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Authors: Andrew Taylor
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was a lot of it – this was 1958, and the nearest thing Janet had to a labour-saving device was a twin-tub washing machine with a hand mangle attached. The last time the place had had a serious overhaul was at the turn of the century when the occupants could probably have afforded two or three servants.
In some ways I think Janet would have preferred to be a paid servant. She loathed the work but at least she would have been getting a wage for it. A simple commercial transaction has a beginning and end. It implies that both parties to it have freedom of choice.
Janet had the worst of both worlds. There was a dark irony in the fact that as well as running that ridiculous old house she also had to pretend to be its mistress, not its slave. Janet was expected to be a lady. When the Byfields came to Rosington she had visiting cards engraved. I’ve still got one of them – yellowing pasteboard, dog-eared at the corners, the typeface small and discreet.
Mrs David Byfield
The Dark Hostelry
The Close
Rosington
Telephone: Rosington 2114
When the Byfields arrived at the Dark Hostelry, the ladies of the Close and the ladies of the town called and left their cards. Janet called on them and left hers. It was a secular equivalent to what David was doing every day in that echoing stone mountain in the middle of the Close. A ritualistic procedure which might once have had a purpose.
I doubt if David knew what a burden he’d placed on her shoulders. Not then, at any rate. It’s not that he wasn’t a sensitive man. But his sensitivity was like a torch beam. It had to be directed at you before it became effective. But it wasn’t just a question of him being sensitive or not being sensitive. Everyone thought differently. This was more than forty years ago, remember, and in the Cathedral Close of Rosington.
Nowadays I think David and Janet were both in prison. But neither of them could see the bars.
12
It became increasingly obvious that something would have to be done about Mr Treevor.
He and I, a pair of emotional vampires, arrived on the same February afternoon and more than three weeks later we were still at the Dark Hostelry. I flattered myself there was a difference, that at least I did some of the housework and cooking. I sold my engagement ring, too. I’d never liked the beastly thing. It turned out to be worth much less than Henry had led me to expect, which shouldn’t have surprised me.
Mr Treevor did less and less. He took it for granted that we were there to supply his needs – regular meals, clean clothes, bed-making, warm rooms and a daily copy of The Times , which for some reason he liked to have ironed before he would open it.
‘He never used to be like that,’ Janet said to me on Thursday morning as we were snatching a cup of coffee. ‘He hardly ever read a paper, and as for this ironing business, I’ve no idea where that came from.’
‘Isn’t it the sort of thing they used to do in the homes of the aristocracy?’
‘He can’t have picked it up there.’
‘Perhaps he saw it in a film.’
‘It’s a bit of a nuisance, actually.’
‘A bit of a nuisance? It’s a bloody imposition. I think you should go on stroke.’
‘I think his memory’s improving. That’s something, isn’t it?’
I wondered whether it would ever improve to the point where he would be able to remember who I was from one day to the next.
‘He told me all about how he won a prize at school the other day,’ Janet went on, sounding as proud as she did when describing one of Rosie’s triumphs at St Tumwulf’s. ‘For Greek verses. He could even remember the name of the boy he beat.’
‘He’s getting old,’ I said, responding to her anxiety, not what she’d said. ‘That’s all. It’ll happen to us one day.’
Janet bit her lip. ‘Yesterday he asked me when Mummy was coming. He seems to think she’d gone away for the weekend or something.’
‘When’s he going home?’
‘On Saturday,’
In some ways I think Janet would have preferred to be a paid servant. She loathed the work but at least she would have been getting a wage for it. A simple commercial transaction has a beginning and end. It implies that both parties to it have freedom of choice.
Janet had the worst of both worlds. There was a dark irony in the fact that as well as running that ridiculous old house she also had to pretend to be its mistress, not its slave. Janet was expected to be a lady. When the Byfields came to Rosington she had visiting cards engraved. I’ve still got one of them – yellowing pasteboard, dog-eared at the corners, the typeface small and discreet.
Mrs David Byfield
The Dark Hostelry
The Close
Rosington
Telephone: Rosington 2114
When the Byfields arrived at the Dark Hostelry, the ladies of the Close and the ladies of the town called and left their cards. Janet called on them and left hers. It was a secular equivalent to what David was doing every day in that echoing stone mountain in the middle of the Close. A ritualistic procedure which might once have had a purpose.
I doubt if David knew what a burden he’d placed on her shoulders. Not then, at any rate. It’s not that he wasn’t a sensitive man. But his sensitivity was like a torch beam. It had to be directed at you before it became effective. But it wasn’t just a question of him being sensitive or not being sensitive. Everyone thought differently. This was more than forty years ago, remember, and in the Cathedral Close of Rosington.
Nowadays I think David and Janet were both in prison. But neither of them could see the bars.
12
It became increasingly obvious that something would have to be done about Mr Treevor.
He and I, a pair of emotional vampires, arrived on the same February afternoon and more than three weeks later we were still at the Dark Hostelry. I flattered myself there was a difference, that at least I did some of the housework and cooking. I sold my engagement ring, too. I’d never liked the beastly thing. It turned out to be worth much less than Henry had led me to expect, which shouldn’t have surprised me.
Mr Treevor did less and less. He took it for granted that we were there to supply his needs – regular meals, clean clothes, bed-making, warm rooms and a daily copy of The Times , which for some reason he liked to have ironed before he would open it.
‘He never used to be like that,’ Janet said to me on Thursday morning as we were snatching a cup of coffee. ‘He hardly ever read a paper, and as for this ironing business, I’ve no idea where that came from.’
‘Isn’t it the sort of thing they used to do in the homes of the aristocracy?’
‘He can’t have picked it up there.’
‘Perhaps he saw it in a film.’
‘It’s a bit of a nuisance, actually.’
‘A bit of a nuisance? It’s a bloody imposition. I think you should go on stroke.’
‘I think his memory’s improving. That’s something, isn’t it?’
I wondered whether it would ever improve to the point where he would be able to remember who I was from one day to the next.
‘He told me all about how he won a prize at school the other day,’ Janet went on, sounding as proud as she did when describing one of Rosie’s triumphs at St Tumwulf’s. ‘For Greek verses. He could even remember the name of the boy he beat.’
‘He’s getting old,’ I said, responding to her anxiety, not what she’d said. ‘That’s all. It’ll happen to us one day.’
Janet bit her lip. ‘Yesterday he asked me when Mummy was coming. He seems to think she’d gone away for the weekend or something.’
‘When’s he going home?’
‘On Saturday,’
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