quite soon, thought Nicola: in just two days from now, this episode will all have become a bad dream, nothing more. Because otherwise, it is too bad to be true.
She dared now, just, to feel her way towards the contemplation of the scene of the previous night as if it might represent all of the truth, as if it might be an irreducible, however ugly, reality: as if Jonathan had not only meant what he had said, but had known what he meant: as if there were no mistake in the matter but her own – her own blindness to, ignorance of, Jonathan’s true and natural feelings.
And now she allowed, she admitted, she was entirely bound to admit, that Jonathan might have meant what he said, might have known what he meant, and so wanted, not only truly, but justifiably, and with all his heart, to separate from her: yes, this unspeakable horror really was a logical possibility. Such events may truly occur. Love can grow cold, and become indifference – even dislike – even hatred.
She saw therefore that, whatever the truth of the matter, whether he meant or did not truly mean what he had said, Jonathan had become an absolute mystery to her. He was no longer the lover, comrade, companion she had known, but a frighteningly unreckonable creature as of faery. There can’t be an awful lot of solicitors who seem like that, she thought; and she almost smiled. Susannah would have been proud of her.
‘Is that all you’re having? Just cereal? Don’t you want some eggs and bacon? Goodness! Perhaps you’d like porridge. No? Well, I suppose you know best.’
‘Of course he does. Of course he knows best. Truly to God, Sophie, you’d think he was five years old. Croissants, that’s what he wants. That’s what they eat for breakfast up in London. Croissants, French croissants. Should’ve got some in. What?’
‘Don’t be silly, Hugo. The very idea. Jonathan doesn’t eat croissants. You don’t eat croissants, do you, Jonathan? No, see, he’s having some toast. Have some of that marmalade, darling, it’s from the last lot I made for the WI stall, a bit runny, but you just have to eat it fast before it drips. Oh, but you used to love marmalade! I remember sending it to you at school. Didn’t I? Well, I gave you some to take back with you. I remember. Marmalade. You used to insist on it.’
‘Lot of rubbish.’
‘What?’
‘Lot of rubbish. Here. Listen to this.’
Hugo Finch, JP, began reading from the Telegraph. ‘Senior back-benchers,’ he began, ‘are reported …’ and so it went on: a further chapter in the gruesome, yet frequently hilarious, saga of the island people who had given the planet its common language and virtually all its games. What exactly were they working on now? None could truly say; many were the vain attempts to do so, but the question was beyond the scope of the merely human intelligence. Hugo concluded his reading.
‘Splendid stuff,’ said Jonathan, at the end of his tether. His father stared. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What did you say?’ He looked apoplectic.
‘Splendid,’ said Jonathan. ‘Splendid!’
‘Did you hear that? Did you hear what he said?’
‘Yes, he’s joking, Hugo. He doesn’t mean it.’
‘I’ll tell you what he can do if he does: he can go straight back to London on the next train.’
‘I’ve got a car.’
‘Then bloody go and get into it and drive away, then! Splendid, he says! Splendid! Wants horsewhipping! Croissants! London! Horsewhipping!’ Hugo flapped the newspaper straight with a loud crack and barricaded himself behind it. ‘Croissants!’ he muttered.
‘Excuse me,’ said Jonathan, getting up. He went out into the garden and walked about slowly, happily. It had taken years for him to learn that when they wind you up, the thing to do is wind them right back. Croissants – French croissants! Glorious! Splendid!
The splendour passed; Jonathan was possessed once more by the familiar demon whose dark oppressing wings enfolded his mind. He sat down on a garden seat and leaned back, closing his eyes against the bright spring sunshine, listening to the countryside sounds, trying, failing, to shun thought, recollection, reflection. Why this abiding darkness? Wasn’t the worst over and done? Nicola, for all he now knew, might be gone, out of his sight, when he returned to London the following evening; he might even now be effectively free: free of all the terrible demands of that scrutiny, that intimacy, that sharing of the self. Free, and alone: to be alone was to be free.
Suddenly the weight of a human being fell on to the seat beside him and a voice loudly spoke to him. ‘Ah! here you are!’ It was his mother, whose approach had been silenced by the lawn across which she had advanced. Oh, God. No matter where one was, there was someone, some woman, peering into one’s soul. It was intolerable. He had even (so he fancied) caught his secretary apparently at it. They peered into one’s soul and left one naked and helpless.
He sat up. ‘I was just thinking of going for a walk,’ he said. ‘Oh, but do stay for a moment now I’m here,’ she said. ‘Do tell me how Nicola is getting on. Such a pity she couldn’t come with you, when the weather’s so nice.’ What a pity you are not married: have no children: aren’t happier to be here: but see how tolerant we are, have always been; how tolerant, how patient. All the younger generation seem to be the same, all living together without benefit of clergy. Of course they settle down in the end. Mostly. When would Jonathan’s end arrive, though? It was taking such a very long time. And why no Nicola this weekend, after all? ‘She always enjoys the garden so much, doesn’t she?’ she went on. ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘I suppose she does.’
‘So she’s quite well, is she?’ Not quite what we would have liked for Jonathan, ideally, but still, quite a nice girl. Quite a nice girl. Highly educated, of course; as they all are these days – funny, isn’t it? ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘She’s fine.’ ‘Good,’ said his mother. ‘Well, you must make sure you bring her next time.’ ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘Sure thing.’ Oh ho. You bet. Sorry, Ma.
On Saturday (while Jonathan basked, ate, walked, fumed, bashed croquet balls between hoops, and intermittently gloated) Nicola cleaned out all the kitchen cupboards. She cleaned the gas cooker, especially the oven. She even washed down all the paintwork, including the skirting boards, and she did two loads of washing, back to back. Then she washed her hair.
Mrs Brick had been in a few days before so there wasn’t a lot to be done to the rest of the flat, but she did what there was, and a little more besides. On Sunday morning she polished the mirrors and the insides of the window panes and the television screen, and she washed all the china dogs and put them back on the mantelpiece in slightly different positions. After lunching off a tuna sandwich and an orange (Jonathan had overdone roast lamb and apple pie) she settled down to the ironing. She was getting through the time nicely.
She was just beginning on Jonathan’s shirts (ah! Jonathan’s shirts: God wears the exact same kind) when the telephone rang.
‘Nicola? It’s Lizzie.’
‘Oh, Lizzie.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m well, thanks, Lizzie. Are you?’
‘Yes, I’m well too. Listen, darling, about next weekend.’
Oh God oh God.
‘Ye-e-es?’
‘Oh,