A Friend from England Read Online Free PDF Page B

‘Well, black isn’t quite right for this time of the year, is it?’ She inclined her head to the window as she said this, and looking outon my side I saw the prunus trees in flower and the forsythia and the first daffodils. Everything in this suburb reminded one of the gardens of childhood. Pink petals drifted along damp pavements, and through my window I caught the harsh smell of the earth, sour after a long cold winter. The trees were still leafless and the weather uncertain, but the cloudy drizzle was not accompanied by a darkening sky, and the white light seemed to promise long evenings and a quick flowering. I had always loved suburbs. My own life was spent in the landlocked city streets, which suited me well enough since I had odd fears of death by water. But I looked forward to a time when I would occupy a little house with a garden and have people to tea. I was aware that this was the ambition of a child rather than an adult, and this was rather surprising since, as far as I knew, I behaved in a thoroughly grown-up manner. But obviously some part of me yearned to become suburban again and to hear a garden gate click behind me as I set off on summer evenings to meet my friends.
    In the meantime I had the Livingstones. And they had me, for in some odd way I felt nearer to Oscar and Dorrie than I did to Heather, although Heather and I were contemporaries and might be thought to have had much in common. In fact I had originally been tried out as a companion for Heather before it had been acknowledged – wordlessly, of course – that I would be better at looking after her, as a sort of surrogate elder, than as a friend and acquaintance. This suited me well enough, for I felt a genuine love for Heather’s parents, while feeling rather little for Heather herself. When I say rather little, I mean that I felt a full complement of boredom, irritation, tolerance, and reluctant affection for her. I thought that in view of my function or destiny that was probably enough. Therefore I was both amused and relieved to see her in her new guise, well turned out, possibly with a secret, yet still scrupulouslypursing her lips before answering a question and still lowering her head before deciding on an action.
    But in the course of the afternoon it began to seem as if Heather had outstripped me, or at least as if she no longer required my custodial care. Rather unusually, she allowed her mother to wait on her, to serve her with tea while she examined her glossy shoes, rotating her right ankle critically as if to examine them from a more professional stance than she usually accorded herself. She said little, as if waiting to be engaged in a topic that interested her rather than contributing eagerly to whatever plangent exchanges were on offer. Even when the aunts arrived, no, particularly when the aunts arrived and settled in to their comments on the week’s news and complaints, she held slightly aloof, favouring them only with a brief smile when they held out a subject to which she was supposed, or accustomed, to contribute. I could see that they, critical as ever, were a little baffled by this. They had expected to assist at the accouchement of whatever transformation Heather was supposed to undergo. Yet she offered them no hints as to the reason why she so suddenly and strikingly appeared to have changed. Indeed, had the conversation not been sufficiently well nourished by the frequent exchanges between Dorrie and her sisters or Oscar and his brother, the atmosphere might have seemed a little charged. When Dorrie was complimented (by me) on her dark blue silk suit, Heather remained silent. When Dorrie explained that she had worried about the colour before buying it (‘I hope I did the right thing’), Heather was finally moved to interject, ‘You should go in for lighter colours. You wear too many prints.’ She then returned to a contemplation of her foot. Dorrie, naturally, was charmed by this show of assurance in her