Complete Short Stories (VMC) (109 page)

‘I remember her doing that, in a long dress and
she
was crying because her mother and father had gone away for ever. I saw the back of her. I was eight. Her hair was shiny black and soft and done up like a Japanese woman’s. It would be a good thing to paint. How tired I am of the fronts of people! Particularly bosoms. The back could be most expressive. You could tell by the arms and the listless way of holding the ivy that she was weeping because her father had left her in an ugly house with a nasty husband. The Victorians would have gone round to the other side and left an opened letter lying on the table and written “Parting” on the frame – or “Solitude”. But Toulouse-Lautrec and I like it best the other way round … and
you
don’t like it at all. You’ve had your bellyful of it, in fact.’

‘No, but I’m always afraid of you crying when you speak about your mother, and when you begin to harp on bosoms and your inferiority. It worries me when you cry. It must be a thing you do a lot in your family. It’s all right now while you’re young and beautiful, but very uncomfortable for everyone once you’re past forty.’

A woman came in and drew red serge curtains and switched on the light. It rained cruelly down on them. He curled his fingers out of sight again.

‘Mike!’ he suddenly cried with false
bonhomie
.

She put up her cheek for her husband to kiss, which he would not do in a pub.

‘How are you, old man?’

‘Fine. Fine, thanks.’

‘Quite fit again?’

‘Rather! You?’

‘Pretty good.’

‘What to drink?’

‘No. Can’t stop. Coming, Sarah?’

‘One for the road?’

‘No, nor the ditch. Many thanks, all the same. OK, Sarah?’

She looked at them both with a feeling of contempt. Men together. Or, perhaps, just men before a woman. ‘They speak symbols,’ she thought. ‘It isn’t a language at all. They make strange, half-savage noises at one another.’

She said good-bye and the two of them went out into the last few moments of the violet hour. Her husband held open the car door. She sank back into the seat, watching sullenly the road before her, regretting the bright pub.

‘OK?’ He fidgeted at the dashboard and they were away. The buildings made strange shapes against the darkening sky.

‘Oh, crying!’ he protested. ‘Oh, stop for God’s sake. Oh, Christ!’