Read Online The Witch of Exmoor by Margaret Drabble - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Drabble
Tags: Contemporary
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not voice it at the time. Instead they all sat in paralysed discomfort, unable to speak in her absence because of Cedric Summersonâs presence. Nathan puffed at his eighth cigarette. What a comfort was nicotine, what a blessing was smoke. David, gallant, game, polite, the glass of fashion and the mould of form, attempted to engage Patsy in a diversionary chat about the video censorship board on which she sat, but Patsyâs response was muted. Yes, she limply agreed, the new technology was a worry, but she still thought people greatly over exaggerated the dangers of ... and her voice almost died away, for she could not be bothered to work out what the dangers of what were...
In that large bow-fronted room overlooking the green, they had spent so many evenings: doing their homework, watching television, squabbling, talking, crying, complaining. It had been the family room. Since their departure into their own lives, Frieda had filled it with more and more books, more and more papers. Tables full of papers were dotted about, box files were heaped in corners. Frieda had spewed her work all over the house. Once there had been lodgers upstairs, but now every room in the house was full of Friedaâs junk. She lived alone amongst the unfiled documentation of her past. The room had not been decorated in decades, yet in it now nestled uneasily some signs of late-twentieth-century post-industrial lifeâa fax machine perched on a pile of old copies of the
Economist,
a photocopier in a dirty white shroud, a cordless telephone crowning a boxed set of the shorter
OED.
Somewhere upstairs she was alleged to have a computer, but nobody had actually seen it.
In the old days, there had been a sewing basket of something called âMendingâ under the window-seat. Frieda had never done much mending, but it had been thereâa historical relic, a tribute to her rustic Lincolnshire past. Now, in its place, was a wastepaper basket full of what looked like old tights.
They sat, oppressed, and waited meekly for her command. And at last she called them and released them from the terrible game of statues she had forced them to play. She ushered them through to the dining-room, where the faint wafting of unpleasant cooking smells slightly intensified. The table, however, took them by surprise. The old scarred gate-leg familiar of their youth had been covered, exceptionally, with a clothâa slightly rust-stained beige linen cloth, embroidered with baskets and garlands of flowers done in not very elegant chain stitchâa Lincolnshire heirloom, no doubt, from Grandmaâs collection. And at each place setting was a whole battery of cutlery, from the old green baize-lined boxâHaxby plate, Palmer plate, none of them knew, and they had never seen it in use. There was a wine glass at each place, and matching side plates from the set which had come out for special occasions, and a dinner plateâeach dinner plate covered with a silver cover. Well, not silver, perhaps, on closer glanceâthey had, perhaps, been bought from a hospital or school dinner charity saleâbut, with the overall attempt at formality, they gave well enough the impression of those fancy silver-service bell-jars which pretentious restaurants and clubs favoured in the 1980s. A bottle of wine stood in the centre of the table.
âSit yourselves,â she said.
There was a placement, a label by each plate.
They sat. She sat. They watched her.
Ceremoniously, slowly, with dignity, she raised the lid from her plate. In unison, they imitated her action. Round the table, seven metal covers were lifted. They stared, amazed.
On seven large white gold-rimmed plates reposed what looked like small, shrivelled beefburgers. On the eighth plate, in front of David DâAnger, was a small round display of bright green peas. Nothing more, nothing less.
To laugh, to cry, to eat? They paused. Frieda paused. Never had the etiquette of following oneâs
In that large bow-fronted room overlooking the green, they had spent so many evenings: doing their homework, watching television, squabbling, talking, crying, complaining. It had been the family room. Since their departure into their own lives, Frieda had filled it with more and more books, more and more papers. Tables full of papers were dotted about, box files were heaped in corners. Frieda had spewed her work all over the house. Once there had been lodgers upstairs, but now every room in the house was full of Friedaâs junk. She lived alone amongst the unfiled documentation of her past. The room had not been decorated in decades, yet in it now nestled uneasily some signs of late-twentieth-century post-industrial lifeâa fax machine perched on a pile of old copies of the
Economist,
a photocopier in a dirty white shroud, a cordless telephone crowning a boxed set of the shorter
OED.
Somewhere upstairs she was alleged to have a computer, but nobody had actually seen it.
In the old days, there had been a sewing basket of something called âMendingâ under the window-seat. Frieda had never done much mending, but it had been thereâa historical relic, a tribute to her rustic Lincolnshire past. Now, in its place, was a wastepaper basket full of what looked like old tights.
They sat, oppressed, and waited meekly for her command. And at last she called them and released them from the terrible game of statues she had forced them to play. She ushered them through to the dining-room, where the faint wafting of unpleasant cooking smells slightly intensified. The table, however, took them by surprise. The old scarred gate-leg familiar of their youth had been covered, exceptionally, with a clothâa slightly rust-stained beige linen cloth, embroidered with baskets and garlands of flowers done in not very elegant chain stitchâa Lincolnshire heirloom, no doubt, from Grandmaâs collection. And at each place setting was a whole battery of cutlery, from the old green baize-lined boxâHaxby plate, Palmer plate, none of them knew, and they had never seen it in use. There was a wine glass at each place, and matching side plates from the set which had come out for special occasions, and a dinner plateâeach dinner plate covered with a silver cover. Well, not silver, perhaps, on closer glanceâthey had, perhaps, been bought from a hospital or school dinner charity saleâbut, with the overall attempt at formality, they gave well enough the impression of those fancy silver-service bell-jars which pretentious restaurants and clubs favoured in the 1980s. A bottle of wine stood in the centre of the table.
âSit yourselves,â she said.
There was a placement, a label by each plate.
They sat. She sat. They watched her.
Ceremoniously, slowly, with dignity, she raised the lid from her plate. In unison, they imitated her action. Round the table, seven metal covers were lifted. They stared, amazed.
On seven large white gold-rimmed plates reposed what looked like small, shrivelled beefburgers. On the eighth plate, in front of David DâAnger, was a small round display of bright green peas. Nothing more, nothing less.
To laugh, to cry, to eat? They paused. Frieda paused. Never had the etiquette of following oneâs
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