“Yes, it was warmer before, too. I could always cut Margaret’s the same.”
“Oh no!” said Jean, horrified. “Her beautiful curls.” She felt quite sick at the thought of any such mutilation. “And, Gretchen, I have to warn you that once your name is in the Echo there is nothing to stop other papers following it up. You may have to deal with some unwelcome publicity.”
Gretchen looked fearful.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, your current domestic situation is not exactly what it was when we first began.”
“But you won’t mention Martha’s name or anything to do with her?”
“No, of course I won’t. But others might.” She relented when she saw Gretchen’s troubled expression. “Ignore me. Probably nothing will come of it.”
Outside in the hallway there was a sudden crashing noise and Gretchen started, slopping tea on the tabard. A moment later there was the sound of swearing and clubbing feet overhead and doors banging.
“Just some altercation between Dennis and the bicycle, no doubt,” she said, relaxing again. “He comes in drunk at odd times and falls over everything. And then his wife throws him out—again—and then a few days later she lets him back in.” She laughed, a catch in her throat. “Until I came here I would never have believed people could live such chaotic lives.”
“This place isn’t really you, is it, Gretchen?” Jean said softly.
Gretchen shook her head, staring into her lap. When she looked up her eyes were swimming.
“Jean,” she said, her face collapsing. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“What do you mean?” Jean stammered.
“You were right. You were right all along. I can’t do it. I can’t do without Margaret.”
“But there’s no room for her here. You must see it’s totally unsuitable.”
“I know, but I miss her so much when she’s not here. The weekend goes so quickly . . . It’s not even the whole weekend—it’s just one night!”
Jean, who knew exactly how inadequate this pocket of time could be, could only murmur her sympathy. There was nothing to be done about it; Margaret had made her choice. As she tried to find a way of saying this that wasn’t too wounding, Gretchen’s sobbing intensified.
“Please will you do one thing for me, Jean? I’ll never ask another favor,” she pleaded, her voice thick and bubbling.
“What?”
“Please, please will you talk to Howard and ask him to take me back? I know he’ll listen to you. I just want to go back to the way we were.”
On the marble-patterned wallpaper, the shadow of a cloud moved across the shadow of the window and the cold room grew colder.
“But I thought Martha was the love of your life. What’s happened?”
“It’s not like I thought it would be. It’s not like when we were in the hospital.”
Gretchen pulled a handkerchief from her trouser pocket and ground it into the corners of her eyes.
“Well of course it isn’t!” Jean cried. “You were just a girl then.”
“Martha tries to be kind. She loves me, I know she does, but she’s in so much pain it makes her short-tempered. And she hates teaching but she can’t give it up because there’d be no money. And she gets so jealous.”
“Of whom?”
“Not even of real people—not people we know, anyway. We never see any other people! If I read a book she is jealous of Carson McCullers or Rosamond Lehmann. Or if I listen to music she is jealous of Schubert.”
“You make her sound quite demented.”
“She admits it. She says she is jealous of the gloves I wear. But that wouldn’t matter if only she liked Margaret a little more.”
“And Margaret senses it.”
“Yes, of course. Between the two of them they are pulling me in half. But Martha doesn’t understand how painful it is because she’s not a mother.”
“But you must have known it would make Margaret miserable. I tried to tell you.” She had to resist the urge to say: “It’s too late. He doesn’t want you anymore.”
“I thought love could overcome everything.”
“Then you’re a fool,” said Jean.
“And so are you,” that stern inner voice, Duty, with its clinging gray skirts and sturdy shoes, reminded her. Hadn’t she passed the last few weeks hoping and dreaming much the same thing?
“I can’t stay here. I just want to go home.”