well but wasn't going to admit her error. Only waiters err.
Roger drove me home, as ever. We parted in the car in the road outside: it was not necessary to make any formal move towards discontinuing our contact because I knew quite well that Roger would not ring or try to see me again. He said that if I wanted help of any sort I was to get in touch with him, but I wouldn't want help, would I, he said. No, I agreed. Will you announce it in
The Times,
he asked, and I said certainly, why not: but thinking such announcements a waste of money, myself.
So much for Joe and Roger. I was of course acquainted with a few other people but most of them were neither here nor there. The only people that
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