Girl Reading (27 page)

Laurence, what would you like me to put in your omelette?

I don’t really mind.

Shall I give you some choices? You can have potatoes and cabbage from last night, or salad onions or ham, or have it plain. Unfortunately we don’t have any mushrooms, but I can go out and buy some if you want them desperately. I do like mushrooms myself. Eating them makes me feel quite pagan— Gwen laughs at her own imagery and flicks her hair, which has become a trophy once again (it took simply ages to grow). I suppose one could put whatever one wanted into an omelette, pickles or broad beans. What about jam? We could invent the world’s first sweet omelette, wouldn’t that be exciting?

Whatever the others say shall do for me.

Gwen did not intend to ask each person staying at Arnault what they wanted in their omelettes, only Laurence; otherwise she will be making four separate dishes.

Laurence takes out his cigarette case and slots one between his lips.

I should like to—have one. (Gwen prevents the words “try one” from coming out.)

I didn’t know you smoked.

Occasionally. Mummy doesn’t know.

Laurence appears to like this admission, extends them toward her. She fumbles, then holds one up between two fingers like she has seen other people doing, her wrist open. When Laurence clicks his lighter she puts the fag in her mouth and enjoys the seconds of close proximity with him while the flame takes. He comes nearer than the action necessitates and this, or the concoction of tobacco, makes her warm, makes her tingle. She drags a little, swallows the urge to cough, and remembers to smile in thanks. If he watches for signs of unfamiliarity she does not betray any. Quite ordinary.

She resumes: I hate to be the one to tell you, but you are working much too hard. Isn’t this your third picture this week? You will wear yourself out.

He drops a brush into a cup of several, clatters them around, subtracts another, inspects the bristles, applies it.

Gwen admires the painting. Oh, but it is rather good, so edible looking, so round and ripe. How I should like to gorge myself on your tomatoes, Laurence, and consign the real ones to the rubbish. I bet yours taste delicious. (Gwen paces absently, taking a puff or two.) I do worry about you. Do you understand? I think you do—what it is like to worry about the welfare of a friend, someone you care for and think highly of. It is human nature to have sympathy for one’s fellows. Our sympathy sets us apart from the animals. Come to think of it . . . we once had a small dog that was quite good at reading emotions. If you were crying, or even if you weren’t, if you were just sad about something and keeping it to yourself, he would scamper in and put his head in your lap as though he were trying to speak. Isn’t that funny? He ran away, of course. (Gwen compares the painting to the subject and sucks some more on her smoke, finds it has grown easier, tastier.) I declare you work harder than Cynthia, and that is saying something. She rather neglects herself. Mummy says Cynthia will never marry. She looks so ghastly all the time. For what, precisely? Some crusty old university scholar who no one has heard of and who is now dead. At least you are sharing of yourself through your art. You are reaching out. I think it’s noble. But it can’t be all work, can it? You ought to enjoy yourself sometimes. Part of me thinks I should do you a kindness and cook these tomatoes so you can’t paint them anymore—

And Gwen has been pacing the room while she speaks—

Emboldened by the success of the cigarette and its stimulating effects, she playfully lifts one of the fruits from the bowl.

What the hell are you doing?

Gwen stops at the voice, at the venom in it.

Put it back. Now.

She does so, wounded, mortified.

I am trying to finish this, will you leave me alone?

That would have been bad enough, but as she goes she hears him mumble behind her—

Fucking pest.

Gwen finishes the rest of her cigarette outside, drawing some comfort from it. Indeed, they are perfectly habit forming. She is in full view of Cynthia, who is in the kitchen, standing, reading, separating one folio from another. But if Cynthia sees, she does not rebuke her.

You are an oddment, Cynthia Everard, Gwen murmurs to the vision through the gray windows and interior gloom. I wonder whether it would occur to you to spill the beans to Mummy about anything here? You must miss out on so much. Poor Bluestocking.

Sinclair materializes at the other side of Arnault, heads in the opposite direction away from Gwen and toward town. She minces down the path, does not shut the gate after her.

Gwen narrows her eyes.

As it happens, Cynthia has
not
paid any attention to Gwen. She has shooting pains down the back of her neck and the start of a headache. She berates herself because she cannot spare a day lying on her bed with the curtains closed and a moist cloth over her eyes. It has gone wrong wrong wrong.

This is how it was when she was an undergraduate. The despair of knowing—literally—nothing. Of feeling that her presence is subversive, that her calling is nonsense, that she must be grateful for her place. Fed up with being beaten by concepts that are bigger and cleverer than she is, let alone by small, revolting men with flaccid
penises. If only it were a case of learning it the way one learns the date of the Battle of Waterloo or the lines of a sonnet. Why must one’s ineptness be laid bare? Why must one’s limitations be exposed? And what exactly does one,
Cynthia,
want?

Cynthia slams a book on top of another.

She might as well rearrange and tidy the work of a mind better than her own, consolidate it to ensure its survival, and that can be her contribution, not an inconsiderable one—and then write a biography that will sell in reasonable quantities. If what she wants is universal acceptance in her own right, she shall never get it.

Gwen’s straggly shadow appears in the doorway.

Are you actually going to help me at all? Cynthia is referring to the original intention of Gwen’s stay, to assist her at least some of the time with her research.

What do you want me to do?

A space is cleared and Cynthia puts two unopened boxes in front of her.

Put these in date order. Separate out publications from private writing. If you find any loose pages, match them with the documents they belong to and make a note of anything that is incomplete or missing.

Gwen finds they are almost entirely loose pages, some of them unnumbered or constituting the middle of a longer paper that could belong to more than one source. The handwriting is appalling, and all of it is
very
boring. Nonetheless, she makes an effort because Cynthia has been a good sport, has given Gwen the liberty to do as she pleases until now.

Cynthia is writing, underlining a word, marking a paragraph with an asterisk, clipping corners together. Is tired. They work this way for over an hour and a half.

Gwen finds in one of her boxes the dead man’s scrapbook (all sorts in here). She turns through it, looking for fragments of letters
among the miscellany. She wants to ask Cynthia, who is ancient and must be able to remember, whether everyone in the previous century was as po-faced as the trollop on this calling card?

By the time she comes to the end of the album she has lost interest, instead makes the announcement that will rattle even Cynthia’s poise: I fear I have fallen in love with Laurence Fern.

Who hasn’t?

Gwen is quietly scandalized. What makes you say so, Cynthia?

Everyone falls in love with Laurence; he requires it of them.

She states it. Detached. Matter-of-fact. Gwen grips the side of her own face as if she has been struck and exclaims, How savage you are! Just because you have given up on love, why spoil it for the rest of us? You are such a baggage.

Running off to cry in private seems like the appropriate gesture to go with this speech, so Gwen does.

Sinclair reclines in the shade. She is as glamorous as the film star on the cover of her magazine, which she prefers to the newspaper (folded, ignored) and its reports of war. It is, if possible, hotter today than yesterday, but the heat does not affect Sinclair like it does other people; she does not shine, she does not burn. Her nerveless face is without expression. Her body is still and enveloped by a printed silk kimono. Her movements—a yawn—when they do happen are slow, like she is on display. If she is surprised to find herself no longer alone, she hides it with perfect nonchalance.

It’s you.

I brought you some cider. Gwen balances the two glasses on a tray, lowers it like a servant so Sinclair can take one and place it on the table beside her.

How thoughtful.

May I join you?

Sinclair flexes one eyebrow but replies, Of course you may.

Gwen sits, does not remove her bag, rests it on her lap. She pats it because her large notebook is inside (plain pages, with a useful line guide made of card to insert between them). She intended to take notes; now fears this may inhibit their conversation, it being the first on their own. Gwen has come to make a scientific study of Sinclair, to find out:

i. Whether S is romantically involved with L.

ii. Whether S would like to be romantically involved with L.

iii. What S’s Christian name is & why she goes by just her surname.

iv. What S’s weaknesses are & how to use them against her.

v. Whether S has any redeeming features whatsoever.

It is harsh but necessary. The list had only been four items last night, but this morning Gwen added a fifth to show anyone, in the future, who might find it by accident and think badly of her, that she really is (or rather was) a very good person. On paper at least, Sinclair has the benefit of the doubt. Sinclair has withdrawn into her magazine, and Gwen struggles with how to begin gleaning the required information. Neither speaks, and Gwen boils inside— This is terribly rude of you, especially when I have brought you some cider and come over to make friends. Well, not to make friends, but you aren’t to know that; you should be being nice to me.

Sinclair turns a page and rests a single finger on her cheek.

This is too much for Gwen—how false! She is surely pretending to read it, is probably only looking at the pictures. The longer their mutual silence endures, the more awkward it will be to break. Gwen dives in: I thought it would be nice to get to know each other. Us girls have to stick together. You don’t know anyone, apart from Laurence Fern, of course . . . you don’t know us, Cynthia and
me, or the local area. I thought I could help out, answer any questions you may have. Do you have any questions?

Sinclair genuinely appears to give it some thought, then shakes her head.

Plus, I don’t know anything about you; where you are from? your background?

There is not much to tell. I am originally from Oxfordshire and was glad to leave it. I live in London. I am what you can see.

Gwen tilts her head interestedly. Oxfordshire. London. Remarkable. What do you do there?

Do . . . ?

Gwen can almost hear Mummy’s reproaches and backtracks. Some people are volunteering, given the state of current affairs, and some people have plans for after the war and whatnot. I wondered if you were like that, if you had any plans, or hobbies?

Sinclair smirks. I let biology take its course. I plan to be looked after when I am married, and to get my own way quite as often as I get it now. When does the charlady come?

Oh (a question). Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday. Her name is Agnes Rumford, but you must call her Mrs. Rumford; Cynthia is quite particular about that, because she is ancient and has taken care of Arnault simply forever.

I have some clothes I need her to press for me.

Mrs. Rumford is excellent at ironing; makes the straightest, sharpest creases you have ever seen.

I will settle for her getting rid of the squiggling creases I don’t wish to see.

Gwen’s brain jars and grinds, then she realizes a corner of Sinclair’s red mouth is elevated and it was supposed to be some sort of joke, and a response was expected. Too late, Sinclair is elaborating—

I shall commandeer Mrs. Rumford in the morning.

If you want to get in her good books, she does love boiled sweets, especially lemon and lime flavor.

That is useful to know; I shall acquire some before I speak to her. Thank you for the suggestion, Gwen.

And though it annoys her, Gwen is almost pleased to have been able to help. She makes a mental note:
S; maybe not all bad?
(She will write it up properly later.) In fact, this helps Gwen relax slightly, and she sips her cider with gusto.

Sinclair drinks too. Mm, reminds me of holidays. Funny the way a smell or a taste can do that to you, drop you in the middle of a memory.

I have the same with cigar smoke. The smell makes me think of Daddy’s cigar on Christmas Eve. He always lets me take a puff before bed.

My Christmas smell is the paste we use to make paper chains.

Is it . . . ? I can picture it exactly. Aren’t we funny, talking about Christmas in this weather? It’s all topsy-turvy.

Rather. (And though they do not laugh as such, there is at least mutual pleasure.)

So . . . tell me how you know Laurence . . .
Mr. Fern.
Did you meet in London?

More collided than met.

Have you known him very long?

Sinclair sighs as though the topic is dull to her. No. Though I don’t think one needs to know Laurence for long to get the measure of him. He picked me, you see.

Picked?

Yes. Laurence chose me out of a group of sisters, girlfriends, and cousins of mine. Not because I am the greatest prize, although I am, but because I am the hardest to crack.

To . . . marry?

Sinclair laughs a silvery, tinkling laugh. Goodness no, he hasn’t
any money. Poor boy is a fourth son, which is virtually the same as being born on the wrong side of the blanket, if you ask me. If he proposed, he knows I’d turn him down flat. No. He is charming, very charming, and of good breeding, which can carry you pretty far, but those are not necessarily good qualities without an income to match. Laurence picked me the way you would pick a plum from a plum tree. He wants to have me and, while it amuses me, I shall permit myself to be had.