A Start in Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

life. When she looked up from her books, as she frequently did, it was to watch other people reading. Unaware of her gaze, they seemed innocent if a little careworn, and if they met her eye, they smiled instinctively, then dropped their eyes back to the printed page.
    She read her way round and through the Romantic Movement and became quite a favourite with the Chateaubriand man; she had an extremely retentive memory and all her reciting had kept the texts well in the forefront of her mind. She was never happier than when taking notes, rather elaborate notes in different coloured ball-point pens, for the need to be doing something while reading, or with reading, was beginning to assert itself. Her essays, which she approached as many women approach a meeting with a potential lover, were well received. She was heartbroken when one came back with the words ‘I cannot read your writing’ on the bottom.
    She bought herself a couple of pleated skirts, like those worn by Miss Parker; she bought cardigans and saddle shoes and thus found a style to which she would adhere for the rest of her life. She did not ask Helen’s advice, knowing that it would not do, but enjoyed showing her the clothes. Helen thought them dreary. ‘Strange that you should have turned out so different from me,’ she
sighed, holding out a thin nude arm with silver bracelets clashing and sliding up and down. Helen’s skin was poreless, but losing its fat; she was alternately wistful and bad-tempered and tended to spurn food. George, on the other hand, was growing increasingly heavy. He was liable to wax sentimental over his daughter’s apparent maturity, not recognizing it for the makeshift it was. Ruth avoided sentiment for she had seen how easy it was to come by.
    The days were not long enough. Helen had decided that Ruth should pay rent for her room at Oakwood Court; this suited them both, putting a decent distance between the past and present tenancies. Ruth rose early, went out for a newspaper and some rolls, made coffee, and washed up, all before anybody was stirring. She was the neatest person in the house. As she opened the front door to leave, she could hear the others greeting the day from their beds with a variety of complaining noises, and escaped quickly before their blurred faces and slippered feet could spoil her morning. She was at one with the commuters at the bus stop, respectably accoutred for a day in public. There would be lectures until lunchtime, tutorials in the afternoon. In the Common Room there was an electric kettle and she took to supplying the milk and sugar. It was more of a home than home had been for a very long time. There was always someone to talk to after the seminar, and she would take a walk in the evening streets before sitting down for her meal in a sandwich bar at about six thirty. Then there was work in the library until nine, and she would reach home at about ten, by which time George and Helen would have taken their sleeping pills and Mrs Cutler would be safely corralled in the drawing room watching television in a cloud of smoke. It was a bit lonely sometimes, but it was better than it might have been.
    ‘But don’t you ever go out?’ asked her friend Anthea. For she was surprised to find that she made friends quite
easily. She was of that placid appearance and benign or perhaps indifferent disposition that invites confidences, particularly from those too restless to harbour information. In many ways Anthea was like Helen: amusing, sharp-witted, lightweight and beautiful. Needing a foil or acolyte for her flirtatious popularity, she had found her way to Ruth unerringly; Ruth, needing the social protection of a glamorous friend, was grateful. Both were satisfied with the friendship although each was secretly bored by the other. Anthea’s conversation consisted either of triumphant reminiscences – how she had spurned this one, accepted that one, how she had got the last pair of boots in Harrods’ sale, how