“Well, don’t tell her then. Don’t mention it. Just leave it discreetly on the telephone table.”
“Like a visiting card.”
“She’ll know what it is. Do you want the scissors?”
“Yes, please.”
“Why don’t you go and get them then?”
“I can’t find them.”
“You haven’t looked.”
“No point. I can never find the scissors. It’s one of the eternal verities. Something to cling to amid the vicissitudes of daily life.”
“It wears me out,” Sylvia said, “when you are so unrelentingly fatuous.”
With a conspicuous grunt of effort she got to her feet, and went into the kitchen. She was pleased with “fatuous” or did she mean facetious? That was possible. She rummaged in a drawer, thinking about Suzanne; thinking about Colin and his ten-year-old love affair, thinking about the undertaker’s bill. It had been distasteful, having Colin make jokes about gun carriages and lying in state. She knew he was doing it to cover his shock; his shock at finding out what people were capable of. Looking sideways at Florence, snivelling in her pew, she had thought: how can she? It was touching how Francis, who had no particular belief in an afterlife, had subdued his natural militancy and tried to come up with comforting and appropriate texts. She had felt a sharp impulse to lay the matter at his feet, but stifled it. She was sure he would approve of mercy killing; but Mother didn’t want to die. She was quite happy with her round of royal duties. She did not see how Florence could be so heartless, just for the sake of her career at the DHSS, but then she knew what her own first thought had been; no more trailing up and down the stairs, up and down the stairs. It took weight off—six calories a minute—but it wearied her.
But what would Francis say? He would like to agonise over it, if they had Hermione’s mother become incontinent in their spare room. He would like to wrestle with his conscience. That was the proper way. She had not wrestled with hers. She was not sure if she had a conscience. It was the kind of thing Colin talked about. Who knew if, over the years, Francis’s talk of it might become as tedious as Colin’s? That was men: scant regard for practicalities. Probably she was not good enough for Francis; he would find her wanting. She had dusted her hands off—mentally—and gone downstairs to ring the Elliot Bros., Funeral Directors, 24-Hour Service, Chapel of Rest. All she had thought of was what, since she was so large, Suzanne could possibly wear to the funeral. She took the scissors out of the drawer; I haven’t much imagination, she thought. Thank God.
“There you go,” she said, coming back into the living room and handing the scissors to her husband. He had succeeded in getting his parcel half-undone. Now he opened the cardboard box inside the wrapping paper.
“Good Lord,” he said. “It’s a phrenologist’s head. I’ve always wanted one of these.”
He took it out and put it on the coffee table. He knelt before it and traced its lines with his forefinger: Faculty of Conjugality, Faculty of Self-esteem. “I wonder where they got it. Stole it, probably. Still, it’s not the sort of thing you nick from Woolworth’s, they must have gone to trouble.”
“It’s no laughing matter.”
“Oh, there are worse crimes in the family.”
“I don’t like it, it’s sinister.”
“Faculty of Progenitiveness,” Colin said. “Come here, Sylvia, let me feel your head.” He fitted his fingers around her forehead and squeezed.
“Get off,” she bellowed angrily. “My God, Colin, you’re easily diverted. Your own daughter lying in a hospital bed, threatening to leave home, your son’s a delinquent, and all you can do is mess about with toys.”
“It’s not a toy. Suzanne’s just given birth, so where else would she be? And I understand she’s left home already.” He turned the head about. “Faculty of Combativeness.”
“It’s rubbish anyway,” Sylvia said. “It’s discredited.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Colin felt his skull above his left ear. “Opportunities for self-knowledge are so limited. It doesn’t do to be dogmatic. I wonder what I’d find if I read Florence’s bumps?”
“I think I’d rather not know. I’d rather not know more than I do.”
“‘Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.’”
“Another quotation,” Sylvia said. “It’s like Christmas every day, living with you. Out come the mottoes and the silly jokes, and the coloured plastic distractions, all the penny whistles and cheap novelties. And when the day’s over, what happens? All the trash is left under the table, for me to clear up.”
He didn’t answer. Surprised by the fluency of her outburst, he sat on the sofa, his eyes indignantly wide, staring at the phrenological head. Sylvia went into the kitchen. He heard the fridge door open and shut, and the clink of glasses. She whipped back into the room, ignoring him, and began to rummage around in the drinks cupboard.
“Oh, are we drinking again?” he asked.
“I am. I need one, after that episode with Suzanne. Have you ever known anybody so ungrateful? What more does she think I can offer her?”
“Pour me one.” He sounded forlorn.
“I’m having vodka.”
“That’ll do. Don’t put anything silly in it.”
Her voice floated through from the kitchen: “What do you call silly?” The telephone rang. Sylvia nipped back, dumped the glasses, picked it up; she thought it was Suzanne, changing her mind about things. He saw her back stiffen. “Yes,” she said carefully. “Yes, it is. Yes, he is.” She lowered the receiver, muffling it against her left breast. “It’s Mrs. Ryan. She wants to know if she can speak to you. If it’s convenient.”
Colin leaned forward and took up his head. The pottery bones were cool and firm beneath his palms. “She being sarcastic?” he asked.
