Free The Trouble-Makers by Celia Fremlin Page B

the kerb as they crossed into the main road, and Katharine steadied her.
    “So it was then that … that …?” She attempted to prompt Mary again, and Mary raised her drooping head a little and continued:
    “No. Oh no. Not then. I didn’t do anything. I just—sort of muttered something. Not even an apology, because he still hadn’t accused me of anything, had he? It was just a mutter—you know—without any actual consonants or vowels. If you’ve ever had to mutter like that yourself, you’ll know what I mean. And then I slipped off into the kitchen. I thought I’d get dinner ready, and then perhaps it would all blow over, because of course Angela would come down for dinner, and I will say for Alan he’s always careful not to be—awful—in front of Angela. But I’d forgotten to do any shopping that morning, and so when I looked in the fridge there was nothing but the cold joint. So I started slicing it up. I don’t quite know what I was planning to do with it—I mean, you can’t really give your husband just cold meat, can you, even when he’s in a good temper, let alone when he’s like that. But anyway, I thought I’d start by slicing it up, and think afterwards. Don’t you think that’s quite a good way, Katharine, when you’re quite desperate ?— do something first, and then decide whether to do it afterwards … if you see what I mean….” Her voice was growing vague again, wandering evasively down tortuous byways of philosophy as the climax of her story loomed nearer. Katharine forced her to the point again.
    “So you sliced up the meat?” she pursued, pulling Mary gently to a halt at the bus stop “And then?”
    “And then I heard the study door open again,” said Mary, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, as if even now she had to listen, nerves alert, for Alan’s soft movements. “And I heard Alan coming down the hall—very softly, the way he does when he’s angry. And then he was standing in the kitchen door, very neat, very calm, and his eyes shining. ‘Cold meat!’ they were screaming at me. ‘Out all day—no fire—no comfort—and now cold meat for dinner!’ They screamed it at me, Katharine—two or three times! My hand shook so that I cut my finger—my own finger, isn’t that funny, when you think what happened afterwards? I really did—look!” With a short laugh, she held up a forefinger encircled with sticking plaster for Katharine’s inspection, and went on: “And then he spoke to me. Actually spoke, with his mouth, I mean—and you can’t think what a relief that was, even though he was still as angry as he could be. ‘I see there’s going to be nothing for dinner,’ he said politely. ‘And as I have to go out in a few minutes, perhaps I could trouble you to bring me a sandwich in the study? I’d ask for some coffee too, but of course that would be too much trouble; and no doubt we have run out of coffee.’ Absolutely quietly he said it, perfectly civil—and oh, Katharine, I’d give anything for a husband who’d stamp, and rage, and throw things at me…. Oh! …” Tears were swelling her features once more, but with a cruel effort she gulped them back and went on:
    “So I began making the sandwiches as quickly as I could—I used the cold lamb for them. Oh, it was such a job, with the bread new, and the butter hard, and my finger bleeding, and trying to make coffee at the same time—and knowing that any minute he’d come back into the kitchen and say in that polite voice: ‘I see I’m expecting too much,’ or some awful sarcastic thing like that, and go off without anything to eat at all. Anyway, I did manage to get it ready, and piled it all on to a tray in a great hurry—the carving knife too, just because ithappened to be still on the plate with the sandwiches—I didn’t mean it to be there, of course—I swear I didn’t. And when I put the tray down by Alan as he sat at his desk, theknife was the first thing he saw. He picked it up