“Who the hell are you?” I asked, rage flaring in a dark burst of the old angry-Joy.
She startled and dropped the book, stood and stumbled before pressing her fingers to her temples. “I’m Moira Sayer. We’ve met before.”
“I don’t think so.” I held close the laundry basket and took two steps toward her.
She held to the edge of Jack’s chair. “I have every right to be here, same as you. I’m George Sayer’s wife. Jack said I could come here to read while George worked at Magdalen.”
George.
Sayer.
This was the first friend of Jack’s I’d met at the Eastgate. Moira, his wife, with whom I’d had tea only last year.
“I’m so sorry.” I clutched the basket tighter. “I’m very sorry.” I fled the room with the heat of shame burning through my skin. Would I ever learn? Or change?
I carried the basket upstairs and left a pile of Jack’s clothes outside his room and took the remainder to the boys’ room. I then entered my downstairs bedroom and closed the door to sit and drop my head on the desk.
How did I slip backward into horrid old habits so easily? Into jealousy and rage, as if they were as welcoming as a warm river swim?
It only took a few moments until the knock arrived.
“Yes?”
“Joy?”
I opened the door to Jack.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was an ass to your friend. She startled me; I didn’t know she was here. I think I must have deeply embarrassed you.” I shook my head. “My anger—sometimes I still find myself at cross purposes with the world.”
He laughed. “Oh, it’s not so bad. I explained to her that I hadn’t told you she was here, and you having such terrible eyesight didn’t know she wasn’t an intruder meant to steal my manuscripts for her own.” He laughed, with that merry twinkle in his eye.
“My terrible eyesight?” I tried to laugh, but nothing came out.
“Yes, what with your glass eye in one and your cataracts in the other.”
“Jack. You forgive too easily and warmly. I’m not accustomed.” I smiled and exited the room to join him in the hallway.
“Let’s get out into the sunlight,” he said.
“Yes, let’s gather some beans and tomatoes for dinner.”
“Very good,” he agreed. “And then we’ll walk into Oxford?”
Together we scooted down the thin hall, where I grabbed a basket for the vegetables and an apron to cover my dress. Then we were outside to the summer sunshine again. Moira had gone, and neither of us acknowledged her absence.
I glanced around the grounds. “Where’s Davy?”
“He’s decided that he must lay down bricks for us to walk on from the house to the pond; he’s out gathering them from the old kilns and setting them into the deep mud.” Jack motioned toward the pond. “He’s down there.”
“Well, isn’t he turning industrious?” I laughed and squinted into the sun. “Building walkways. I wouldn’t have guessed it.”
“Joy.” Jack bent over and popped two green beans from their stalk and dropped them into the basket. “What made you buggered with Moira?”
“I assume jealousy.”
“Jealousy?” He made a tsk tsk noise, teasing.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I know it’s wrong,” I leaned down and chose a ripe tomato from the vine, placed it in the basket. “Like with Ruth Pitter.”
“You’re jealous of Ruth Pitter?” He almost laughed, but my seriousness checked him.
“I’ve read her poetry. She’s a more gifted poet than I am, Jack.” I held up my hand. “There’s no use arguing that, but that’s not the point—she’s in love with you.” I bent to pick another tomato, but my finger pressed too deeply into the delicate flesh. Red juice trickled down my arm. I dropped the fruit to the ground and wiped my palm on the apron.
“That’s not the case, Joy. We are longtime friends. We’ve been writing to each other for years now. We discuss writing and cooking and gardening and poetry.”
I faced him, my hand shielding my eyes from the late-afternoon sun. I wanted him to hear what he had just said. In that sentence he could have been describing us as surely as he was describing her.
“What is it?” he asked when I didn’t respond.
“She’s not any different from me, is she—to you?”
“Ruth any different from you?”