“But can’t you see, Isabel? I feel torn.”
She reached for her coat from the chair beside her, reached for her bag under the table. “Ah, this tired old scene,” she said. “I should have known. How is it possible to be of moderate intelligence and reasonable education, and not know? I’ve read the Problem Pages. I ought to know. Come on, Colin, let’s be going. I can’t sit here and run through the lines that society has written for me. They’ve outlawed wire nooses and gin traps, but they can’t legislate against this.”
They sat in silence; then, leaving their drinks half-finished, got up and walked stiffly out to the car.
Earlier that day, Florence Sidney had taken a conspicuous initiative. Her morning had begun badly. She had telephoned Sylvia to discuss arrangements, only to be told curtly that everything was under control and that she had nothing to do about Christmas dinner except turn up and eat it. Sylvia contrived to make her feel a fumbling amateur at family festivity, a selfish, disorganised, childless woman. Whereas the truth was, Florence thought bitterly…she looked down at her small, cool, pastry-making hands, and went into the kitchen to make two dozen mince pies.
At eleven thirty she stood at the Axons’ front door with a plateful of the pies in her hand, warm and fragrant. From the hall she heard Evelyn Axon’s voice raised in apparent anger; but she had already knocked. There was a sort of scuffling, a few seconds silence, and then the door opened on Evelyn’s strained face.
“Yes? What is it you want?”
Florence stepped backwards. Evelyn’s tone was coldly hostile. Without a word, Florence smiled miserably, and lifted the napkin to show the pies.
“I see,” Evelyn said, sneering.
“I thought—Merry Christmas.” Florence held out the plate; then suddenly, determination seized her. She stepped forward briskly, up the step and over the threshold, and Evelyn dropped back before her, caught off guard.
“May I come in?”
“You’re in already, aren’t you?”
“I hoped I could wish Muriel a Merry Christmas.”
“I dare say.”
“Is Muriel ill? It seems quite a time since I saw her out and about.”
Evelyn looked at Florence and saw nothing yielding about her; heard nothing apologetic, just the hard note of the professional enquirer. She heard a rustling from above, from the top of the stairs. Was Muriel preparing to come down? If this woman cast half an eye—
“You had better come in and sit down. This way.”
The front room was the safest, she thought, the least informative about their life and possessions. She rested her hand on the doorknob, and turned back to see Florence looking about her. “How is your mother, Miss Sidney?” she said. Florence jumped and followed her.
The door was stuck. Evelyn gasped. Someone was at the other side of it. She heard a clunk, a scraping—the wood of the door knocked against something hard and resistant. Quickly, she turned with her back to the door.
“Is it stuck? Here, let me.”
“No. Get away.” She pushed Florence hard in the ribs. Florence dropped back, and two of the pies shot off her plate and plopped moistly onto the hall floor.
“Well, really. I was only trying to help.”
“You will hardly help yourself by going in there,” Evelyn said.
“I wasn’t trying to help myself,” Florence said. “It is of no interest to me. I was trying to help you.”
Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. “Have you any notion of what you may be doing, trying to force your way into locked rooms?”
“But it isn’t locked. What are you talking about?”
“You have no idea what may be behind that door,” Evelyn said. “Neither, for that matter, have I. Something is holding it shut, and it is certainly not damp.”
“This is absolutely ridiculous,” Florence said with passion.
“Ridiculous? I am glad you can take so light a view of it. Go into the back room.”
“Now look, Mrs. Axon, I simply came to bring you some mince pies. I have no particular desire to go into your front room. Or your back room. I think possibly the best thing I can do is just give you the pies and go.”
“No,” Evelyn said. She pointed to the door of the back room. “We are going to celebrate Christmas.”
Florence walked in ahead of her.
“I am going to give you a drink,” Evelyn said from the hall. “Sit down and stay where you are.”
Florence looked around her. She had never been in the Axons’ house. Her mother, she knew, had sometimes visited. The most remarkable thing was the quality of furniture, each heavy and unpolished piece pushed up against the next, jostling for space on a mud-coloured carpet; surely, Florence thought, carpets are not woven in any such shade. The upholstery of the suite was greasy and worn, the wallpaper yellow with age. What a way to live, Florence thought; creating a slum, here in this neighbourhood. What was the need for it? She tried to place the smell. Cats? No. Well, perhaps she was too fastidious. Not everyone had the same tastes in decor. And there was nothing too frightful, just some pervading air—Florence bit her lip.
Evelyn returned carrying a small tumbler of something pale. She stood opposite Florence, holding the glass. Florence noted with distaste that it was greasy.
“Aren’t you joining me?”
