I fell for all that glamour, she said. I was nineteen. But it didn't last. '
He didn't like that, no, he didn't like it all, and she lay there silent by him, enough at one with him to be hurt because he was.
There was a long drowsing silence: outside it was already a full hot day, and the traffic had begun.
'It seems it was all for nothing,' he said at last. 'It was all... lies and nonsense.' She could hear the tears in his voice. 'What a waste. All that effort... people killed for nothing. Good people. No one is going to tell me they weren't. ' A silence. I don't want to make a thing of it, but I did make such sacrifices for the Party. And it was all for nothing. '
' Except that Comrade Johnny inspired you to great things. '
' Don't mock. '
Im not. I'm going to allot Johnny one good mark. At least he was good to you. '
I haven't taken it in yet. I haven't begun to take it all in. '
And so they lay side by side, and if he was letting go dreams, such dreams, such sweet sweet dreams, she was thinking, Obviously I'm a very selfish person, just as Johnny always said. Harold is thinking about the golden future of the human race, postponed indefinitely, but I am thinking what I have shut out of my life. She could hardly bear the pain of it. The sweet warm weight of a man sleeping in her arms, his mouth on her cheek, the tender heaviness of a man's balls in her hand, the delicious slipperiness of...
'Let's go down to breakfast,' he said. 'I think I'm going to cry otherwise. '
They breakfasted soberly, in a decorous little room, and left the hotel, noting that this morning the graveyard seemed neglected and shabby, and the magic of last night was going to seem like bathos if they did not remove themselves. Which they did, and went off to a place where lying on a grassy hill he told her that here, where they were, landscapes rolling away in all directions, that this was the very heart of England. And then, and she understood it absolutely, he wept, this big man, face on his arm, on the grass, he wept for his lost dream, and she thought, We suit each other so well, but we won't be together again. It was the ending of something. For him. And for her too: what am I doing prancing around the heart of England with a man heartbroken because of well, not because of me?
In the late afternoon she asked him to set her down where she could take a taxi, because she could not face being seen with him, outside the house with its jealous hungry eyes. They kissed, full of regrets. He saw her step into a taxi, and they drove off in different directions. Up the steps ran Frances, lightly, full of the energy of love-making, and went straight to her bathroom, afraid she smelled too much of sex. Then she went up to Julia's, and knocked, and waited for the close cool inspection which she got. Then, because it was not unfriendly, but kind, she sat and said nothing, only smiled at Julia, her lips trembling.
'It's hard,' said Julia, and she sounded as if she knew how hard. She went to a cupboard, full of interesting bottles, poured a cognac, and brought it to Frances.
'I shall stink of alcohol,' said Frances.
'Never mind,' said Julia, and lit the flame of her little coffee-maker. She stood by it, with her back to Frances, who knew it was tact, because of how much Frances needed to cry. Then a cup of strong black coffee arrived beside the cognac.
The door opened no knock; Sylvia ran in. Oh, Frances, she said. I didn't know you were here. I didn't know she was here, Julia. ' She stood hesitating, smiling, then rushed to Frances and put her arms around her, her cheek against Frances's hair. Oh, Frances, we didn't know where you were. You went away. You left us. We thought you' d got fed up with us all and left us. '
Of course I couldn't, said Frances.
Yes, said Julia. ' Frances has to be here, I think. '
The summer lengthened and loosened, breathed slow, then slower, and time seemed to lie all around like shallow lakes where one could float and dawdle: all this would end when 'the kids' came back. The two already here took up little space in the big house. Frances caught glimpses of Sylvia, across the landing, lying on her bed with a book, from where she waved, 'Oh, Frances, this is such a lovely book,' or running up the stairs to Julia. Or the two could be seen progressing down the street to go shopping Julia with her little friend Sylvia. Andrew also lay on his bed, reading. Frances had guiltily, it goes without saying knocked on his door, heard ' Come in, ' had gone in, and no, the room was clear of smoke. ' There you are, mother, ' he drawled, for everything about him had slowed too, like her own pulses, ' you should have more confidence in me. I am no longer a hophead on his way to perdition. '
Frances was not cooking. She might meet Andrew in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich, and he would offer to make her one. Or she, him. They sat at opposite ends of the great table and contemplated plenty: tomatoes that came from the Cypriot shops in Camden Town, dense with real sunlight, knobbly and even misshapen, but as the knife cut into them the rank and barbarous magnificence of their smell filled the kitchen. They ate tomatoes with Greek bread and olives, and sometimes spoke. He did remark that he supposed it was all right, his doing Law. Why are you having doubts about it?' 'I think I'll make it International Law. The clash of nations. But I must confess Id be happy to spend my life lying on my bed and reading. ' 'And sometimes eating tomatoes. ' 'Julia says her uncle sat in his library all his life reading. And I suppose adjusting his investments. '