stood around in the road, but she moved in a world of business men, golf-club bar proppers and night-club hounds, who certainly regarded her in this light. I did not want to know anything about this; possibly I ought to have been more concerned. I was upset and annoyed when my father once approached the subject, and although I could see that he had been made utterly miserable, I resolutely refused to discuss it. I never said anything to my mother, who always defended Priscilla and pretended, or deceived herself into believing, that all was well. I was by this time already involved with Christian, and I had other matters on my mind.
I will not attempt a lengthy description of Roger. He too will appear in the story in due course. I did not like Roger. Roger did not like me. He always referred to himself as a «public-school boy,» which I suppose he had been. He had a little education, and a great deal of «air,» a «plummy» voice and a misleadingly distinguished appearance. As his copious crown of hair became peppery and then grey he began to resemble a soldier. (He had once done some army service, I think in the Pay Corps.) He held himself like a military man and alleged that his friends nicknamed him «the brigadier.» He cultivated the crude joking manners of a junior officers' mess. He worked in fact in a bank, about which he made as much mystery as possible. He drank and laughed too much.
Married to such a man it was not likely that my sister would be very happy, nor was she. With a pathetic and touching loyalty, and even courage, she kept up appearances. She was house-proud: and there was eventually quite a handsome house, or «maisonette,» in the «better part» of Bristol, with fine cutlery and glasses and the things which women prize. There were «dinner parties» and a big car. It was a long way from Croydon. I suspected that they lived beyond their means and that Roger was often in financial difficulties, but Priscilla never actually said so. They both very much wanted children, but were unable to produce any. Once when drunk Roger hinted that Priscilla's «operation» had done some fatal damage. I did not want to know. I could see that Priscilla was unhappy, her life was boring and empty, and Roger was not a rewarding companion. I did not however want to know about this either. I rarely visited them. I occasionally gave Priscilla lunch in London. We talked of trivialities.
She was smartly dressed in a navy-blue «jersey» coat and skirt, looking pale and tense, unsmiling. She had retained her looks into middle age, though she had put on weight and looked a good deal less «glossy,» now resembling a «career woman»: the female counterpart perhaps of Roger's specious «military look.» Her well-cut un– gaudy clothes, deliberately «classic» and quite unlike the lurid plumage of her youth, looked a bit like uniform, the effect being counteracted however by the vulgar «costume jewellery» with which she always loaded herself. She dyed her hair a discreet gold and wore it kempt and wavy. Her face was not a weak one, somewhat resembling mine only without the «cagey» sensitive look. Her eyes were narrowed by short sight, and her thin lips were brightly painted.
She said nothing in reply to my surprised greeting, marched past me into the sitting-room, selected one of the lyre-back chairs, pulled it away from the wall, sat down upon it and dissolved into desperate tears.
«Priscilla, Priscilla, what is it, what's happened? Oh, you are upsetting me so!»
After a while the weeping subsided into a series of long sighing sobs. She sat inspecting the streaks of honey-brown make-up which had come off onto her paper handkerchief. ilT-> –111 –«
Priscilla, what is it?
«I've left Roger.»
I felt blank dismay, instant fear for myself. I did not want to be involved in any mess of Priscilla's. I did not even want to have to be sorry for Priscilla. Then I thought, Of course there is exaggeration, misconception.
«Don't be silly, Priscilla. Now do calm yourself, please. Of course you haven't left Roger. You've had a tiff-«Could I have some whisky?»
«I don't keep whisky. I think there's a little medium-sweet sherry.»
«Well, can I have some?»
I went to the walnut hanging cupboard and poured her a glass of brown sherry. «Here.»
«To bed?»
She got up abruptly, pushed out of the door, banging herself against the lintel, and went into the spare bedroom. She came out again, cannoning into me, when she saw that the bed was not made up. She went into my bedroom, sat on the bed, threw her handbag violently into a corner, kicked off her shoes and dragged off her jacket. Uttering a low moan she began to undo her skirt.
«Priscilla!»
«I'm going to lie down. I've been up all night. Could you bring my glass of sherry please?»
