Suspension of Mercy Read Free Page A

I’d like a taste of it again.”
    “Have you got a car?” Alicia hadn’t seen one around.
    “No, but I think I’ll manage with buses. Then there’re the mobile butcher and greengrocer, I hear.”
    They were standing in Mrs. Lilybanks’ bedroom. The morning sunlight showed the crepe-like wrinkles below Mrs. Lilybanks’ blue eyes very plainly, and the wrinkles somehow fascinated Alicia. How was it possible to be so old one’s skin got like that, and still to have such bright, young-looking eyes? Mrs. Lilybanks’ hands were smallish but very active and flexible, not gnarled like some old people’s hands. Her nails had a pale pink polish, and on her left hand were the engagement ring and wedding ring one saw on most women’s hands, and on the other an emerald ring set in silver.
    Mrs. Lilybanks was appraising Alicia at the same time, though without appearing to stare at her. She liked what she saw—a very natural-looking young woman of around twenty-five, she thought, with frankly curious eyes like a child or a painter, perhaps, and Mrs. Lilybanks had noticed also the streak of blue paint on the paler blue slacks.
    Alicia pivoted on restless feet and faced the painting over the mantel. “That’s an interesting landscape. Where is that?”
    “Cannes,” said Mrs. Lilybanks. “I hung it just ten minutes ago. It’s one of my early efforts.”
    “Oh, you paint.” Alicia’s eyes widened with interest. “So do I. Some. Nothing as organized as that. Mine are sort of a mess.”
    “Mine are getting worse,” Mrs. Lilybanks said firmly and with a twinkle. “But I’ve brought my kit and I hope the new scene here will inspire me. Can’t I get you a cup of tea?”
    They went downstairs again, but Alicia did not care for tea.
    “If you ever need a lift—need a car for anywhere, please don’t hesitate to ring us,” Alicia said. “It’s four six six. I’m there all the time, practically, and my husband’s there most of the time.”
    “That’s very kind of you. Is your husband a painter, too?”
    “No, he’s a writer. Fiction. He’s working on a novel. But lately he goes in to London about once a week to have a conference with another writer. Not a writer, but a friend who does some writing. They’re trying to sell a serial to television. Not having any luck yet.” Alicia smiled as widely as if she had been reporting a triumph. “My husband’s an American.”
    “Oh, how interesting. How does he like England?”
    Alicia laughed. “I suppose he likes most things. He’s been here two years. Not quite. His name is Sydney. Sydney Smith Bartleby, isn’t that funny? His father was crazy about Sydney Smith for some reason. I tell Syd it’s the only English thing about him, that name.”
    “What kind of fiction does he write?”
    “Oh—not things with plots. At least not just now. His first two novels had more of a plot, but the thing he’s working on now hasn’t. It’s called The Planners , and it’s about a group of people who decide to plan the experiences they want in life and live accordingly. It sounds as if it’d have a plot, but it hasn’t.” Alicia smiled. “He can’t sell it yet, either, though it’s been finished for a year. His television ideas have plots, of course, absolutely crammed, but so far no luck with them.”
    “Ah, well. The arts take time. Don’t let him get discouraged.”
    Alicia left, promising to call Mrs. Lilybanks—her telephone was already in and her number was 275—very soon and ask her for a meal.
    Then Alicia skipped home, pausing only to pick a daisy at the edge of the road and pull its stem through a buttonhole of her shirt, went into her house and up the stairs to report to Sydney on their new neighbor.
    Sydney was standing at the window of his study, smoking a cigarette. The door was ajar, so Alicia didn’t knock as she usually did when it was closed.
    “Well, she’s very nice. Not stuffy and she’s even got a sense of humor, I think. She paints.