The Man Who Understood Women Read Free Page A

silent. But it was always a restful, amicable silence, a silence of perfect understanding.
    On wet days they stayed at home and played Scrabble.Christopher had been ten points in the lead in their fierce contest, which carried on from one holiday to the next, when Grandfather had played his last game. He’d never again find such a keen opponent. He let his mind slip back over the years but could think of not one thing his grandfather had actually taught him.
    He only knew that because of Grandfather he would always be tolerant and true to himself. ‘He taught me to be a man,’ Christopher said, and waited for the girl to ask him what he meant. They always did. It was irritating.
    She said: ‘You’re going to miss him.’
    Christopher sighed. He felt a hand, cool and firm, close over his.
    ‘It’s always worse at first,’ she said, ‘like when you fall over.’
    He thought her awfully sensible for a girl and liked the feel of her hand on his.
    They talked. About television, books, their families and finally, at first shyly, themselves. Each laid out for the other to see, what they thought lay before them, sure that in the sunlight of the garden their dreams would not be trodden upon. Several times Christopher glanced quickly at the dainty profile , the gently tilted nose, the inky lashes, the pale soft lips. He liked it best when she turned right round to face him and he was caught in the level stare of her enormous eyes. He was unaware that the morning had passed. When he looked round the garden there was not a nannie or a pram to be seen. The sun was high in the sky. Guiltily, he thought that, for the past little while, Grandfather had been out of his thoughts.
    ‘I’d better go back for lunch,’ he said.
    ‘Me too.’ She stood up and shook out the folds of the pink dress. Side by side they walked along the path. At the gate he held it open so that she could go first. She lived at the other side of the Square. ‘I go back to school next week,’ she said.
    ‘So do I.’
    ‘I shall probably be in the garden in the mornings until then.’
    Christopher remembered his promise to himself never to sit in the Square again. He looked at the girl, almost as tall as himself, graceful, with one foot on the first step, her long hair shading her face, a watercolour, black and pink, except for the face, pale.
    ‘I shall probably be there myself,’ he said and, turning, walked back across the shimmering, silent Square to the waiting house where the blinds were drawn, but not against the sun.

No Christmas Roses

    1958
    It started, like a bad play, with the ringing of the telephone.
    In the spacious, centrally heated flat, high above the traffic and with a clear view over the park, everything was ready for Christmas. The Georgian furniture, each piece exactly right, stood elegantly polished; greetings cards and messages from all over the world were piled neatly on a silver salver; the piano had been tuned and the Aubusson rugs shampooed; in the kitchen, quietly, confidently, Maxine and Odile from Jamaica were making the early preparations for the two dinner parties and the one cocktail party that had been arranged.
    Fleur herself, satisfied that nothing had been forgotten and that all was going exactly as she had planned it should, was resting with her shoes off and her legs up on the pale gold damask sofa, reading beauty hints for the over-forties in a shiny magazine. Her hair had been done, her nails manicured , and she had already arranged the flowers for the tabledecorations. Nothing had been left until the last minute, for today was Christmas Eve.
    The telephone was by her side and its ringing shattered the excited silence of waiting for Christmas.
    It was a Continental call, and Fleur sat up, the magazine sliding to the floor, as she waited to be connected with Paris.
    ‘Mummy?’ The voice was faint, the line crackling.
    ‘Noelle! How are you, darling?’
    ‘I’m fine. Mummy, I’m coming home for