Blaming (Virago Modern Classics) Read Online Free PDF Page A

seemed incredible to Martha that they had never been to the Castle Museum in Norwich, one of her first English pilgrimages. But English people never went to look at their own things, she said. “It’s all there, and you go on as if it isn’t. I’ve never known treasures treated with such indifference.” It sometimes seemed that she liked everything about England except the English.
    “We must all go there together when we get home,” Nick said.
    He looked (again slyly) at his wife, who said casually, “Yes, we must do that.” I never shall, she thought.
    Nick considered her acting quite superb. She has missed her calling, he thought.
    He had drunk too much, and now Amy, to stave off her tiredness and boredom, began to do the same, almost heedlessly drinking brandy. When Martha said that she was going to take a turn about the deck, neither offered to accompany her. They said goodnight and went to their cabin.
    “Nice girl,” Nick said, beginning to undress.
    “Very.”
    “Yet you don’t like her.”
    “For God’s sake I hardly know her.”
    “But you don’t like her.”
    Amy sighed. “I like her well enough. At home, she wouldn’t be one of our friends.”
    “Why not?”
    He was very sharp. He wound his watch and almost flung it onto the dressing table amongst a heap of Turkish, Italian, French coins.
    Amy would not answer.
    “Perhaps she knows too much,” he persisted.
    “About the Norwich School. I should say so.”
    “And literature. She knows all about your Charlotte Brontë.” Ridiculously, he was slurring his words. Holiday mood, she had put it down to: but no, it had started before that.
    She undressed very quietly, with her back to him. Then, putting on her nightgown, her patience snapped.It was like the twang of an arrow – something she could really hear.
    “I’ve had too much of this,” she said calmly, and she opened a jar and began to put cream on her face. “It’s been a bloody awful holiday, and you’ve purposely made it so. O.K. you’ve been ill, and I’ve tried to keep that in mind. But now I believe you are trying to goad me.”
    He was looking at her in astonishment. She could see him in the mirror naked, with his abdominal scar very bright. Not liking to glimpse it, he quickly pulled on his pyjamas.
    “You’ve taken advantage of my love for you,” she poured out, “of my wish not to upset you, to get you back strong as you were. And to work. But you’ve been convalescent for too long to be good for you or me. I suppose I blame myself for your spoilt behaviour. But I shall make no more allowances from now on.”
    He had looked astonished at the beginning of her outburst, but now it was her turn for astonishment. He had covered his face with his hands (she was still staring at him through the glass, still patting in cream). For a dreadful moment, seeing his shoulders shaking, she feared that he was crying, I’ve gone too far, she thought in terror. She had never seen him weep; would not have believed he could. She turned quickly to beg forgiveness, just as he took his hands from his face and she saw that he was laughing. The sight of her white, creamed face turned to him with such concern increased his mirth. He put his arms round her. “You’re really furious with me?” he asked. “You meant all you said?”
    Standing stiffly in his embrace, she rather stiffly said, “You provoked me.”
    “The provoked wife. I do love you, and I’m very sorry that I’ve tried for so long to make you angry.” He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass and nodded as if to a long-lost friend. “I thought your goodness would never crack. I banged my head on your patience, getting more and more scared.”
    “Scared?”
    “I explained to you once. I asked you. About keeping something from me.”
    “And I told you. No.”
    “I believe you now. At last, I really believe you.”
    “For an hour or two,” she said pettishly, adding to his sense of calm.
    “No. For ever.