The Paying Guests(34)

‘How funny you are, Miss Wray,’ she said quietly. ‘Yes, do call me Lilian.’

And, in another moment, they parted.



Over dinner that night, when Frances’s mother asked her how she had enjoyed her afternoon, she said, Yes, it had been pleasant. She and Mrs Barber had liked looking at the flowers. They had been glad to stretch their legs… She meant to leave the matter there.

Five minutes later, however, she found herself adding, ‘You know, I’ve begun to feel rather sorry for Mrs Barber. She spoke a bit about her marriage today, and I don’t think it can be a very happy one.’

Her mother looked up from her plate. ‘She didn’t tell you that herself?’

‘Not in so many words.’

‘I should hope not, no, on so slight an acquaintance.’

‘But, still, that’s the impression I got.’

‘Well, she and Mr Barber can’t be so very unhappy. Whenever I overhear them they seem to do nothing but laugh. Probably they’ve had some sort of a quarrel. I dare say they’ll soon be on terms again.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ said Frances. ‘But, I don’t know. It seemed a larger thing than a quarrel, to me.’

Her mother’s tone grew comfortable. ‘Oh, these things often seem larger, from the outside. Even your father and I had our occasional fallings-out… But we really oughtn’t to be discussing it, Frances. If Mrs Barber tries to talk to you about the matter again, do your best to discourage her, will you?’ She returned to her dinner, nudging spinach on to her fork – then paused with the fork lifted. ‘I hope you haven’t been speaking frankly to her.’

Frances was sawing at a piece of mutton. ‘Well, of course I haven’t.’

‘With relations like hers —’

‘I think she’s simply a little lonely. And she’s a kind woman. I like her. We have to live with her, after all.’ Still cutting, she spoke blandly. ‘There’s no reason why she and I shouldn’t be friends, is there?’

Her mother hesitated, but said nothing. The bit of mutton gave at last. Frances chewed and chewed, then swallowed, then turned the conversation; and they finished the meal without mentioning the Barbers again.



And perhaps, in any case, her mother had been right. While she was out in the kitchen later, polishing the knives and forks, the Barbers’ gramophone started up: she could hear it across the house, a lively modern dance tune. Whatever differences the couple had had, they must already have settled them. The music went on for half an hour, one melody giving way to another, the final record winding down in a sort of melting groan as no one ran to turn the handle; after that there was a silence, somehow more bothersome than the jazz. Frances went to bed without seeing Mrs Barber again, and when they met the following day they were both slightly shy. They made a point of calling each other by their Christian names, but the moment was awkward, contrived. Their friendship seemed to have foundered before it had barely set sail. Mrs Barber left the house in the afternoon with a shopping bag over her arm, and Frances, suddenly restless, drifted about from room to room. She hadn’t planned to go into Town, but in a fit of decision she changed her clothes, went out, caught a bus to Oxford Circus and called on Christina. Christina asked how she and her mother were getting on with Len and Lil, and she answered with jokes about the crowded house, queues for the bath-tub.

But then, next morning, while Mr Barber was at work and her mother was clipping lavender bushes in the back garden, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom to fetch a bag of laundry; coming out of the room with the bag in her arms, she glanced across the stairwell – and there was Mrs Barber, seated at the table in her kitchen, shelling peas into a bowl, reading a library book as she did it. She was wearing her plum-coloured gown, and her hair was up in its red silk scarf, the ends of the scarf lying ticklingly against the nape of her neck; she was easing the peas from the pod without once looking at them. And since Frances could never see anyone absorbed in a book without itching to know its title, she called across the stairwell.

‘What’s that you’re reading, Lilian?’

The name sounded natural at last. Lilian turned, blinked, smiled. She opened her mouth to answer, then changed her mind and lifted the book to show its spine. Frances, of course, was too far off to read it. She went around the landing and looked in from the kitchen doorway; and then she saw the library lettering. The book was Anna Karenina.

Exclaiming with pleasure, she moved forward. Lilian watched her come. ‘Do you know it?’

‘It’s one of my favourites. Where are you up to?’

‘Oh, it’s awful. There’s just been a race, and —’

‘The poor horse.’

‘The poor horse!’

‘What’s its name? Something unlikely. Mimi?’

‘Frou-Frou.’

‘Frou-Frou! That’s right. Do you suppose that sounds dashing in Russian?’

‘Oh, I could hardly bear to read it. And poor Vronsky – Is that how you say it?’

‘I believe so. Yes, poor Vronsky. Poor Anna. Poor everyone! Even poor old dull Karenin. Oh, I haven’t read it in years. You make me want to again. May I see it?’

She took the book from Lilian’s hand, careful not to lose her place, and looked from one page to another. ‘Princess Betsy. I’d forgotten her. Dolly, Kitty… Where’s the bit where Anna appears at the station? Isn’t it right at the start?’