Free Palladian by Elizabeth Taylor Page A

brutally in his mind.
    So close, they were worlds apart.
    ‘Who
do
you love, then?’ Mrs Veal dabbed at her eyes, knowing she must not cry, for Tom had said once that it is never moving, always boring and embarrassing for women to cry once they are out of their early thirties. All he had ever said she remembered.
    ‘Oh, Lord!’ was all he said now and yawned … one, two, three, stretching his arms over his head. Only had temper
could
have come out of that embrace. ‘What do you want me to say? Thank you?’ he inquired.
    If your lover is insulting you must put up with it as best you can, fight your own battle. She could not very well run grizzling to Gilbert to ask him to deal with Tom, complaining of incivility, of coldness.
    ‘One moment you are so …’ she sobbed, ‘… the next moment so ill-natured and proud.’
    ‘I am ill-natured all the time,’ he tried to explain. ‘But I am not proud,’ he thought, ‘not proud.’
    Now it was time to open the bar again, and they had eaten nothing. When he had suggested food, she had begun to cry. If he may not eat, he must drink.
    ‘Five to,’ he said, looking at the clock. It was easy to put her in a good mood; he had only to betray himself, and not even in words, only in their interpretation.
    ‘Come here! Come along!’ he said in a different voice. He ran a finger down her forehead, down her nose. ‘Silly little camel! Stop wittering. Stop being a baby. Smile.’ She smiled. (‘You fool,’ he thought.) ‘That’s better. Now go and unlock the door. I’ll go round to the lavatory and then come marching into the bar the front way, as if I’ve been at home all afternoon.’ He smacked her behind quite hard.
    ‘You’ve had nothing to eat,’ she said, suddenly apologetic. ‘I’m so sorry.’
    ‘I should damn well think so,’ he said.
    He sauntered out to the lavatory across a little yard with crates of empty bottles and ash-cans. Cinders lay about and pieces of straw. One way and another the stench was awful – ‘mostly one way,’ he thought, kicking open the door. He recrossed the yard, buttoning himself up. ‘Kindly adjust your …’ God, how I hate clichés. How nice to see one day ‘Please do up your trousers before opening the door,’ or ‘…’ He tried out a few phrases, making his way round to the front door.
    Two men from the village leant against the bar. He was all right, then, for a drink, his pound note was intact a little longer. They were drinking light ale.
    ‘Whisky for Tom here,’ said one of them, as Mrs Veal came in from the Public Bar. She and he smiled conventionally at one another, yet there was something reserved, masked abouther. He winked. ‘Good evening,’ she said quietly. ‘What bloody game is this?’ he thought. ‘Like a coupla kids!’ ‘Cheers!’ ‘He sat down on a high stool in the corner and listened to the men talking men’s talk. Clichés again. ‘They are like two dogs barking at one another,’ he thought. ‘Sounds come out of their mouths, certainly, but sounds without any significance. “Look, what big chaps we are!” That’s all they are saying at one another, what dogs say when they bark.’
    He indicated their glasses to Mrs Veal and laid the pound note on the bar, unfolded, spread flat, infinitely precious. ‘There it goes!’ he thought. ‘There she goes, my beauty.’ But better this – better a pound here and there from Marion (‘Answer up. Say thank you like a nice boy’), better that than a few more pounds and no time to spend them – rushing round the countryside wrenching babies out of screaming women at all hours, mostly night time, not able to go into a pub in case they say ‘His hand was unsteady and no wonder.’ ‘No, I am quite free,’ he thought, looking at Mrs Veal.
    ‘Cheers!’ the men barked at him, lifting their glasses.
    ‘Cheers!’ he growled back and swallowed his whisky. That was good, but it was gone, a mere mouthful. He had forgotten the water. All