The Birds of the Air Read Online Free PDF Page A

everything had passed beyond the very concept she was lost – a stranger among her friends. ‘Oh, the smoke,’ she said, to explain her overflowing eyes.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ said some woman offendedly, flapping at the air in front of her mouth to clear it.
    ‘No,’ said Barbara. ‘Oh no . . .’ Oh, she thought, I wasn’t brought up like that. I was brought up to be faithful and polite. I don’t smoke or complain when other people do. What’s happening to me? I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.
    It was a good party. Everyone except herself seemed to be having a lovely time. Apart from the autochthonous notables there was a sprinkling of peers and politicians, and someone had briefly brought the currently fashionable Russian dissident. He had a spoilt, invalidish air – partly because he was so well wrapped up in scarf, gloves and hat and partly because of the unnatural deference accorded him.
    Barbara herself unconsciously shared the feeling of intermittent unease that afflicted most of the university population who, while confident that their institution was the centre of the universe, were also vaguely aware of a certain provincialism. Those dons who could afford it had flats or even houses in London and at least a few friends not directly connected with the academic world.
    One of these desirable outsiders was speaking to her now, asking after her sister. Why, she wondered irritably, did she think of him first as Mary’s friend rather than as Seb’s editor? Her sister had a way of defining people by her relationship with them, and while Barbara loved Mary this was no time to be reminded of ancient jealousies.
    ‘She’s all right, Hunter,’ she snapped, realising from his tone that he already knew perfectly well how Mary was. Mary, she thought distractedly, remembering with panic that she had liked the Thrush, had liked having musical friends. Having no particular gifts of any kind herself, she had determined to appreciate music more than anyone else. She had pointed out as often as possible, to whoever would listen, how much she appre -ciated music. And now even that was ruined. Her friend, her interest and her husband – all lost to a mouthful of turkey.
    ‘Are
you
all right, Barbara?’ asked Hunter.
    ‘I think so,’ she said pitifully. ‘I might sit down.’
    Hunter ousted an elderly gentleman from the nearest chair and placed his hostess in it.
    She was ashamed, she was frightened. But she was going to cry – here. And now.
    Sam switched on his tape.
    Greatly amplified, the voice of the Canon was heard: ‘. . . a humble pride in the fact that the chapter . . .’ For a moment the Canon thought he’d gone mad. He stared round wildly.
    ‘. . . the
most
lovely William-and-Maryish sort of house,’ roared the amplifier.
    ‘. . . goose de cook,’ it informed them at an unbearable pitch of sound.
    Sebastian seized the plug and pulled it out. There was total silence save for his wife’s now reasonably restrained sobbing.
    ‘See how you have upset your mother,’ said Sebastian quietly to his son. ‘I hope you are satisfied.’
    Of course after that there was laughter: nervous, and in a few cases artificial, laughter – but laughter none the less. People bent down to peer kindly at Barbara’s damp and twitching face. They lightly squeezed her forearm, or patted her shoulder with quick consoling movements, not wishing to imply that there was anything seriously wrong but eager to express sympathy. A few of the harder, coarser guests regarded her sideways, with disgust.
    Hunter, gazing into the distance, put his arm about her and turned her head against his hip. He stroked her ear once, patted her hair and then hurried away – but not soon enough. There stirred in Barbara that unreasoning affinity of the newly hatched gosling for the nearest solid object. Crawling painfully from her shell of rejection, she permitted herself the beginnings of a fixation on Hunter – as doomed to disappointment