A Natural Curiosity Read Online Free PDF Page A

the nuclear threat, the decline of Empire? Any or all of these things could have done it. But Jonathan and his silly wife Xanthe had overcome these hesitations, or else the Life Force had overcome them independently: either way, there bounced and wriggled young Cornelia Headleand, triumphant, in her fancy little smocked and embroidered dress.
    Xanthe does dress the child oddly, Liz thinks. But then, Xanthe dresses oddly herself. All bows and ribbons and bits of glitter on her stockings. Liz thought all that kind of thing had gone out decades ago, but she supposes it could have gone in and gone out again several times while she wasn’t looking. Do other people
really
wear these funny balloony puffed up Bo-Peep very short skirts? Liz has never seen them around anywhere. Liz thinks Xanthe is a bit batty. Yes, that’s the word for her. Batty. Those bright eyes, those shiny dark-red lips, those very white teeth, that strange vacant giggle. Liz prefers the toothless young Cornelia. But recognizes that probably Xanthe Headleand is quite the thing. In whatever circle it is that she and Jonathan move in.
    She’s not very good with the baby, Liz thinks. Doesn’t know how to keep her happy, holds her awkwardly, looks nervous when she cries. At home, Xanthe has a nanny for the baby. I mustn’t interfere, says Liz to herself, as she marvels at the child’s soft blooming skin. No wonder mothers want to devour their babies with kisses, feel the urge to gobble them all up. Cannibal mothers.
    Liz had been, just before Christmas, to the archaeology exhibition at the British Museum, ‘New Views of the Past’, and had stared, along with all the other morbid sightseers, at the strangely preserved, smooth, brown, plump, patterned immortal skin of Lindow Man. Bard or Druid, victim or sacrifice. Ageless, timeless, rescued from the bog.
    Liz is withering, the veins stand up on the back of her hands, and she is even developing dark freckly spots. She is putting on weight, but she is also withering. It is an interesting process, and she watches it with an amused fascination.
    The baby bounces. She is soft, seductive, delicious. She smells of milk and biscuit and sweet breath.
    At the far end of the room, sitting together on the window seat, Jonathan and his brother Alan are in conference. Liz’s tabby cat lies on the rug before the fireplace. A great gold-rimmed jug of yellow chrysanthemums, curved overbred formal globes, stands in the fireplace. Their acrid perfume mingles with the smell of baby, with Alan’s Gauloise, with the sweeter scent from a small cut-glass vase of freesias, with the general smell of dust and room and home and cat and London. The lights are warm and low. A charming domestic scene.
    But the conference is serious. Jonathan and Alan speak in low, worried voices. The men of the family. They are discussing their father Charles, who has, they think, gone mad. Alan runs his fingers through his hair, Jonathan leans forward intently, gesticulating wildly as he speaks. Alan shrugs. Alan is laid back. Mostly.
    Liz cannot hear what they are saying. The baby is getting tired, soon she will summon Xanthe to take her away.
    Liz is not so worried about her ex-husband Charles Headleand. She has spent enough of her life worrying about him, because of him. He can look after himself. Or if he can’t, well, that’s too bad.
    The baby struggles, and makes herself into an angry, tired shapeless shape. Liz joggles her, soothes her, rests her over her shoulder, sings gently in a dull undertone. Cornelia wriggles, settles, wriggles, sucks her thumb.
    Liz has always been good with babies. She is glad she has not lost the knack.
    Liz’s thoughts move to her friend Alix Bowen, who had telephoned earlier that week to say she might come up to London soon. She feels vaguely aggrieved with Alix, and cannot think why. Is it something to do, as Alix supposes, with the murderer, in whom Alix takes such a proprietorial interest? Liz sometimes feels