“I don’t mind if it’s difficult. It’s more interesting to make. But I think a simple style is better for you.” Gretchen turned to a page marked with a turned-down corner. “I think this would look elegant on you.”
It was a fitted shift with a round collar and white piping, and three-quarter length sleeves. It certainly looked very elegant as depicted by the artist, but would surely be less so on Jean’s size-fourteen-in-need-of-adjustments frame. However, she was impressed that Gretchen had, without any discussion or prior knowledge of her tastes, singled out from this vast selection something that she herself might have chosen and could imagine wearing with pleasure.
“Yes, it’s lovely.”
“Not black, though. Too severe. I think navy blue or green.”
“Yes. Blue.”
“It will be just right,” said Gretchen, closing the heavy book with a sound like gunshot.
But when will I have any call to wear it? thought Jean.
On their way downstairs she couldn’t help glancing in at the open bedroom door and was surprised to see two single beds, side by side, neatly made with matching pink-and-green eiderdowns and a narrow channel between, not wide enough to stand in but a chasm nevertheless. She had never come across this arrangement before between married people, except as an alternative to （unthinkable） divorce. Her grandparents had cohabited joylessly in this fashion for decades until released by death, but the Tilbury marriage bore no resemblance to their frosty stand-off.
Outside in the garden, Margaret and her friend Lizzie were playing badminton across a chewed piece of net strung between the fence and a plum tree. The court area was delineated by the flower beds to each side, the rockery at one end and the vegetable patch at the other.
Howard was in among the bean rows, taking on the blackfly with a pail of soapy water and a spray pump. His jacket hung over a spade planted in the soil. He was dressed in shirt and tie as if for a day at the office. He gave the two women a wave as they came out onto the little patio, where a table and three canvas chairs had been set out for tea.
“Your garden is immaculate,” said Jean. “You put me to shame.”
This was not mere politeness; the flower beds were parallel strips of crumbly soil playing host to tame shrubs of varying colors, textures and heights, and neat clumps of annuals in full bloom. The edges of the lawn were fiercely clipped; the leeks and cabbages in the vegetable patch grew in straight lines at perfect intervals.
There was a kind of beauty in this imposition of order, Jean thought. She was a conscientious gardener herself but had never managed to achieve results like these in the few hours a week she could spare for the job. All her time seemed to be spent holding back chaos rather than on these refinements.
“It’s all Howard,” said Gretchen. “We are dividing the chores very rigidly. I’m housework, he’s garden.”
“Well I’m both,” said Jean. “Neither to a very high standard, I’m afraid.”
She couldn’t now recall what, if anything, she had previously revealed about her domestic situation, so she mentioned now the fortuitous intervention of Mrs. Melsom in making her visit possible.
Gretchen was mortified. “I had no idea this would be difficult,” she said. “Your mother would have been very welcome to come too, naturally.”
“That’s kind of you, but sometimes it’s nice to get away by myself.”
“Of course. Is your mother so very infirm that she can’t be left?”
“Not exactly infirm, but she hardly ever leaves the house. She’s fine when I’m out at work because she understands that it’s a necessity. But outside of that . . . She’s never said in so many words, ‘You mustn’t go out and leave me.’ It’s more subtle than that. I feel guilty if I’m out enjoying myself when she isn’t.”
“She wouldn’t want to stop you having fun, surely?”
“I don’t think she really believes in ‘fun.’ Not since my father died.” She had said too much. This was not teatime talk. She plowed on: “She’s too old for change. Now, it’s all about comfort and routine and taking pleasure in tiny treats.” For a moment Jean had a ghastly sense that she was describing herself.
“Routines can be very useful,” said Gretchen. “Especially if you are trying to run a household. But they have to be”—she drew her hands apart—“elastisch.”
Jean laughed. “A dressmaker’s metaphor.” Something about this conversation stirred her memory. Gabardine, that was it. She lowered her voice. “Margaret was telling me about her angel voices the other day. I didn’t know quite what to make of it.”