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Authors: Margaret Drabble
Tags: Contemporary
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the seaâs edge. To the end of the road. They must come and claim what they wanted, before she got the house-clearance men in. There were still old toys, old school reports, old textbooks from Romley Grammar School upstairs. They must make a date.
The move had been coming up on her for a long time, she said. She had grown to hate London. She had come to hate the human race. What was the point of it? âI resign,â said Frieda, telling her amber beads as though they were a rosary. âI leave it all to you. To you, Cedric, and to you, David, I leave the politics. You can divide it equally. Thatâs fair. I leave justice to Daniel, who will surely be made a judge soon. Judges get younger every day. I leave education to Patsy, and the arts to Rosemary, and the free market to Nathan, and the health service to Gogo. That just about covers the lot. Iâve had enough.â
And they saw that although she now smiled and fed them clean food from a large dish, she had gone mad.
Over puddingâa large, unsuspicious nursery apple-crumbleâshe elaborated. They had heard the story of how she had tried to get rid of the car? They hadnât even let her get rid of it. She was chained to it. Why bother with cars, with roads, with going from place to place? It had all gone wrong. She would remove herself. Urban life was poisonous. The air was impure, the foodstuffs were contaminated. Madness had fallen on the land and she had caught it. People could no longer tell the good from the bad. You only had to look around to see that they were suffering from a terminal disease. They crowded together to die, like a species intent on extinction. Pallid, shuffling, talking to themselves, crazy. Even when they thought they were having funâand she pronounced the word âfunâ with impressive venomâthey were stoking themselves with misery. She had walked through that dreadful little open air piazza in Covent Garden the other day and she had seen people sitting at tables eating food that was garbage. She had seen mould growing on a slice of wet giant quiche. She had smelt vomit, and had then discovered that what she smelt was not vomit but burger and pizza. People were eating food that smelt of hot vomit (sorry, Rosemary, are you feeling better now?), of regurgitated vomit. Like biblical dogs, they ate. She had pursued the burger story, spotted in a tiny four-line news item in the
Independent,
and had taken herself to abattoirs in Middleton and Somerset. She had seen the light. And while in Somerset she had bought a castle by the sea. She had walked into an estate agentâs and bought it. And there, alone, she would moulder.
Triumphantly, she lit another carcinogenic cigarette.
âAnd you thinkâ, inquired Rosemary, âthat you will find the countryside full of pure, clean-living, ecologically correct people? It isnât, you know. Itâs full of burgers too. Even fuller of burgers than Covent Garden.â
âThatâs as may be,â said Frieda. âThere must be bits that are empty still.â
There was no reasoning with her, they could see. Meekly, they drank their coffee and made their farewells.
Â
Outside on the pavement, Daniel Palmer had attempted a word of man-to-man worldly deprecation to Cedric Summerson. After all, the woman was his mother, and Summerson was a minister. A bad mother, and a bad minister, but the courtesies must be observed even
in extremis.
âBit of a Timonâs feast, eh?â said Daniel, pressing the little battery of his car alarm. His car winked back at him.
Summerson took it like a man. âImpressive woman, your mother,â he said, with a not very successful attempt at a twinkle. They shook hands on it.
Summerson walked down the road to his own car. Although he did not know who Timon was, and was never to discover, he knew quite well why he had been summoned. It was her revenge. He hoped the others did not know. He suspected
The move had been coming up on her for a long time, she said. She had grown to hate London. She had come to hate the human race. What was the point of it? âI resign,â said Frieda, telling her amber beads as though they were a rosary. âI leave it all to you. To you, Cedric, and to you, David, I leave the politics. You can divide it equally. Thatâs fair. I leave justice to Daniel, who will surely be made a judge soon. Judges get younger every day. I leave education to Patsy, and the arts to Rosemary, and the free market to Nathan, and the health service to Gogo. That just about covers the lot. Iâve had enough.â
And they saw that although she now smiled and fed them clean food from a large dish, she had gone mad.
Over puddingâa large, unsuspicious nursery apple-crumbleâshe elaborated. They had heard the story of how she had tried to get rid of the car? They hadnât even let her get rid of it. She was chained to it. Why bother with cars, with roads, with going from place to place? It had all gone wrong. She would remove herself. Urban life was poisonous. The air was impure, the foodstuffs were contaminated. Madness had fallen on the land and she had caught it. People could no longer tell the good from the bad. You only had to look around to see that they were suffering from a terminal disease. They crowded together to die, like a species intent on extinction. Pallid, shuffling, talking to themselves, crazy. Even when they thought they were having funâand she pronounced the word âfunâ with impressive venomâthey were stoking themselves with misery. She had walked through that dreadful little open air piazza in Covent Garden the other day and she had seen people sitting at tables eating food that was garbage. She had seen mould growing on a slice of wet giant quiche. She had smelt vomit, and had then discovered that what she smelt was not vomit but burger and pizza. People were eating food that smelt of hot vomit (sorry, Rosemary, are you feeling better now?), of regurgitated vomit. Like biblical dogs, they ate. She had pursued the burger story, spotted in a tiny four-line news item in the
Independent,
and had taken herself to abattoirs in Middleton and Somerset. She had seen the light. And while in Somerset she had bought a castle by the sea. She had walked into an estate agentâs and bought it. And there, alone, she would moulder.
Triumphantly, she lit another carcinogenic cigarette.
âAnd you thinkâ, inquired Rosemary, âthat you will find the countryside full of pure, clean-living, ecologically correct people? It isnât, you know. Itâs full of burgers too. Even fuller of burgers than Covent Garden.â
âThatâs as may be,â said Frieda. âThere must be bits that are empty still.â
There was no reasoning with her, they could see. Meekly, they drank their coffee and made their farewells.
Â
Outside on the pavement, Daniel Palmer had attempted a word of man-to-man worldly deprecation to Cedric Summerson. After all, the woman was his mother, and Summerson was a minister. A bad mother, and a bad minister, but the courtesies must be observed even
in extremis.
âBit of a Timonâs feast, eh?â said Daniel, pressing the little battery of his car alarm. His car winked back at him.
Summerson took it like a man. âImpressive woman, your mother,â he said, with a not very successful attempt at a twinkle. They shook hands on it.
Summerson walked down the road to his own car. Although he did not know who Timon was, and was never to discover, he knew quite well why he had been summoned. It was her revenge. He hoped the others did not know. He suspected
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