Free No Laughing Matter by Angus Wilson Page A

abandoned the essay unfinished . He thought to look for it now, but to find things was always such a business and a half. Also, hunting for something, he might make a noise and wake the Countess again. And then Regan banged the lavatory door. Oh Lord! that would put the cat among the pigeons.
    But the Countess, half dozing, was jolted into drowsy speculation, not into anger. How did she get back to Victoria, tipsy and with those poor, old swollen feet, stumbling along through silent early morning streets, lurching over Westminster Bridge? Why didn’t the police charge her? What must it be like? She had been a bit squiffy herself once or twice after parties with Milton and some of the other American officers – suppers at the Waldorf or the Savoy. The next morning the back of one’s throat seemed stretched so dry that it ached, one’s eyeballs throbbed with each step one took. But every week! Why did she do it? Stretching her legs down to the cool of the untouched sheets, stroking her thighs, she supposed that it must be, poor old cow, a consolation, an oblivion for years and years of never having had a man’s arms round her, never a man inside her. Poor old Regan, poor old cow! To have been ugly always and now to be old.
    ‘This isn’t important to you, Countess, don’t let it get under your skin. You’ve got a lovely home and a fine bunch of kids. And well, if Pop’s no great shakes … you’re still a beautiful woman. And so what? Bed isn’t everything.’ She twisted the sheets in her hands as though they were his rotten neck. How dare he offer her her own children, as compensation, vulgar little Yankee! And to tell her what was everything and what wasn’t. I can tell you, Milton J. Ward, that muck like you wouldn’t be everything to me if I hadn’t made a mess of it all, of everything that really matters. And you’re not, in any case; there’ll be others. Yes, worse and worse muck. And the end of the road couldn’t be far off. With her right hand she took the fingers of her left and twisted them until she cried out against the pain. Stop dramatizing, she told herself. Don’t be soft. And then the memory of Billy’s scared rabbit face as he bolted down his dressing-room hole came back to her and she shook the bed with laughing. If they didn’t care they could at least be frightened. And relaxing she remembered that it was Sunday morning. Everyone at home and under orders. She had decreed that the children should take it in turns to bringSunday breakfast to her so that Regan could sleep off her Saturday orgies. It was such a benefit for them instead of wasting half the morning lazing in bed! She savoured the word ‘benefit’. Smiling gently at her own hypocrisy, at the hypocrisy of all the world – we humans really were too absurd! – she stretched again luxuriously and, forgetting, fell into dozing thoughts of Milton’s strong legs straddling her.
    *
    Before Margaret could knock on the door of her mother’s bedroom, the Countess called to her, her babyish drawl a little sharpened in tone.
    ‘Don’t knock, Wendy. Bring my tea straight in – I can’t stand the slightest noise this morning and your knock isn’t exactly fairy-like, darling.’
    Propped against the white, lace-edged pillows between a mass of mauve crêpe de chine night gown and a mauve muslin boudoir cap, the Countess’ thin face was all darkly smudged skin and Pharaoh-sized black eyes. She’ll tell my fortune, but it won’t be a pleasant one.
    ‘Dancing with all those little brats is giving you a permanent stoop. If you’re like this at seventeen, you’ll look like a battered lamp post before you’re twenty-one. Dear little Wendy.’
    With the bed table arranged and the tray set on it, Margaret felt free to skirmish.
    ‘My name is not Wendy.’
    ‘Well, darling, I didn’t give it to you. It was your sensible granny M. who found you that name. But it is rather irresistible. Oh, Margaret , have some sense of fun.’