takes one to know one), who live with their thumbs in their mouths. Sarah knew what had knocked the thumb out of her own mouth: the need to bring up two young children with little money and no father for them.
Henry? A father if there ever was one. Perhaps to Henry she was the good mother. Everything about him proclaimed that what he had had to fight his way out of was something as focused as a demented female cat (driven mad, of course, by circumstances and therefore in no way to blame), who is capable of biting her kittens to death, or walking finally away from them, or killing them with kindness. Something obdurately hostile had set him in a trajectory away, until he had turned to face it at last, taking into his arms the child — himself — like a shield… thoughts of Henry shuttled in her head, mixing and matching likenesses, coincidences, memories, creating the invisible web that is love, visible — sometimes for years — only in glances like caresses or silences like hands touching.
Sarah looked in the mirror.
It was time for:
There are two phases in this illness. The first is when a woman looks, looks closer: yes, that shoulder; yes, that wrist; yes, that arm. The second is when she makes herself stand in front of a truthful glass, to stare hard and cold at an ageing woman, makes herself return to the glass, again, again, because the person who is doing the looking feels herself to be exactly the same (when away from the glass) as she was at twenty, thirty, forty. She
But the second stage was still some weeks away.
Sarah looked in the mirror, flattering what she saw, censoring out what could not be flattered, and she thought of Henry and allowed herself to melt with tenderness. But the tenderness was a tightrope, with gulfs under it. She might allow herself to dream of Henry's embraces, but at once her mind put her situation into words, and it was the stuff of farce and merited only a raucous laugh. A woman in her mid-sixties, in love with a man half her age… imagine how she would have described that aged twenty. Or even thirty. (She could see her own young face, derisive, cruel, arrogant.) No use to say, But he is in love with me. He wanted to be in bed with her, certainly, and if he did come into her bed it would be passion, most certainly, but — she faced this steadily, though it hurt quite horribly — with him there would be, too, curiosity. What is it like having sex with a woman twice my age? And was she going to say to this lover, 'I haven't slept with a man for not far off twenty years? A space of time which seems nothing at all to me (you will have heard, of course, how time accelerates with the years, and might even have experienced the beginnings of this process), but to you it will seem very long, almost two- thirds of your life.' Not even she — whose careless frankness in matters of love had more than once done her harm — would say that to a man. Yet she would be thinking it: It is twenty years since I held a man in my arms. For the first time in her life she would ask to have the light off, while knowing there would be that moment — this went with his character, which was impulsive, impetuous, and sensual — when he would switch on the light to see this body he wanted. And — who knew? — perhaps the ageing body would turn him on. (What turned people on was, obviously, not easily predicted.) But did she want that? Really? She, who had been (she now saw, with astonishment at what she had taken for granted) so confident that she had never felt a second's anxiety about what a man might see as he caressed, kissed, held…
The company assembled in the theatre area to see the new amenities. Five hundred chairs crammed the space where people had stood or strolled or sat on grass. The great trees, the shrubs under them, the flowers massed around the stage, the grass, seemed surfeited with that summer's sun, and Julie's face and Molly's and Susan's, as Julie, appeared everywhere. The new building, just finished, could only dismay on a first viewing. Well- used buildings seemed inhabited: you enter welcoming or neutral rooms and spaces. While the exterior of this place seemed concerned to make as little of a statement as possible, was surrounded by screening shrubs, some newly planted, the interior was bleak, grey, echoing, and each room was a vacuum.
In two hours' time would be the dress rehearsal, and the company would have to act with confidence, though they had not performed in this setting before, but they assured each other the experience in Belles Rivieres would see them through and the new players would find themselves supported. And it was only a rehearsal, with an invited audience. At seven everyone went to the big house, where Elizabeth and Norah had a buffet supper for them. The two women stood behind tables in a room that could have given hospitality to players and musicians any time during the last four centuries. They were enjoying this role of theirs, serving the Muse, or Muses. They wore smart dresses under aprons, explaining the amenities of the house, playing both hostess and servant, while welcoming so many people and serving food adapted to this hot evening. They did not say why Stephen was absent. The host was not there.
Sarah was waiting for him. So was Susan, for while she stood chatting nicely over the plate she was eating from, her eyes sped continually to the big doors behind Norah and Elizabeth, which admitted girls bearing more dishes from the kitchens, or to the big door leading out to the garden. Not until the meal was nearly over did Stephen arrive. A small and unremarkable door to the interior of the house opened, and he stood there, an authoritative presence, though he had meant, it seemed, to appear unnoticed. Susan sped him a look over her plate and, when she was sure he had seen her, let her lids fall, with an effect of obedience. Stephen sent Sarah a glance like a wink, but then looked long and sombrely at Susan. He picked up a plate, was filling it with this and that, but absent-mindedly, and then Susan was beside him.
Sarah stood across the room, a glass of wine in her hand, and watched the scene. She was so pretty, that girl… lovely… so young… just imagine she takes it all for granted. Just look at her: she intends to shoot arrows into every part of him, and yet at the same time she is full of uncertainty and forcing herself to stand her ground, looking up at him. If he addresses one rejecting word at her she'll melt away. Well, make the most of it, my dear one, Sarah addressed Susan, or Julie, in a wash of emotion that made her want to embrace Susan and Stephen together, as if they were all here to celebrate a marriage or sing an epithalamium… what nonsense that she was so afflicted by these disproportionate emotions. She turned from watching the pair and found Henry beside her. He had been watching her watch Stephen, for now he muttered, and there was no joke about it, 'I'm getting jealous of Stephen.' Her abasement before youth was such that she at once thought, He is in love with Susan, and daggers of ice splintered in her heart, but then she saw it was not so and could have wept with delight, because it was she, Sarah, he was jealous of. And so she laughed, far too much, and he said, put out, 'I don't see why it's so funny.'
'So you don't know why it is funny, no, you don't know why it is so funny,' she derided, her face six inches from his, as Susan's was from Stephen's. He grimaced, as if from a mouthful of unexpectedly sour food, and said 'Sarah,' reproachful and low. They stood beside each other, just touching. Bliss, well mixed with every kind of regret, was making itself available in unlimited quantities. At that moment Sarah was not envying the girl who stood admiring Stephen with looks that said, whether she knew it or not, 'Take me, take me.' Well, everyone had a bedroom on the same floor. It was inconceivable to Sarah that Henry would not come to hers that night, while she knew he would not, because his wife would soon be here.
