“You were a while,” Sylvia observed, “in the toilet.”
“Allow me a few moments’ privacy,” Colin said. “Confine your interest to the children’s bowel movements, not mine.”
“The topic of romance on trams has worn thin,” Florence said. “I see that we must have something else. Sylvia sees it too.”
Defiantly, Colin took out a cigarette and lit it. Love is blind, Florence thought: for a year or two.
“Unhygienic habit,” Sylvia said. “I gave it up when I was pregnant with Suzanne. I read it in a magazine. Smoking and Pregnancy.”
“Sylvia takes magazines devoted to housewifery,” Florence said. “Does she have recipes making use of frozen chicken which are both tasty and economical?”
“I know what you eat,” Sylvia said. “Bread and jam.”
“In its place,” Florence murmured.
“Tea,” said Colin.
“I know. And tomato sandwiches. I don’t think Colin had ever had a proper meal in his life until we got married.” She got up. “We’ll be off, Florence.” She went out through the kitchen to the back door. “Come on, you lot, we’re off.”
An argument ensued. Florence could hear the protests of the children overridden by Sylvia’s firm flat voice. It made her nervous. If they wanted to stay, it probably meant that they were engaged in some form of covert vandalism. “The roses,” she said nervously.
“Roses,” Colin put his head in his hands. “You ought to get some cabbages in. The cost of living being what it is.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. They were Father’s roses.”
“Grub them up,” Colin said. “That’s it. Grub them up.” He groaned quietly, then stood up, stretching himself. He was a man on poor terms with his clothes—his shirt always coming out of his waistband, his trousers shooting up around his calves as he sat; it was difficult not to see this as a symptom of a more general failure of control. He had once been remarkably good-looking, but now his looks had faded, as if his features were doubtful of their application in his current circumstances. His habitual expression was one of anxious astonishment, like that of a man who has been stopped in the street by a policeman and finds he has forgotten his name. “Where’s my pullover?” he said, looking about. He hauled it over his head and smoothed his thinning fair hair.
“You’re ageing, Colin,” Florence said in a low voice.
“Ah well. At my back I always hear time’s winged chariot etc. It’s been ten years you know, me and Sylvia. I should have thought the amusement would have palled. You hurt her, you know. She cries. She isn’t entirely the jolly factory lass you take her to be.”
“Come on, Colin.” Sylvia was standing in the doorway holding the hands of her two younger children. “Thank you very much, Florence. Say thank you to your Auntie for the nice tea.”
Freeing their hands, pushing past Florence, the children whooped out to the car. Sylvia followed them.
“I wanted your opinion,” Florence said. “About Mrs. Axon and her daughter.”
“I have no opinion,” Colin said. “Mrs. Axon has lived around the corner for as long as I can remember without having done anything to warrant my having an opinion on her.” His shirt had come out again; he was stuffing it back, hauling at his belt. “You know, Florence, Sylvia’s quite right. You’ve got to make a life of your own.”
Outside, Sylvia wound the car window down. “Colin, are you coming?”
“Anon, good Sylvia, anon. You see, the problem is, you were geared up to years of self-sacrifice, looking after Mother. Now all that’s aborted…well, you know what I mean. Eh, old girl? Pop over next Sunday.” A peck on the cheek. She stood in the porch watching Sylvia wind the window up again. There was something incongruously patrician about Sylvia’s averted profile, her mouth was set, her chin sagging. Colin hunched himself into the driver’s seat.
“It’s a flaming bloodsport,” Sylvia said.
“Sorry, love.” On a sudden whim Colin transferred his hand from the knob of the gearstick to her knee. He patted it. “You mustn’t let her get you down. She’s lonely, you know.”
Sylvia sniffed. “Come on, let’s get home.”
Colin steered along Buckingham Avenue with his usual caution. The little saloon forced him to drive with his arms stiffly extended, as if he were fending off the week ahead.
“You were getting at me,” she said.
“Well, just a bit.”
“Florence sets you off.”
“I said I’m sorry. Can we have a bit of peace? I said,” he raised his voice for the children in the back, “can we have a bit of peace?”
The most difficult thing was not knowing: how many months. Evelyn took down the calendar and pored over it. You could not be positive that the missing Thursdays were implicated. That would be a jump altogether too far ahead.
“Do you want to go to the doctor?” she said. “It would cost.”
Muriel said that it was free now.
“Free? Nothing’s free. What sort of stupid talk is that?”
She didn’t know what was going on in the world, Muriel said craftily. Craftily, because it was Muriel’s scheme to
