Serum test
M’s assumption G was lying
G’s impatience—why now?
G’s hidden sadness—irrelevant?—but shows ability at concealment
Drugged sleep—opportunity?
But timing is wrong plus Kitty?
Brenda?
Her mother, opposite, was crocheting another lace doily, the oatmeal-colored circle turning and growing quickly under her hands like potters’ clay. They had dozens of these at home, little puddles of string under every vase and lamp and ornament, with still enough to fill an entire drawer in the sideboard.
As she watched, her mother glanced up at her and quickly down, the light catching her glasses and turning them to dazzling mirrors, and it occurred to Jean with a jolt that she had no idea what color her mother’s eyes were. She must have known once, but it was years—a decade, perhaps—since they had made proper eye contact.
They had both been witnesses to each other’s disappointments and tragedies, but it had always been understood by Jean that it was weak and shameful to dwell on them and so their conversation never strayed far from the surface of things. Sometimes Jean had the sensation that they were adrift in a perilously overladen boat; a moment of emotional turbulence would be enough to capsize them.
Her mother put down her crocheting and removed her reading glasses, blinking hard to bring into focus the Surrey countryside as it flowed past: neat farms, tamed hedgerows and plowed fields of crumbled soil.
Gray, Jean thought with surprise. They are gray.
Dear Dorrie,
Mother and I are at Lymington for a week’s holiday. The picture on the front shows the main street. Our hotel is on the right with the pillars. It is low season and very quiet, which suits us. There is a pretty cobbled street of quaint shops leading down to the harbor, which looks across to the Isle of Wight. We sit and watch the boats for hours.
The walk up is a bit of a challenge for Mother, but yesterday an old boy in a Bentley took pity on us and gave us a lift back to the hotel. She has talked of little else since. On Monday we took a coach trip to Bucklers Hard, a charming row of fishermen’s cottages leading down to a river. We have been lucky with the weather so far.
Love to Kenneth and the twins.
Jean
Dear Margaret,
By the time you read this we shall both be back home, but never mind. I hope you are enjoying the Forest of Dean and that Jemimah is behaving herself at Lizzie’s. We are staying in a place called Lymington on the edge of the New Forest, which is in fact very old. We could see wild ponies from the train on our way down.
Our hotel has a resident cat, who has her own favorite armchair in the lounge. If you leave your bedroom door open she comes slinking in and goes to sleep on your pillow.
There are at least half a dozen tea shops within walking distance of our hotel and we try a different one each day. None can quite compete with Simpson’s—or homemade spitzbuben.
Your friend,
Jean
Toward the end of the week the weather changed and a series of fronts swept in from the west bringing wintry rain, which kept Jean and her mother indoors. They rose as late as permissible and after a cooked breakfast moved into the lounge, where they played rummy and read the selection of out-of-date magazines. There were a number of other residents, similarly marooned by the bad weather, but the room was large and the arrangement of furniture—remote islands of wing-backed armchairs around low coffee tables, separated by vast expanses of carpet—did not encourage them to mingle. By silent consensus, everyone kept to the seats they had originally claimed, exchanging in passing no more than a nod or smile of fellow feeling at the perversity of the English climate.
Among the mostly elderly clientele were a mother and daughter about ten years older than the Swinneys. The old lady was plump and moon-faced, hard of hearing and lost in confusion. The daughter was thin and round-shouldered with skin ravaged by eczema. The corners of her mouth sagged, and her drooping cardigan, raw, ringless fingers and darned stockings spoke eloquently to Jean of self-denial. In the quiet of the lounge, above the swishing of magazine pages and the slap of playing cards, Jean could hear her patiently answering the same bewildered questions over and over.
“We’re just waiting for the rain to pass . . .” “No, we’ve had lunch. We’re just waiting until it’s stopped raining . . .” “When it clears up. Then we’ll go out,” the daughter said, raking the flaming skin of her arms with chewed nails.
Jean’s mother, who enjoyed trying to listen in on the conversations of other guests and felt entitled to comment on anything overhead, said, “She needs to stop scratching. It’ll get infected.”