Marking Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

Milliment, whose luggage was singularly difficult to pack into the car with Lady Rydal’s (he
had to fix up the roof rack which took ages), and then running out of petrol before he even got through the Blackwall Tunnel, and then getting a puncture on the hill just before Sevenoaks (not his
fault this, but regarded by Lady Rydal who was an authority on them, as the last straw) – during all this awful, cumbersome day, he ruminated on the miserable encounter with his eldest
daughter. In her behaviour to him he saw a reflection of himself that he could neither bear nor discountenance: a middle-aged man, irascible and disappointed, good for nothing that interested him,
bullying people in order to infect them with his discomfort – particularly, he knew, his own children. Jessica he did not bully; he lost his temper with her, but he did not bully. He loved
her – adored her. He was always contrite on those occasions, would spend the ensuing hours, or even days, paying her small, devoted attentions, castigating himself to her about his wretched
temperament and luck, and she, bless her angelic heart, would always forgive him. Always . . . How alike these occasions were to one another now struck him; there had become something ritual about
them. If either had forgotten the next line the other could have prompted. And had he not noticed, in the last year or so, that there was something mechanical about her responses to him? Did she
really care? Had he, perhaps, become something of a bore? All his life he had been afraid of not being liked: he hadn’t been brainy enough for his father, and his mother had only adored
Robert, his older brother, killed in the war. But when he had met Jessica, fallen instantly and wildly in love with her, and she had returned his love, he had not cared at all about whether other
people liked him or not: he had been entirely fulfilled and overwhelmed by this beautiful, desirable creature’s love. Dozens of people would have wanted to marry Jessica, but she had become
his. How full of dreams and ardour to succeed for her sake he had been then! What schemes he had had to make money, to give her a life of luxury and romantic ease! There was nothing he would not
have done for her but, somehow, nothing had worked out as he had planned. The guest house, the chicken farm, growing mushrooms, a crammer for dull little boys, the kennels venture: each plan had
become smaller and wilder as it succeeded the previous failure. He was no good at business – simply hadn’t been brought up to it – and, he had to admit, he was not very good with
people, with anyone, excepting Jessica. When the children had come along he had been jealous of them for the time they took away from him. When Angela was born, only a year after he was invalided
out of the army, Jessica seemed unable to think of anything else; she had been a difficult baby, never sleeping for more than an hour or two at a stretch throughout, which meant that neither of
them got a proper night’s sleep, and then when Nora arrived, Angela resented her so much that Jessica could not leave them alone together for a minute, and of course they’d never been
able to afford a nurse, or more than a bit of daily help. When Christopher was born, he thought, at least he had a son, but he’d turned out the worst of the lot – always something wrong
with him, bad eyesight, a weak stomach and he’d nearly died of a mastoid when he was five, and Jessica had spoiled him so he’d become more namby-pamby than ever, afraid of everything
– and nothing
he
did made any difference. He remembered how he’d staged a fireworks show for them when they were small, and Christopher had howled because he didn’t like
the bangs, and how he’d taken them to the zoo and for a ride on an elephant, and Christopher had refused to get on the animal, made a frightful scene –
in public
. Jessica kept
saying he was sensitive, but he was simply a milksop, which