Not That Sort of Girl Read Free Page A

out on the creek and can step out into the garden. It has its own bathroom, of course.’
    ‘Thank you. I am quite tired.’ Rose followed the manager along the passage. ‘I shall enjoy the quiet.’
    ‘Would you like to be called in the morning?’
    ‘No,’ said Rose. ‘No, thank you. I wake.’ The trouble is, she thought, unpacking her few belongings, I don’t sleep.
    She busied herself putting toothbrushes and sponge in the bathroom, laying her nightdress on the bed, keeping her thoughts at bay, as she had managed so successfully on the long drive from Slepe, a drive to nowhere in particular until at the end of the long afternoon she had seen the sign which said ‘Hotel’, and followed a winding lane down a wooded valley to arrive at this place, hitherto unknown to her.
    She opened the window and looked out onto a lawn sloping down in the dusk to the water. A swan, its head tucked under its wing, drifted close to the bank; further out the cob swam placidly. Across the creek she could just make out the silhouette of a heron, immobile on a branch overhanging the water.
    ‘How long is she going to stay?’ asked a woman’s voice from further along the building, its tone of irritation amplified by the water. ‘I have just got that room ready for the Dutch couple who are booked for Tuesday.’
    ‘Then you will have to get it ready again, won’t you? She didn’t say.’
    ‘Why,’ a note of rising ire, ‘why did you not ask her?’
    ‘Hurry up with those sandwiches, don’t forget the lemon. I put her there because she looks the sort who will recommend us to her friends,’ the manager snarled.
    Leaning out of the window Rose listened for a contemptuous snort, smiled.
    ‘With those clothes? With that shabby bag?’ asked the woman. ‘Why is she travelling alone?’ Her suspicion was almost tangible. One of them, Rose presumed the husband, banged the window down. Out on the creek, a coot cried and was answered. There was a knock on the door.
    Rose drew away from the window. ‘Come in.’
    ‘Your sandwiches.’ She recognised the voice. ‘Is there anything else you would like?’ The woman wore good looks masked by an expression of martyrdom.
    ‘No, thank you. This looks delicious. I will put the tray outside the door when I have finished. Have you had a very busy season?’ The trick of making herself agreeable was automatic.
    ‘You can say that again,’ exclaimed the woman. (For two cents she will tell me how she hates her husband, how overworked and unappreciated she is.) ‘Shall I turn the bed down? Have you enough towels?’ The woman peered into the bathroom, assessing Rose’s toothbrushes and Greek sponge.
    ‘No, no thank you. It’s all lovely; thank you so much for all your trouble. Good night.’ Rose sat by the tray that held the sandwiches. She was suddenly ravenous and began to eat as the woman went out and closed the door.
    Outside it was now dark. She finished eating, poured herself wine, went and stood by the window. Shafts of light illumined the grass, the angry voices were stilled, a secret cat crossed the beam of light and rejoined the night. I am travelling alone, thought Rose, and waited for memories of Ned to crowd into her mind, but all she felt was a surge of heretical pleasure at being properly alone for the first time since 1939.
    Sipping her wine, she looked out at the water glittering blackly and savoured her pleasure. Her wine finished, she put the tray outside her door, locked it, switched the telephone by the bed to ‘Off, undressed, brushed her hair, went to the bathroom to clean her teeth and wash, smooth cream into her face, slide the nightdress over her head.
    Ready for bed, she reached into the overnight bag for the picture she had taken off her bedroom wall and put it propped on the dressing table where she could see it from the bed. She got into bed, switched off the bedside light, pulled the bedclothes up to her chin, lay back, closed her eyes and courted