Free Remember Me by Fay Weldon

common kitchen clove, which rite Jarvis duly performed. Whether the final death of the tree was due to the York Stone or the clove was never known—but one or the other worked.) A pond, moulded in plastic to a shape somewhere between a kidney and a heart, but its edges now tastefully mossed, is currently a home for some seven hundred tadpoles (Hilary counted, one infinitely boring Sunday afternoon), seven goldfish and twelve frogs. A fountain plays, thanks to a pumping mechanism bought cheap from Gamages in the week before that useful emporium closed; the pump is splendidly reliable, except in the spring, when clogged with tadpoles.
    Bon appetit!
    The guests will dine on cold consommé, topped by lump-fish roe and whipped cream, served with little hot crescent rolls (for the greedy) followed by the Selfridge’s crown roast, served with mange-tout, pommes duchesse (for the weak) and green salad: then lemon mousse, the Selfridge’s cheese served with low-calorie crackers (which Lily will eat). Jarvis bought the wine at Augustus Barnett—it is a light Beaujolais and innocuous enough. Lily asserts that she prefers Beaujolais to claret, but never gives a reason. She would really rather not think about it.
    (Lily’s first sexual experience—a near rape, alas—was with a business executive who had taken her out to an expensive dinner, ordering fillet steak and a good claret—which latter seemed in retrospect to taste of menstrual blood and graveyards mixed.)
    Lily bleeds, yes she does. Red drops of death and birth, like anyone else. She is bleeding tonight: though through such a barrier of aspirin, expanding plugs of cotton wool and proofed pants that she is able to forget all about it. Lily’s dress tonight is silver grey, slippery, high in the waist, low in the bust: her breasts are clearly defined, her ankles neat in newly fashionable, high-heeled, dainty shoes. In the kitchen, between courses, she goes shoeless for speed and efficiency.
    The refectory table on which they will dine is in faded English walnut. It cost £65 in the days—the happy days—when such a price seemed exorbitant. Jarvis bought it as it happens, in the week during which both Madeleine and Lily lived in the house. The table mats are a pale brilliant green and come from Heal’s. The cutlery is of silver, and was left to Jarvis by his mother Poppy. Lily, dear Lily, has had the dents made by Madeleine beaten out. Madeleine used the spoons, Jarvis’s heritage, to open stubborn tins; she used the points of knives to change electric plugs; she used the forks to stir up the earth in the cat tray. Lily arrived in the house only just in time. As it is, Jarvis estimates that an eighth of his mother’s knives, a quarter of his mother’s spoons and a sixth of his mother’s forks have found their way, via Madeleine’s malice, into the dustbin. It is a matter of some grief to him.
    Lily has had a waste disposal unit installed, so any cutlery in danger sets up an instant uproar. His mother’s silver remains as it should—clean, dry, polished and safe in a green felt box; on the table only on special occasions, and then briefly, very briefly, in the washing-up bowl.
    On the table Lily has placed two white china candlesticks, containing pale green candles; these she will ask Jarvis to light as soon as the guests are seated. The matches stand ready. There is a posy of pale wild flowers in the centre bowl (of fairground glass; only 25p in a junk shop which knew no better). The chairs are matching and are in mid-Victorian maple. The walls around are papered in a floral pattern; tiny white daisies and pale pink roses intertwine on a pale yellow ground. The dining room curtains are pale yellow velvet and a mistake, but one too expensive to rectify.
    The guests this evening are a mistake, Lily fears: boring and blatant at the same time, like the curtains. The meal, costed by Lily at £24.25—she calculates such costs to a penny, including an estimate for