on the window-pane, to impress something of her personality on the house. As it was, she wrote her initials in the dust, and brushed her fingers on her skirt.
‘Well, I must be away,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll just peep into the other rooms as I go out. Leave the upstairs for now.’
Cassandra turned the back-door key and followed.
‘Well, all these shelves?’ The woman stood in the little room and stared.
‘My father’s books.’
‘Well, we’d have to pull all that down, of course. It needs repapering. ‘They take a good foot off the room all the way round. How many books did he have, then?’
‘He had two thousand,’ Cassandra said, suddenly whitening with fatigue and leaning against the door.
The dirtyish room, with its dusty shelves and the fringe of ivy round the window, filled her with unhappiness – this room in which her father had lain in his coffin, the submarine light of the sun through a bottle-green blind, the green-filled room, the books dimmed and shadowy, the flowers round the coffin even pink and fleshy like water-flowers, and wreaths lying on chairs drowned-looking with their pale shell-colours.
The next room was all right; it had been merely the front-room where her mother had sat at her sewing machine, a noisy room from the street and the trams, and bright now, like another world, with the evening sunlight.
‘Yes, well, I’ll go round and see the landlord, since you say you’ve heard nothing.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Cassandra suddenly, picking up a case from the hall and, without glancing round again, following the woman out and slamming the door. ‘I have to take the keys.’ (‘I couldn’t stay there alone one second longer,’ she told herself.)
‘That’s that,’ she also thought, going along beside the railingswith the woman. ‘Not even a good-bye – not a tear. Bang the door quickly after thirteen years and walk out with a stranger. And not a moment for any of the thoughts I meant to have.’
‘I do feel a course of Sanatogen is the thing for you,’ said Mrs Turner. ‘You don’t seem in a fit state to … let me just … one moment …’ She put aside her coffee cup and leant forward and pulled down Cassandra’s lower eyelid. ‘I remember when Helen was your age … Come in! What is it, Alma? Oh, the post! You can just run to the corner, but put on your cloak, dear. Oh, and Alma! Ah, never mind, she’s gone. It doesn’t matter. Yes, Helen! She must have been twenty. I know she was at Somerville at the time, because it was such a pity …’
Cassandra leant back in Mrs Turner’s rocking-chair, dreaming, half-listening, as she had for years. ‘Cups of tea … Sanatogen Benger’s … Change your damp stockings.’ Even the spirit attended to, but with a domestic helpfulness. ‘I
do
think you’d feel ever so much more comfortable in yourself if you would come to church.’ Outside, in the school garden, girls went by in their long green cloaks, against the sad landscape of playing-field and leafless poplars.
‘And your aunt has gone?’ Mrs Turner was asking.
‘Yes, this morning. I had some clearing up to do.’
‘But it was dismal for you there by yourself, dear. You should have come round to lunch; or tea, at least. You could have managed that. I sometimes think you have a tendency towards sadness, Cassandra. You need more pleasure, and I rather wonder how you will contrive to get it at the Vanbrughs. You really do need taking out of yourself … and I don’t remember Margaret Vanbrugh being so very gay … of course, she and Helen parted after they left school and Helen went to Somerville and Margaret to London … and then you know how it is … but I imagine she was sensible rather than gaywhen she was a girl. The cigarettes are just beside you … or would you like a bar of chocolate?’
Lulled into peace, Cassandra lay back in her chair. The gas fire roared unevenly in its broken white ribs. Mrs Turner’s wedding-group hung
‘Well, I must be away,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll just peep into the other rooms as I go out. Leave the upstairs for now.’
Cassandra turned the back-door key and followed.
‘Well, all these shelves?’ The woman stood in the little room and stared.
‘My father’s books.’
‘Well, we’d have to pull all that down, of course. It needs repapering. ‘They take a good foot off the room all the way round. How many books did he have, then?’
‘He had two thousand,’ Cassandra said, suddenly whitening with fatigue and leaning against the door.
The dirtyish room, with its dusty shelves and the fringe of ivy round the window, filled her with unhappiness – this room in which her father had lain in his coffin, the submarine light of the sun through a bottle-green blind, the green-filled room, the books dimmed and shadowy, the flowers round the coffin even pink and fleshy like water-flowers, and wreaths lying on chairs drowned-looking with their pale shell-colours.
The next room was all right; it had been merely the front-room where her mother had sat at her sewing machine, a noisy room from the street and the trams, and bright now, like another world, with the evening sunlight.
‘Yes, well, I’ll go round and see the landlord, since you say you’ve heard nothing.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Cassandra suddenly, picking up a case from the hall and, without glancing round again, following the woman out and slamming the door. ‘I have to take the keys.’ (‘I couldn’t stay there alone one second longer,’ she told herself.)
‘That’s that,’ she also thought, going along beside the railingswith the woman. ‘Not even a good-bye – not a tear. Bang the door quickly after thirteen years and walk out with a stranger. And not a moment for any of the thoughts I meant to have.’
‘I do feel a course of Sanatogen is the thing for you,’ said Mrs Turner. ‘You don’t seem in a fit state to … let me just … one moment …’ She put aside her coffee cup and leant forward and pulled down Cassandra’s lower eyelid. ‘I remember when Helen was your age … Come in! What is it, Alma? Oh, the post! You can just run to the corner, but put on your cloak, dear. Oh, and Alma! Ah, never mind, she’s gone. It doesn’t matter. Yes, Helen! She must have been twenty. I know she was at Somerville at the time, because it was such a pity …’
Cassandra leant back in Mrs Turner’s rocking-chair, dreaming, half-listening, as she had for years. ‘Cups of tea … Sanatogen Benger’s … Change your damp stockings.’ Even the spirit attended to, but with a domestic helpfulness. ‘I
do
think you’d feel ever so much more comfortable in yourself if you would come to church.’ Outside, in the school garden, girls went by in their long green cloaks, against the sad landscape of playing-field and leafless poplars.
‘And your aunt has gone?’ Mrs Turner was asking.
‘Yes, this morning. I had some clearing up to do.’
‘But it was dismal for you there by yourself, dear. You should have come round to lunch; or tea, at least. You could have managed that. I sometimes think you have a tendency towards sadness, Cassandra. You need more pleasure, and I rather wonder how you will contrive to get it at the Vanbrughs. You really do need taking out of yourself … and I don’t remember Margaret Vanbrugh being so very gay … of course, she and Helen parted after they left school and Helen went to Somerville and Margaret to London … and then you know how it is … but I imagine she was sensible rather than gaywhen she was a girl. The cigarettes are just beside you … or would you like a bar of chocolate?’
Lulled into peace, Cassandra lay back in her chair. The gas fire roared unevenly in its broken white ribs. Mrs Turner’s wedding-group hung
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