My Former Heart. Cressida Connolly

felt for the first time that she was beautiful.

      Back in London they took a first- and second-floor maisonette in Pimlico, in Alderney Street. On the lower floor was a drawing room, with a pair of graceful windows to the floor. The boudoir grand piano which had been Harry’s wedding gift to her was here. There was a dining room and, at the back, a kitchen with a tiny larder off it. Upstairs was their bedroom, a dressing room for Harry and – the thing that Ruth loved best about their new home – a bathroom much bigger than any other she knew of in London. As if to do justice to their ample surrounds, the basin and bath were enormous. Ruth installed a chaise longue under the bathroom window, so that she and Harry could keep each other company while one of them was soaking.

      She rode her bicycle up to the Royal College every morning, while Harry took the underground to work. A char came in three times a week, to launder Harry’s work shirts and do the heavy cleaning, such as it was. Ruth arrived home well before her husband in the afternoons, in plenty of time to start preparing their dinner. Usually she practised the piano for an hour, or sang. She taught herself to cook out of a book: steak Diane, chicken à la King. Often they went to bed as soon as Harry got home, almost before he had had time to take off his coat. Afterwards they sat flushed and naked in bed, and drank sherry out of the prim cut-glass glasses they had been given as a wedding present. Sometimes they did not get up again, but one of them went down to the kitchen in a dressing gown to fetch cheese and water biscuits, which infested the sheets with huge prickly crumbs.

      It was after their first Christmas as a married couple that Harry began to make noises about babies. Ruth secretly blamed his family, who – perhaps reminded of infants by the festivities attendant on the baby Jesus – kept dropping heavy hints. Even Verity, who showed no inclination of her own to reproduce, was a culprit. Ruth found this treacherous of her old friend, who had always made so much of women’s careers. Harry was so genial, so dear: they never quarrelled. She never denied him anything, because he asked for so little, only her affection and interest, which came naturally. Sometimes it was rather a slog, getting up early to catch the train to Richmond every Sunday for Mass with the Longdens, followed by lunch back at their house, but it was only natural that they should see more of his family than of hers, because they lived so much nearer. And they were a proper family, she reminded herself, not like hers.

      She adored Harry, she wanted to please him, but she did want, too, to finish her studies before having a baby; or at least, that was the official reason.

      ‘They don’t come overnight, you know,’ said Harry. ‘We could start now and you’d still be fine for your exams in June. I mean, it wouldn’t arrive ’til ages afterwards.’

      ‘I can’t appear at the College bulging! It would be too … I don’t know. Too odd. Conspicuous. I’d just feel funny, being the only one. I’m the only one who’s married as it is. Everyone else goes back to boiled dinners in digs. I’m the only one with a home of my own, who cooks.’ She frowned.

      ‘I know, darling. Don’t panic. No need to look so cross.’

      ‘I’m not cross. I don’t feel cross. I only feel torn, you see, because I don’t want to disappoint you.’

      ‘Speckle, you never disappoint me.’

      ‘So can we have a baby later, after the summer?’

      It never occurred to her that she might experience any difficulty in the getting of a baby: she assumed that all she would have to do was not use the contraceptive device. As it turned out she was right. At Easter they went to stay with Iris for a few days. Birdle, who generally reserved his worst bites for men, had taken a shine to Harry on sight. As soon as Harry came into the room, he shrieked in recognition, although he had not seen him for several months.

      ‘Stop that racket at once, Birdle,’ Iris snapped. She was not altogether pleased when Birdle liked anyone besides herself. But he continued whistling and squawking. Only when Harry went and stroked the feathers at the back of the bird’s head did he fall quiet. He drooped with pleasure, bowing his head with the uncharacteristic meekness of a spaniel.

      They planned to spend a night in the Lake District on their way back to London. The inn was a low building of whitewashed stone, with polished slate floors. But their room was in a flimsily built wing at the back, with narrow twin beds and thin walls. It had a mildewy smell, not altogether unpleasant, like a hymn book. They spent the afternoon walking before coming back to the place for supper. Installed in their room, they could hear a woman’s voice from the next room. The words were muffled but the tone was clear – she was recounting a tale of grievance, which caused her voice to grow shriller every few moments – and every now and again a second voice, a man’s, responded with a single gruff syllable. The thought that these neighbours would be able to hear them as vividly on the other side of the wall struck them as both comic and aphrodisiac. They kissed, suppressing laughter, before landing on one of the beds, clothes half on. They felt as pleased and as naughty as children enjoying a midnight feast. In the scrummage there was no time for Ruth to pad down the landing to the bathroom, with its damp-ruckled linoleum, to install the device.