that wasn’t there—something (and that was the crux of it) something that wasn’t John Christow!
He said to himself: ‘I know she’s a sculptor. I know her work’s good. But damn it all, can’t she put it aside sometimes? Can’t she sometimes think of me—and nothing else?’
He was unfair. He knew he was unfair. Henrietta seldom talked of her work—was indeed less obsessed by it than most artists he knew. It was only on very rare occasions that her absorption with some inner vision spoiled the completeness of her interest in him. But it always roused his furious anger.
Once he had said, his voice sharp and hard, ‘Would you give all this up if I asked you to?’
‘All—what?’ Her warm voice held surprise.
‘All—this.’ He waved a comprehensive hand round the studio.
And immediately he thought to himself, ‘Fool! Why did you ask her that?’ And again: ‘Let her say: “Of course.” Let her lie to me! If she’ll only say: “Of course I will.” It doesn’t matter if she means it or not! But let her say it. I must have peace.’
Instead she had said nothing for some time. Her eyes had gone dreamy and abstracted. She had frowned a little.
Then she had said slowly:
‘I suppose so. If it was necessary.’
‘Necessary? What do you mean by necessary?’
‘I don’t really know what I mean by it, John. Necessary, as an amputation might be necessary.’
‘Nothing short of a surgical operation, in fact!’
‘You are angry. What did you want me to say?’
‘You know well enough. One word would have done. Yes. Why couldn’t you say it? You say enough things to people to please them, without caring whether they’re true or not. Why not to me? For God’s sake, why not to me?’
And still very slowly she had answered:
‘I don’t know…really, I don’t know, John. I can’t—that’s all. I can’t.’
He had walked up and down for a minute or two. Then he said:
‘You will drive me mad, Henrietta. I never feel that I have any influence over you at all.’
‘Why should you want to have?’
‘I don’t know. I do.’
He threw himself down on a chair.
‘I want to come first.’
‘You do, John.’
‘No. If I were dead, the first thing you’d do, with the tears streaming down your face, would be to start modelling some damned mourning woman or some figure of grief.’
‘I wonder. I believe—yes, perhaps I would. It’s rather horrible.’
She had sat there looking at him with dismayed eyes.
The pudding was burnt. Christow raised his eyebrows over it and Gerda hurried into apologies.
‘I’m sorry, dear. I can’t think why that should happen. It’s my fault. Give me the top and you take the underneath.’
The pudding was burnt because he, John Christow, had stayed sitting in his consulting-room for a quarter of an hour after he need, thinking about Henrietta and Mrs Crabtree and letting ridiculous nostalgic feelings about San Miguel sweep over him. The fault was his. It was idiotic of Gerda to try and take the blame, maddening of her to try and eat the burnt part herself. Why did she always have to make a martyr of herself ? Why did Terence stare at him in that slow, interested way? Why, oh why, did Zena have to sniff so continually? Why were they all so damned irritating?
His wrath fell on Zena.
‘Why on earth don’t you blow your nose?’
‘She’s got a little cold, I think, dear.’
‘No, she hasn’t. You’re always thinking they have colds! She’s all right.’
Gerda sighed. She had never been able to understand why a doctor, who spent his time treating the ailments of others, could be so indifferent to the health of his own family. He always ridiculed any suggestions of illness.
‘I sneezed eight times before lunch,’ said Zena importantly.
‘Heat sneeze!’ said John.
‘It’s not hot,’ said Terence. ‘The thermometer in the hall is 55.’
John got up. ‘Have we finished? Good, let’s get on. Ready to start, Gerda?’
‘In a minute, John. I’ve just a few things to put in.’
‘Surely you could have done that before. What have you been doing all the morning?’
He went out of the dining-room fuming. Gerda had hurried off into her bedroom. Her anxiety to be quick would make her much slower. But why couldn’t she have been ready? His own suitcase was packed and in the hall. Why on earth—
Zena was advancing on him, clasping some rather sticky cards.
‘Can I tell your fortune, Daddy? I know how. I’ve told Mother’s and Terry’s and Lewis’s and Jane’s and Cook’s.’
‘All right.’
He wondered how long Gerda was going to be. He wanted to get away from this horrible house and this horrible street and this city full of ailing, sniffling, diseased people. He wanted to get to woods and wet leaves—and the graceful aloofness of Lucy Angkatell, who always gave you the impression she hadn’t even got a body.
Zena was importantly dealing out cards.
‘That’s you in the middle, Father, the King of Hearts. The person whose fortune’s told is always the King of Hearts. And then I deal the others face down. Two on the left of you and two on the right of you and one over your head—that has power over you, and one under your feet—you have power over it. And this one—covers you!
‘Now.’ Zena drew a deep breath. ‘We turn them over. On the right of you is the Queen of Diamonds—quite close.’
‘Henrietta,’ he thought, momentarily diverted and amused by Zena’s solemnity.
‘And the next one is the knave of clubs—he’s some quiet young man.
‘On the left of you is the eight of spades—that’s a secret enemy. Have you got a secret enemy, Father?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘And beyond is the Queen of Spades—that’s a much older lady.’
‘Lady Angkatell,’ he said.
‘Now
