look in the waste-paper basket, for that’s where I’ve put it.’
‘Tina! The chambermaid might read it.’
‘She couldn’t. She’s Italian. And if she could, I expect it would give her a good laugh. If you ask me, she knows more about it than the people who wrote that book.’
‘I’ve thought that sometimes,’ said Dickie, who had caught Angelina’s eye once or twice.
‘You have? The idea! You’ve no business to go thinking anything at all about the chambermaid. On your honeymoon too!’
They eventually got rid of the book by posting it to an imaginary couple, invented by Dickie, a Mr. and Mrs. Huntingtower, who lived in New Brighton and needed advice very badly. As the young Pattisons grew easier together, more secure in their own happiness, they got a good deal of fun out of the fantastic ineptitudes of this luckless pair. Dickie, in soaring spirits, was always inventing a new mistake for them to make, in order to hear Christina laugh.
Nowadays, she reflected, they did not seem to laugh so often. They were not in love, like that, any more. They had settled down. She realised it with a faint pang, the same kind of regret which she sometimes felt for the lost joys of childhood. It was a pity that anything delightful had to end, but she did not want to go back. The present was a great deal more satisfying than the past, for now she had Bobbins.
Yet the regret lingered in her mind. When she went upstairs she kissed Dickie, and told him to have a good time at his party. As she did so, an unusually bright flash made her wince and start. Involuntarily she clung to him.
‘I oughtn’t to go,’ he murmured, holding her closer to him, aware of her fear. ‘You don’t really like it, whatever you may say. You hated it last night.’
But she was determined not to be selfish. At the back of her mind she knew that Bobbins was not, for him, so complete a compensation for that which they might have lost.
‘It was only that one awful flash and crack,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe something hadn’t happened. I don’t expect there’ll be another like that.’
He still held her, stirred by the appeal of a frightened woman.
‘Do I want to go to this party?’ he whispered. ‘I’ll come back early. Don’t be asleep when I come back.’
‘Oh, Dickie! What moments you choose for feeling sentimental!’
At that he released her, chilled, as he often was, by the limitations of her vocabulary. Had she always talked like this? Perhaps she had, in the days when they had laughed so much over poor Mr. and Mrs. Huntingtower , but he had not minded. He had not noticed. He had only heard the siren’s song.
He ran downstairs and she stood by the window to watch him go. The night and the storm were closing in. Below her lay the town, cowering down, flattening itself beneath clouds so huge and solid that they seemed to be fighting for room. They piled up, toppling, one upon another. They were pushed earthwards to hide the hills and the sea.
Dickie came briskly out of the house. He did not know that she was watching, so gave no parting wave, but got into his car and drove off, under that menacing sky. He looked spruce and handsome and pleased with himself.
Poor Dickie! she thought.
For no discernible reason she suddenly felt sorry for him, as she sometimes did when she watched him bustling about the business of life, especially if he seemed to be enjoying himself. That he should often be worried, anxious and disappointed struck her as more natural. Then she was sympathetic and tried to help him. It was his cheerfulness which made him seem forlorn—which had some mysterious power to wring a sigh from her.
4
E VERY set has its hangers-on—a sprinkling of nondescript enthusiasts who are suffered by their betters because they run errands and fetch the beer. These satellites may be useful, but they contribute no lustre to the constellation, and sometimes they bring it into disrepute. Within the charmed circle
‘Tina! The chambermaid might read it.’
‘She couldn’t. She’s Italian. And if she could, I expect it would give her a good laugh. If you ask me, she knows more about it than the people who wrote that book.’
‘I’ve thought that sometimes,’ said Dickie, who had caught Angelina’s eye once or twice.
‘You have? The idea! You’ve no business to go thinking anything at all about the chambermaid. On your honeymoon too!’
They eventually got rid of the book by posting it to an imaginary couple, invented by Dickie, a Mr. and Mrs. Huntingtower, who lived in New Brighton and needed advice very badly. As the young Pattisons grew easier together, more secure in their own happiness, they got a good deal of fun out of the fantastic ineptitudes of this luckless pair. Dickie, in soaring spirits, was always inventing a new mistake for them to make, in order to hear Christina laugh.
Nowadays, she reflected, they did not seem to laugh so often. They were not in love, like that, any more. They had settled down. She realised it with a faint pang, the same kind of regret which she sometimes felt for the lost joys of childhood. It was a pity that anything delightful had to end, but she did not want to go back. The present was a great deal more satisfying than the past, for now she had Bobbins.
Yet the regret lingered in her mind. When she went upstairs she kissed Dickie, and told him to have a good time at his party. As she did so, an unusually bright flash made her wince and start. Involuntarily she clung to him.
‘I oughtn’t to go,’ he murmured, holding her closer to him, aware of her fear. ‘You don’t really like it, whatever you may say. You hated it last night.’
But she was determined not to be selfish. At the back of her mind she knew that Bobbins was not, for him, so complete a compensation for that which they might have lost.
‘It was only that one awful flash and crack,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe something hadn’t happened. I don’t expect there’ll be another like that.’
He still held her, stirred by the appeal of a frightened woman.
‘Do I want to go to this party?’ he whispered. ‘I’ll come back early. Don’t be asleep when I come back.’
‘Oh, Dickie! What moments you choose for feeling sentimental!’
At that he released her, chilled, as he often was, by the limitations of her vocabulary. Had she always talked like this? Perhaps she had, in the days when they had laughed so much over poor Mr. and Mrs. Huntingtower , but he had not minded. He had not noticed. He had only heard the siren’s song.
He ran downstairs and she stood by the window to watch him go. The night and the storm were closing in. Below her lay the town, cowering down, flattening itself beneath clouds so huge and solid that they seemed to be fighting for room. They piled up, toppling, one upon another. They were pushed earthwards to hide the hills and the sea.
Dickie came briskly out of the house. He did not know that she was watching, so gave no parting wave, but got into his car and drove off, under that menacing sky. He looked spruce and handsome and pleased with himself.
Poor Dickie! she thought.
For no discernible reason she suddenly felt sorry for him, as she sometimes did when she watched him bustling about the business of life, especially if he seemed to be enjoying himself. That he should often be worried, anxious and disappointed struck her as more natural. Then she was sympathetic and tried to help him. It was his cheerfulness which made him seem forlorn—which had some mysterious power to wring a sigh from her.
4
E VERY set has its hangers-on—a sprinkling of nondescript enthusiasts who are suffered by their betters because they run errands and fetch the beer. These satellites may be useful, but they contribute no lustre to the constellation, and sometimes they bring it into disrepute. Within the charmed circle
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