LITMIR.BIZ

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Partly, this noise, this roughness of movement, was a protest against the perpetually narrowing cage she lived in.

      When she was inside her thick jersey, and she felt warm and more cheerful, she went into the kitchen for the second time and told the cook to make some more tea. Letters lay on the kitchen table. Mrs Quest trembled with excitement and took up the letter from her son in England and went back to the veranda. The sun was above the trees now, and sharp, cool shadows lay across the lawns.

      Mrs Quest read the letter smiling. Before the end she had to rise to pin back a trail of creeper that waved too freely, unconfined, off a veranda pillar. She had to express her pleasure, her joy, in movement of some kind.

      Jonathan, the young man convalescing in a village in Essex, had written a pleasantly filial letter, saying nothing of his deep feelings. He had been very ill with his smashed arm, had been frightened he would lose it. He did not want to worry his mother by telling her this, and so he chatted about the village, which was charming, he said; and the doctors and nurses in the hospital, who were so kind; and the village people – ‘really good types’. He allowed his own emotions to appear for half a sentence, but in reverse, as it were ‘Perhaps I might settle here, I could do worse!’ What this meant was that he had a flirtation with the doctor’s daughter in the village, and for an occasional sentimental half-hour thought of marrying her and living for ever in this quiet ancient place that in fact spoke to nothing real in him. For he longed for Africa, and for a farm where he would have space ‘to be myself’ – as he felt it.

      But before Mrs Quest had read the letter twice, old daydreams had been revived. She had worked it all out: they – Mr Quest and herself – would go to England and take a little cottage in the village where Jonathan would settle with his wife – for of course he had a girl, perhaps even a fiancée, the letter could mean no less! – and she and Mr Quest would be done for ever with this country where the family had known nothing but disappointment and illness. Besides, the English climate would be better for Mr Quest, it might even cure him.

      The servant brought tea, and found Mrs Quest smiling out at her shrubs and lawns. ‘Nice morning,’ he ventured. She did not hear, at first, then she smiled: she was already far away from Africa, in a village full of sensible people where she would never see a black face again. ‘Yes, but it’s cold,’ she said, rather severely, and he went back in silence to his kitchen.

      When Mr Quest woke up, she would tell him about going to England. She ached with joy. She had forgotten about the ugly dream, and the three days of miserable planning for the Parade. She was free of the patronage of Mrs Maynard (now she was free, she acknowledged that Mrs Maynard was patronizing). She would find her old friends and ‘when something happened’ (which meant when her husband died – the doctor said it was a miracle she had kept him alive for so long) she would live with her old school friend Alice and devote herself to Jonathan’s children.

      At which point Mrs Quest remembered the existence of her grand-daughter Caroline. Well, she could come and spend long holidays in England with her, Mrs Quest; perhaps she should even live there, because the education was so much better there than in this country where there were no standards … as for Martha, she said she was going to England too.

      Her wings were beginning to drag. She remembered the dream. Her face set, though she had no idea of it, though she was planning happily for the Parade, into lines of wary resignation. She ought to go and dress properly. She stayed where she was, an old lady with a sad set face looking into a beautiful garden where a small dog pranced around a dry white bone. She sat, shivering slightly, for the cold was sharp, and thought – that she would give anything in this world for a cigarette.

      The longing came on her suddenly, without warning. At the beginning of the war, when her son went into danger with the armies up North, Mrs Quest gave up smoking. ‘As a sacrifice for Jonathan’s getting through the war safely.’ Mrs Quest did nothing if not ‘live on her nerves’ and smoking was a necessity for her. It had been for many years. To give up smoking was more painful than she could have imagined. Yet, having once made the bargain with God, she stuck to it. She had not smoked, except for five anguished days when he was first wounded, and they had not been told how badly. Then no cigarettes for days, weeks, months. Today was Victory Day, the war was over (in Europe, anyhow) and she was now free to smoke? No, for the bargain she had made with God was that she would not smoke until he was safely home. Yes, but in this letter he had said he might stay in England for good? Therefore she was free, released from her part of the bargain? No, her conscience told her she was not. And besides, an old mine, or floating explosive of some kind might blow up the ship Jonathan came home in. She must not smoke yet.

      Mrs Quest went into the living-room where a carved wooden box held cigarettes for visitors, and her hand went out to the lid. The small bell tinkled which meant that her husband was awake.

      Immediately her spirits lifted into expectation: yes, it was just right. Eight o’clock in the morning, that meant she could talk, and gossip and coax him into wakefulness in good time for the car’s arrival at ten-thirty.

      When she reached the bedroom, it seemed that he was asleep again, his hand around the little silver bell. She fussed around for a while, looking at her watch, trying to make out from his face in the darkened room how he would feel when he woke.

      Then he started awake, on a groan, and wildly stared around the room. ‘Lord!’ he said, ‘that was a dream and a half!’

      ‘Well, never mind,’ said Mrs Quest, briskly.

      She moved to straighten the covers and help him sit up.

      ‘Lord!’ he exclaimed again, watching his dream retreat. ‘What time is it?’

      ‘It’s after eight.’

      ‘But it’s early, isn’t it?’ he protested. He had already turned over to sleep again, but she said swiftly: ‘What would you like for breakfast?’

      He lay seriously thinking about it: ‘Well, I had a boiled egg yesterday, and I don’t think the fat if I had a fried egg … how about a bit of haddock?’

      ‘We haven’t got any haddock,’ she said. She realized he had forgotten all about the Parade, and from her spirits’ slow fall into chill and resignation, knew more than that, though she had not admitted it yet. She said brightly: ‘Well, if you remember, we had decided it would be better if you just had a bit of dry toast and some tea?’

      He stared at her, blank. Then, horror came on to the empty face. Then it showed the purest dismay. Then came cunning. These expressions followed each other, one after another, each as clean and unmixed as those on masks for an actors’ school. Mr Quest, totally absorbed in himself, never thinking how he appeared to others, utterly unselfconscious in the way a child is – was as transparent as a child.

      He said in a voice which he allowed to become weak and trembling: ‘Oh dear, I don’t think I really feel up to all that.’

      ‘Well, never mind, it doesn’t matter,’ she said. But her eyes were wet, her lips shook, and so she went out of the room so as not to upset him. Of course he was not going. He had never really been ready to go. How could she have been so ridiculous as to think he would? For three days she had allowed herself to be taken in … she stood in the stuffy little living-room, trembling now with disappointment, her whole nature clamouring because of its long deprivation of everything she craved: the fullness of life, warmth, people, things happening … her body ached with lack and with loss. She had lit a cigarette before she knew it. She stood drawing in long streams of the acrid fragrance, eyes shut, feeling the delicious smoke trickle through her. But her eyes were shut, holding in tears, and she put down one hand to pat the head of the little dog. ‘There Kaiser, there Kaiser.’

      She thought: I’m breaking my bargain with God. Almost, she put out the cigarette, but did not. She went back into the bedroom where her husband was dozing. She looked quietly at the grey-faced old man, with his grey, rather ragged moustache, his grey eyebrows, his grey hair. A small, faded, shrunken invalid, that was her handsome husband. He opened his eyes and said in a normal, alert voice: ‘I smell burning.’

      ‘It’s all

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