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Authors: Margaret Drabble
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asked, he would return, and she had believed him. In a way, that had made it easy to be good. He had persuaded her that he would never abandon her. An impressive achievement. She admired him for it.
Hunter was lying back, now, on her bed.
âArenât you feeling tired,â he said, âafter all that lecturing?â
âNot particularly,â said Frances, who was, in fact, but who didnât want to get onto the bed with Hunter: so she busied herself by washing her feet and cleaning her shoes. When she looked round, Hunterâs eyes were shut. He was breathing heavily. He was asleep. How very nice he looked, she thought maternally, with his wavy hair and his round white neck. His wife had gone off with their doctor and nearly got him struck off the medical register: a
wicked
woman, Hunter had called her, but had had to admit that it was all his own fault because he was never at home if he could help it and was not very good about the house.
Quietly, Frances edged herself onto the other side of the bed, kicked off her shoes, and fell asleep.
They both woke at five: she had a perfect timing mechanism, and could wake at will at any predicted moment. A life of babies and travel had taught her this excellent skill. She felt quite well, apart from her tooth, but Hunter looked worn out.
âSorry,â he said, pulling himself together.
âThatâs
quite
all right,â said Frances.
âIâll drive you to the station,â he said.
âI didnât know youâd got a car,â she said.
âI have got one,
somewhere
, but Iâve forgotten where.â He looked vaguely puzzled.
âOh well, weâll ring for a taxi.â
So they did, and departed. There wasnât even a hotel bill to pay: the Institute had paid it. Learning this, Frances wished she had taken more advantage, drunk more and eaten more, but realized that that would have been impossible. Once, in an Eastern European country, she had been taken round by a fat little student interpreter, who had eaten colossally and drunk immensely on Francesâs expense account, and had, at the end of the week, without the slightest note of embarrassment or apology, declared that it was necessary to eat as much as one could these days because it was the only thing they couldnât take off you. Frances had never thought to hear such a peasant declaration from a teenage student of languages in the late twentieth century. It had pleased her very much.
At the station, she posted her card to Karel in a highly official looking and carefully chosen box. It fell into the welcome depths. Her fate was sealed, or rather unsealed. She felt extraordinarily happy, standing there, in all the rightness of her decision. She would make no more cities, she would make love. The departure announcements clicked and whizzed. She liked train journeys, she slept well on trains.
âIs there anything you need for the journey?â said Hunter. âWhat about a drink?â
âThat wouldnât be a bad idea,â she said, thinking she would make use of him for his own sake, so he went off and bought her half a bottle of brandy.
âIâll see you onto the train,â he said, and he carried her bags to her wagon lit. They had twenty minutes in hand.
âHave a drink,â said Frances, reaching for her tooth glass.
He accepted a drop of brandy with some mineral water.
âYou must come and see me in England,â she said, in a friendly manner. âWhen did you say you finished here?â
âAt the end of the year,â he said.
He was washing the brandy round the glass in a quiet, reflective way. He was about to say something else. She decided to let him.
âI admire you immensely,â he said, looking at her with what was almost insolence. Appraising her, he was.
âDo you?â she said. âWhat for?â
She expected the question to throw him slightly: she didnât care for so much
Hunter was lying back, now, on her bed.
âArenât you feeling tired,â he said, âafter all that lecturing?â
âNot particularly,â said Frances, who was, in fact, but who didnât want to get onto the bed with Hunter: so she busied herself by washing her feet and cleaning her shoes. When she looked round, Hunterâs eyes were shut. He was breathing heavily. He was asleep. How very nice he looked, she thought maternally, with his wavy hair and his round white neck. His wife had gone off with their doctor and nearly got him struck off the medical register: a
wicked
woman, Hunter had called her, but had had to admit that it was all his own fault because he was never at home if he could help it and was not very good about the house.
Quietly, Frances edged herself onto the other side of the bed, kicked off her shoes, and fell asleep.
They both woke at five: she had a perfect timing mechanism, and could wake at will at any predicted moment. A life of babies and travel had taught her this excellent skill. She felt quite well, apart from her tooth, but Hunter looked worn out.
âSorry,â he said, pulling himself together.
âThatâs
quite
all right,â said Frances.
âIâll drive you to the station,â he said.
âI didnât know youâd got a car,â she said.
âI have got one,
somewhere
, but Iâve forgotten where.â He looked vaguely puzzled.
âOh well, weâll ring for a taxi.â
So they did, and departed. There wasnât even a hotel bill to pay: the Institute had paid it. Learning this, Frances wished she had taken more advantage, drunk more and eaten more, but realized that that would have been impossible. Once, in an Eastern European country, she had been taken round by a fat little student interpreter, who had eaten colossally and drunk immensely on Francesâs expense account, and had, at the end of the week, without the slightest note of embarrassment or apology, declared that it was necessary to eat as much as one could these days because it was the only thing they couldnât take off you. Frances had never thought to hear such a peasant declaration from a teenage student of languages in the late twentieth century. It had pleased her very much.
At the station, she posted her card to Karel in a highly official looking and carefully chosen box. It fell into the welcome depths. Her fate was sealed, or rather unsealed. She felt extraordinarily happy, standing there, in all the rightness of her decision. She would make no more cities, she would make love. The departure announcements clicked and whizzed. She liked train journeys, she slept well on trains.
âIs there anything you need for the journey?â said Hunter. âWhat about a drink?â
âThat wouldnât be a bad idea,â she said, thinking she would make use of him for his own sake, so he went off and bought her half a bottle of brandy.
âIâll see you onto the train,â he said, and he carried her bags to her wagon lit. They had twenty minutes in hand.
âHave a drink,â said Frances, reaching for her tooth glass.
He accepted a drop of brandy with some mineral water.
âYou must come and see me in England,â she said, in a friendly manner. âWhen did you say you finished here?â
âAt the end of the year,â he said.
He was washing the brandy round the glass in a quiet, reflective way. He was about to say something else. She decided to let him.
âI admire you immensely,â he said, looking at her with what was almost insolence. Appraising her, he was.
âDo you?â she said. âWhat for?â
She expected the question to throw him slightly: she didnât care for so much
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