“You messy girl,” said her mother, extending a twiggy ankle to admire her shoe, a beige kidskin pump with a Cuban heel. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever wear these again,” she sighed. “But still.”
The mark was slightly fainter now, but larger, and still quite visible against the gray fabric.
“What a pity,” said Jean. “It was such a good skirt for cycling.”
She took it upstairs with her to change. She couldn’t wear it, but neither could she quite bring herself to consign it to the rag box yet. Instead, she folded it up and stowed it in the bottom of her closet, as if an alternative use for unwearable skirts might one day present itself.
After tea—liver and onions cooked by Jean and a pudding of canned pears with evaporated milk—Jean weeded and watered the vegetable patch while her mother sat in a deck chair, holding but not quite reading her library book. She would never sit outside alone, Jean noticed, however pleasant the weather, but only if there was company. From the park came the high, bright shouts of children playing, an occasional sequence of barks from the dogs in the street as a pedestrian passed along and the even less frequent rumble of a passing car. By the time dusk fell, all would be silent.
Jean and her mother moved into the sitting room at the front of the house, drew the curtains and switched on the lamps, which gave out a grudging yellowish light behind their brown shades. They played two hands of gin rummy at the small card table and then Jean picked listlessly through a basket of mending, which she had been adding to but otherwise ignoring for some weeks. Her mother, meanwhile, took out her leather writing case to reply to Dorrie’s letter. By way of preparation for this task, she reread it aloud, which Jean could only presume was for her benefit, since her mother was already well acquainted with the contents. She did the same thing with newspaper and magazine articles when she was finding the silence of a Sunday afternoon irksome.
Dear Mother,
Thank you for your letter. It sounds lovely and peaceful in Hayes. I wish I could say the same—it’s been non-stop here. Kenneth has been staying on the farm—he’s got a new manager at last who needs to be “broken in.” Let’s hope he lasts a bit longer than the previous one—now referred to in private as “Villainous Vernon.”
[Mrs. Swinney tittered at this.]
I have joined the Kitale Club and it’s become my second home while Kenneth’s away. There are some real “types” there as you can imagine. I went to see the Kitale Dramatic Society’s production of Present Laughter on Friday night. Pru Calderwell—the absolute queen of the social scene here—was ever so good as Liz Essendine. The rest of the cast were pretty wooden. I thought I might as well audition for the next one myself if that’s the standard!
We’ve got ourselves a new black Alsatian pup called Ndofu. We’re completely besotted with him. I’m supposed to be training him up as a guard dog for when I’m here by myself but he’s such a mushy creature, he’ll just roll over for anyone who tickles him.
The children will be home for the holiday in a few weeks’ time so I must take advantage of my last few weeks of freedom and get some more tennis in. I’ve been having some lessons and I’m playing in a mixed doubles tournament tomorrow with a chap called Stanley Harris who is about 60 but madly competitive and throws himself all over my half of the court shouting, “Mine! Mine!” so I shan’t have much to do.
Must dash for the post office now. Keep well. Much love to you and Jean.
Dorrie
“She writes a super letter,” Jean’s mother said.
“Well that’s because she has a super life to write about,” Jean retorted.
These breezy bulletins always left her feeling a trifle sour. Fond memories of their shared childhood closeness were now clouded by resentment at their contrasting fates.
At eight-thirty Jean’s mother rose effortfully from her chair and said, as though the idea had just that moment occurred to her, “I think I’ll have my bath.”
Although Jean had occasional misgivings about their domestic routines, and intimations sometimes reached her that other people had a different, freer way of doing things, her mother’s bath-night ritual was one she was keen to uphold. Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays between eight-thirty and nine, Jean was mistress of the house, free to do as she liked. She could listen to the wireless without her mother’s commentary, eat standing up in the kitchen, read in perfect silence or run naked through the rooms if she chose.