Girl Reading (28 page)

Gwen is uncertain what this means but does not wish to show her ignorance. If Laurence, Mr. Fern, did have pots of money, would you want to marry him then?

Darling, if you had pots of money, I would want to marry you.

I say. How shocking.

Sinclair smiles impishly. One likes to be able to shock now and then. You don’t know how lucky you are, Gwen.

Am I lucky?

Why, yes. You have lots of blissful years ahead of you without all that cant about love and marriage, which is just too boring for words. “What the heart desires,” “what fate has written,” birds tweeting, and all that bosh . . .
Jesus,
it never ends. Men can be so bloody pompous. I admit I am exquisitely jealous of you.

Right. I suppose.

Cigarette? Sinclair offers a slim, feminine case, beautifully engraved.

Yes, please.

Shall I light it for you?

Gwen says she will do it, Sinclair lends her the lighter, and she takes a couple of snaps to make it burn. Gwen finds even Sinclair’s fags to have a perfumed taste.
Thanks.
Gosh, I don’t know how to say it, but I have been wondering, just now and then since you arrived . . . Do you mind my asking what your first name is? I assume Sinclair is your family name.

It is. I utterly loathe my given name. Loathe it. Can’t bear to be called it or to hear it said out loud. It grieves me even to write it down.

Can’t be that bad.

Ha. Sinclair sucks in and exhales the smoke like a sailor.

You don’t have to tell if you don’t want to.

See if you can guess it. If you were me, what would be the most rotten name someone could give you?

You promise you’ll say if I’m right?

Sinclair promises.

Well, I suppose Claire Sinclair would be pretty bad, or Clara.

Nope.

No, I didn’t think so. Then, something twee. Eudora? Or Philomena? Then you might want a good nickname of your own. (Gwen tries not to appear uncomfortable discussing it.)

No, nothing like that.

Um. One of the virtues, perhaps. Hope? Joy? Faith? Chastity?

Sinclair shakes her head at each of these.

My last guess would be a name that you thought of as dismal, a dismal sort of name. What about Maud?

It’s Joanna.

Joanna . . . ? But Joanna is a perfectly lovely name.

Sinclair pretends to shiver. Yuck. I despise it.

To call Gwen disappointed would be an understatement. She would swap her Gwendolen for Sinclair’s Joanna any day. She once had a doll called Joanna (has still got a doll called Joanna, but decides at this moment to give her away to a needy child), had considered naming one of her daughters with Laurence Joanna Jane. Sinclair is not to know this, has retreated back into the gossip columns of her magazine. If Gwen had, during the course of their encounter, altered her opinion of Sinclair, this has reverted it back. Sinclair is haughty, grasping, pretentious, and vain.

Gwen retrieves her notebook and a pencil, writes in it surreptitiously.

i. Whether S is romantically involved with L.—“romantic” is wrong word; what is right word? Not “picked”!

ii. Whether S would like to be romantically involved with L.—no because S is haughty and grasping &c.

iii. What S’s Christian name is & why she goes by just her surname.—Joanna / because S is stupid.

iv. What S’s weaknesses are & how to use them against her.—numerous faults, why has no one noticed?/?

v. Whether S has any redeeming features whatsoever.—none (honest) but I do like her Chinese robe.

Seems reasonable. Yes, and balanced. She checks that Sinclair cannot see.

Cynthia jabs at the typewriter. It is a cumbersome machine with letter keys that stick. Nonetheless, Cynthia is fond of it and perseveres. If inanimate objects have personalities, then this typewriter is an old friend, loyal, clumsy, prone to getting into a pickle like an elderly woman trying to untangle her knitting. Kind. It is a kindly typewriter. You tell me what to put, and I will type it out for you . . . it has a helpful temperament, and Cynthia cannot blame it for the defects of age.

It is my typing that is at fault, she tells herself, rather than facing the prospect of replacing it. She uses a pen to release some of the character bars that have snarled together.

Gwen stands before her, mouth an O, seems to expect her attention.

Cynthia tinkers. What’s wrong?

The girl shakes her head and closes her eyes. I might just faint, Cynthia, I really might. I think fainting must feel a lot like this.

There is a snap, and the typewriter is mended once more. What has happened now?

I don’t think I can tell you. Although I was not exactly sworn to secrecy. Rather the opposite, actually; they didn’t seem to care who saw them.

Who didn’t?

Laurence and
her.

Ah. Them again.

Yes, and under your roof. I think it is very disrespectful to you to be carrying on like that when they are your guests. If I were you, I would put a stop to it immediately.

Cynthia stares longingly at her papers, spreads one hand on them to reassure herself they are real. Real and hers. Her thoughts and her work. She has such a lot to do and prefers work infinitely to—

It’s her more than him; I’m sure she leads him astray. I just . . . I just wanted to show him something. I thought Sinclair had gone out for the morning because she usually does. Dipsomaniac, I expect. Anyway, I went looking for Laurence because he hadn’t told me where he was working today, and I found him in the music room. (Gwen’s mouth goes dry.)

And . . . ? He was there with Sinclair?

The girl turns paler. If you went right now, you would see—

Gwen, I shall do nothing so undignified.

It is sinful. If it is not sinful, it certainly isn’t decent.

Were they making love?

Gwen blanches. No! (How can Cynthia do it? How can she be so phlegmatic?) He was painting her. She was being his model. His
nude
model. Right by
your
piano. Someone might see it in the painting and say, “That there is Cynthia Everard’s piano, and she allows naked people to parade around in front of it.”

Is that all? Cynthia turns back to her typewriter and clatter-clacks out her exasperation.

Aren’t you going to do anything?

And what precisely would you have me do?

(The pointed nipples, the exposed armpit, the belly button like a dimple, the triangle of dark hair . . . ) Someone must do something. She wasn’t wearing a stitch! Naked people at Arnault, Cynthia! What if someone else sees? What if Mrs. Rumford sees? The poor dear would probably keel over and die.

Gwen, has it occurred to you that you’re the one at fault? That perhaps it would be better to get past this infatuation of yours? Why not develop some interests of your own while you are staying here—make some friends of your own age? What will I tell your mother if I return you to her in this state?

Gwen concentrates on these words. Then, as though the scales are falling from her eyes, she whispers, Do you mean Laurence has a touch of lavender?

This makes Cynthia pause in her typing and look hard at her. Gwendolen, you do say the most ghastly things—

And that is that.

Then Cynthia tells Gwen she has one of her headaches coming on and had better leave her alone. Which means Gwen is powerless to prevent it—whatever it is—and were Cynthia to trouble herself, she would probably be powerless too.

Gwen can hear her typing from the garden over the sound of her heart being trampled on. So she runs farther on, down the road toward the village—

—and almost into a man carrying a suitcase.

I beg your pardon, young lady. I’m looking for the house called Arnault, is it near here . . . ?

Alec, it’s you! And Gwen hugs him hard.

Alec Worsham permits it awkwardly, pats her on the back.

She pulls away. It’s Gwen Watts, do you remember? I’m Bill and Betty’s daughter.

Of course I remember, how are you?

Oh I’m . . . I’m just . . . I’m so glad to see a friendly face.

Has something happened? Is Cynthia all right?

No, she’s in a foul temper.

I say, that is too bad. Should we check on her?

No, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea. (Gwen cannot endure the thought of Alec seeing Sinclair’s nakedness.) She’s fine, very busy. We had a bit of a spat.

Ah. Is Laurence there?

Yes, but I can’t go back, not now. I will. I just need some time.

I see.

I say, Alec, would you take me out to luncheon?

Alec has a warm heart and cannot tolerate Bill and Betty’s girl in distress. He agrees.

They lunch outside the pub, Alec drinking stout with his sandwiches and Gwen drinking ginger beer with her pie. Gwen does most of the talking, as Alec is recently back from Punjab and wants to hear about his friends. He asks after her parents.

Mummy is well, still making quilts and playing the clarinet, badly. Daddy lost a leg, you know.

Yes, I heard. It’s too bad.

But he’s alive, and we’re ever so thankful for that. Mummy wanted to nurse him at home and Taid knows someone at the War Office, so he arranged it.

Taid . . . ?

Granddad on Mummy’s side.

Is that why you are staying with Cynthia?

Gwen squints into the sun. Mummy thought it would be better. Give him space to heal without too many hens clucking. I bet
they’d both love to see you before you leave, though; do you think you could manage it?

I will try. And how is Cynthia?

Oh, she’s fine.

Alec leans over his pint pot. Really?

Gwen screws up her face while she tries to think objectively: She works frantically. She seems to like it. It’s to do with that professor of hers who died.

Norman Creegan.

Yes, him. She is doing some kind of book. Honestly, I don’t think even she knows what it’s about. There’s an absolute mountain of paper. I tried to help out, but I don’t have the . . . you know.

Aptitude.

I was going to say brain cells. She plugs away at it all day, then drinks and smokes all night; and sometimes she is in a good mood, and sometimes she is horrid to be around. I entertain myself, mostly. There’s only us, Laurence, and the harlot.

I say, that’s a bit strong.

She’s called . . . Joanna. But you ought to be careful, you are just the sort she would go for—that’s some friendly advice for you. She has already got her claws into Laurence.

Alec nods confidentially. How is Cynthia in herself?

Well, she still gets those headaches, but that’s nothing new.

Does she ever mention me?

Gwen smirks.

Or any of us from the old days?

No-o. No, sorry. I didn’t even know you were coming. But she never tells me anything, probably because I’d get the wrong end of the stick . . . Gwen looks meaningfully at Alec, who in turn finds something of interest to look at by the post office.

He asks, Are you having a nice stay?

I was. Gwen pushes away her almost empty plate. If it weren’t for love.

Aren’t you a bit young to be having trouble with the opposite sex?

I’m really not.

Is it serious?

Not to him. To him I’m a joke. And he’s right, I am a joke.

Don’t be despondent. Love makes fools out of all of us.

Which is not very encouraging. Have you been made a fool of by love?

Plenty of times.

That’s absurd, no one falls in love more than once.

No one falls in love
for the first time
more than once.

But I want the first time to be the only time. You aren’t very good at this shoulder-to-cry-on business, Alec Worsham.

Don’t I know it? He sips his stout and searches in his pockets for cigarettes and matches.

Alec, do you think—do
you
think—that some people require everyone around them to fall in love with them?

What a heavy question for a bright afternoon.

But is it true? Are some people that . . . selfish?

Alec strikes a match and takes his time to light his fag. When it burns he shakes the match to extinguish it. I didn’t offer you one . . . ?

No thanks, I’m not keen.

He dwells upon it, then answers, Yes. Some people are in love with being loved.

Does that make them bad through and through?

Alec smokes and considers. It can be bad for those around them, but what a man does to himself is nobody else’s concern.

But they can be changed, if the right woman tried to change them?

He laughs. What is this about?

Nothing in particular.

Laurence got to you, has he?

Gwen could scream and stamp her foot—instead hangs her head in defeat. Am I so bloody transparent?

Language. (He intones it.) I guessed.

If one wanted to make an impression on someone such as Laurence Fern, how might one do it?

One could pretend he doesn’t exist, I bet no one has tried that before—

Gwen huffs and puffs (Mummy would call me The Wolf).

Alec goes on: I have to admit, I have no idea whether or not Laurence can change, but I will say this: in the years since I have known him and his brother Michael and your parents and Cynthia and everyone else in our old set, all of us have changed for better or worse, except Laurence, who has stayed exactly the same.

Therefore he is likely to stay the same?

The empirical evidence seems to support it. You, on the other hand—what a fascinating project we could make of you, recording your journey and how you change over the years ahead.

Gwen blushes at this. What about you? I haven’t even asked you where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to. Or can’t you tell me, is it secret?

Alec withdraws at the mention of his work, grows stern before her.

Is
it secret? Because if it is, you’re probably better off not telling me about it, I’d just let the cat out of the bag. I would be a hopeless spy. I can’t help myself. If a shady character tried to recruit me on a park bench for King and Country I’d have to say, “Sorry, mister, I’m just here to feed the pigeons.”
Are
you a spy?