A Wreath Of Roses (27 page)

‘I’ve listened,’ she said. ‘Now can we go?’

‘It’s still raining.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘You minded the rain before. Now it is nothing.’

‘I think you are ill. You are shivering.’

‘We could find some wood, perhaps, and light a fire in one of the rooms and dry our clothes.’

‘Someone would see the smoke …’

‘There is no one to see.’

‘There are plenty to see. Cottages not a hundred yards away.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’

She made no answer.

‘I absolutely rely on you to see me through this … to keep me company.’

‘But it’s getting late … You will draw attention to yourself by going back …’

‘I may not go back. For God’s sake don’t be artful with me. Perhaps you think I’m going to strangle
you
.’

The idea had occurred to me.’

‘I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.’

‘Yes, over and over again.’

She tried to raise her arm and he unclasped her wrist. The white marks of his fingers slowly reddened.

‘Go, if you want to,’ he said indifferently. He suddenly knew that she was no use to him.

He handed her a cigarette and lit it; stared at the match until it went out. She was afraid to move.

‘Why don’t you go?’

He sat down on the bottom stair and rested his forehead on the palms of his hands. Quite disillusioned now, he knew that she would never support him in his fear. She was herself afraid.

She moved a little way across the hall.

The rain has stopped,’ she said, her eyes never leaving him.

‘Don’t edge your way out like that, and think you are covering it with conversation. I’m not a lunatic. Just go.’

‘I don’t know how to.’

He moved his forehead wearily in his hands.

‘Goodbye, then,’ she said.

He didn’t answer, and his eyes were closed.

She was afraid to turn her back to him, felt imaginary hands grasping her ankles as she began to move. At the kitchen door, terror hastened her. A mouse ran across the threshold. Outside, the drenched garden seemed bowed down under its great weight of water, the leaves dripped steadily. She slipped on the mossy path and twisted her ankle. Then she began to run, limping with the pain. She ran for a long time, until her shoulders ached and each breath seemed to be torn out of her lungs.

While she was running, she could not think, but as soon as she began to walk, words sorted themselves out in her mind. She took her damp handkerchief from her pocket to wipe her face, and a piece of paper dropped on to the gravelly road. She could scarcely bend from the stitch in her side, but she stooped and picked it up. It was the cheque she had written earlier in the evening. It was wet now and the ink smudged. She had sat at the dressing-table writing it, and Liz had come in to feed the baby. It was days ago, and a different world. ‘Only remember that I love you,’ Liz had said or some words like those. ‘I love you. I wish you to be happy.’

With the crushed-up paper in her hand, she began to run again. At the Hand and Flowers the door was shut, but the
curtains in the bar were not drawn. She could see the stuffed fish on the wall, the landlord collecting the glasses.

Morland was on his way home. He was walking along singing to himself, and as he turned the corner she ran into his arms.

The station was empty. A few lights, yellow and emerald, were reflected in the black, wet platform. Rain dripped still from the spiked shelter.

Richard walked through the entrance, past the railings with the familiar advertisements; the blot of ink, enamelled on tin; Wincarnis, Ovaltine.

‘I am going to Scarborough,’ he told himself.

His shirt was dirty. He had no luggage. Cobweb clung to his sleeve. ‘I am going up North,’ he thought. Each time he said this, the jazzy little room receded from his mind, together with his father’s voice, his mother’s look, home, reality. Instead, the wind blew in from the sea, across the asphalt spaces, barbed wire was looped against the invader, screens across pub doors hung between the light and the street.

His steps made a hollow clangour on the footbridge. He tried to walk more quietly, tiptoed up the greasy stairs. Sooty raindrops gathered and fell from the wooden canopy; below, the lines curved away, out into the country, past the earthworks set on the hill, past the backs of houses, black canals, little fields; the English landscape.

The express came down on the middle line, casting away its smoke, to left and right, hastening through this unimportant little station, going north.

As it screamed towards him, he grasped the wet iron ledge with both hands and hoisted himself up.

Elizabeth Taylor

Introduced by Hilary Mantel

Fifteen-year-old Angel knows she is different, that she is destined to become a fêted author. Escaping the dreariness of her provincial life, she locks herself in her room, pouring all her romantic longings on to the page.

After reading
The Lady Irania
, the publishers are certain it will he a success, in spite of – and perhaps because of – its overblown style. Before long Angel is a literary sensation. Wealth, fame and adoration are hers. But how can she maintain the dream when she cannot see the world around her?

‘Quietly and devastatingly amusing’
Hilary Mantel

‘A masterpiece’
Guardian

‘One of the most underrated novelists of the twentieth century …
Her world is totally absorbing’
Antonia Fraser

Elizabeth Taylor

Introduced by Sarah Waters

‘Elizabeth Taylor is finally being recognised as an important
British author: an author of great subtlety, great compassion
and great depth. I have found huge pleasure in returning to
Taylor’s novels many times over’
Sarah Waters

In the faded coastal village of Newby, everyone looks out for – and in on – each other. So, although keeping up appearances is second nature, nothing goes unnoticed for very long. Beautiful divorcée Tory is secretly involved with her neighbour Robert, while his wife, consumed by the worlds she creates in her novels, is oblivious to the relationship developing next door. Their daughter Prudence, however, is appalled by the treachery she observes. Meanwhile Mrs Bracey, an invalid whose grasp on life is slipping, forever peers from her window, gossipping with everybody who passes by.

‘Her stories remain with one, indelibly, as though they had been some turning point in one’s experience’ Elizabeth Bowen

‘A wonderful novelist’
Jilly Cooper