perpetually as the family villain? Yes, I dare say I do. But I was thinking also of Thomas. He’s been told ad infinitum that he’s useless, and now he believes it. I’m going now, Lucy.’ I stood up without haste. ‘You tell Thomas over and over that he’s a worthwhile person, and maybe he’ll begin to believe that instead. You have to believe in yourself to get anywhere.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said quietly. ‘You do.’
‘What you’ve written,’ I said, ‘is for ever.’
Her eyes widened. ‘How do you know… that I’ve lost…’
I guessed.’ I bent and kissed her cheek, to her surprise. ‘Are you seriously in need?’
‘Financially?’ She was startled. ‘No worse than usual.’
‘Of course we are,’ Edwin said to her waspishly. ‘You’re earning almost nothing now and you still spend a fortune on books.’
Lucy looked only mildly embarrassed, as if she’d heard that often before.
‘If I held the purse-strings,’ Edwin complained, ‘you’d use the public library, as I do.’
‘Why don’t you work, Edwin?’ I asked.
‘Lucy doesn’t like bustle.’ He seemed to think it explanation enough. ‘We’d be perfectly happy if Malcolm trebled Lucy’s trust fund, as he ought to. He has millions, we live in a hovel. It’s not fair.’
‘Doesn’t Lucy despise money?’ I asked. ‘And people who have it? Do you want her to become what she despises?’
Edwin glared.
Lucy looked at me blandly. ‘There’s no such state as perfection,’ she said.
I drove back to Reading, to the hospital that had an emergency room open all evening, and there got my shoulder and upper arm cleaned and stitched. There were three cuts, it seemed, variously deep but nothing frightful, and they had long stopped bleeding: with the stitches, they would heal almost instantly. The staff advised painkillers pro tern. I thanked them and eventually drove to Cookham feeling more than slightly tired but chiefly hungry, and having remedied both conditions satisfactorily, set off again next morning to ride. There was no problem there with the stitches: they were tender to the touch and stiff when I lifted my arm, but that was all.
Restored yet again in spirit by the dose of fresh air, I took a lazy day off from the emotional battering of the family and went to London to get my American and Australian visas. It was only a week since I’d ridden Park Railings at Cheltenham and it felt like eternity. I bought a new sweater and had my hair cut and thought about Ursula ‘wandering about’ through days of escape. One could wander for hours in London, thinking one’s thoughts.
On an impulse, I telephoned Joyce, not expecting her to be in.
‘Darling,’ she yelled. ‘I’m going out. Bridge. Where are you?’
‘In a phone box.’
‘Where’s your father?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Darling, you’re infuriating. What did you ring for?’
‘I suppose… just to hear your voice.’
It seemed to stump her entirely. ‘Are you out of your head? You tell that old bugger… tell him…’ She choked on it.
‘That you’re glad he’s alive?’ I suggested.
‘Don’t let the old sod get blown up.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Must rush, darling. Don’t break your neck. ‘Bye…’
‘ ‘Bye now,’ I said.
I wondered if she ever talked on the telephone except at the top of her voice. The decibels were comforting, somehow. At least she never sounded bored. I would rather infuriate her than bore her, I thought.
I went unhurriedly back to Cookham and in the evening bent again to Norman West’s notes.,
Of Edwin, he had said:
Mr Edwin Pembroke (53) né Bugg, lives with his wife Lucy in No 3 Wrothsay Farm Cottages, near Marlow. One son (15), attends state school, bicycles to school, has latchkey, gets his own tea, goes upstairs, does homework, working for exams, conscientious, doesn’t know if his parents were around on the Friday or Tuesday at specified hours, doesn’t expect so. He comes downstairs about 8 or 9 pm, they all eat vegetarian meal then. (No TV!) Mrs L. cooks in a wok. Mr E. washes up.
Mr E. does the housework (not much) and shopping, mostly vegetables. He spends hours reading in public library (librarians agree). Goes to pub, spends more hours over one beer (barman indignant). Takes laundry to laundromat. Listens to radio. Spends hours doing crossword puzzles. (The garden’s untidy. Mr E. doesn’t like gardening. They grow only runner beans, they’re easy.)
Mr E. and Mrs L. share an old Hillman, which Mr E. mostly drives. (Mrs L. has licence.) Car dusty and rusty, no dents.
Mr E. good-looking man, complete drone (my opinion). Idle life suits him. Mr E’s idle life seems to suit Mrs