Free The Dangerous Years by Richard Church

encouragementto be a woman. John would not have noticed whether I wore a sack or a Schiaparelli. There was no encouragement there. And how could I compete with Mother, so heroic, so lovely? It’s hopeless, hopeless!
    During this morbid soliloquy she was guiding her mother northwards, through the Gardens, where the juvenile crowd had thinned out, and gone to luncheon.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, let us have a good French meal to-day, our first lunch in Paris since—how long is it?”
    â€œNearly twelve years, Joan,” said her mother demurely, still subdued by the old and greatest privation, “and you were too young then to be interested in the quality of your meals.”
    The bright sunshine had disappeared, and the crisp winter air thickened and grew fetid. The sky turned to lead, and a midday darkness began to settle over the streets.
    â€œWe’d better hurry, Mother,” said Joan, “it looks like a storm.”
    A few drops of tepid rain urged them on, as Joan had said, and the pace was too fast for talking. They arrived breathless at a small restaurant in the Carrefour de l’Odeon. The ground floor was already crowded, and they were directed by a tiny spiral staircase to a room above, where they found a table by a window looking across the ancient Square to tall houses that might have served as a backcloth to a tale by Balzac.
    â€œWhat a ramshackle place,” said Mary, disturbed by the lack of space within, and the raffish aspect without.
    â€œYes, but the food isn’t,” said Joan, with almost a masculine gusto. “This ought to make us forget our complexes. Not that
you
have any, Mother.”
    â€œMy dear child, why do you criticise yourself so much?”
    â€œOh well,” Joan growled, her mind intent on the menu, which was unfurled like a medieval scroll in her hands. She looked at it, and then at the map of the Burgundyvineyards on the wall. “Yes, the food is good, and the wines come from their own vineyard in the Beaujolais district. This will do us good, Mother.”
    â€œBut not my figure.”
    â€œLet us not be so womanly for once. Why should either of us care about our figures, after all? Not a damn!”
    Mary was not so sure. Maybe Joan was right; but even so, it was just as well to preserve a good appearance. Even memory needed to be elegant. But for once she would share this indulgence, if only to cheer the girl up and help her to put aside her ridiculous grievances.
    Joan was recognised by the proprietor when he came up the tiny doll’s staircase to look round the upper room. He shook her by the hand, and enquired after Monsieur. Joan grunted something, with a scared look in her eye, and introduced her mother, which caused the Frenchman to bow with respect, and to bow a second time as soon as he perceived her September beauty, a quality which instantly provoked gallantry.
    The meal was accordingly discussed and ordered with special care, and monsieur took the matter of the wine completely out of Joan’s hands. He rolled his eyes, pursed his lips, and raised a fat finger; an amusing piece of professional salesmanship, that deceived nobody, but did the trick.
    â€œWe ought to make a note of this,” said Joan, half-way through the
entrecôte
, which had been preceded by Portuguese oysters.
    â€œNobody is interested in what other people have eaten,” said her mother, in a very English mood.
    â€œNo, but we might forget ourselves, and not be able to order it again. Pleasures have a habit of vanishing.”
    â€œReally, you are becoming too earthy, Joan.”
    The genial Beaujolais, so deceptively innocent in its country freshness, was directing both mood and conversation. It made Joan expansive, and perhaps alittle more inclined to release her truculent personality.
    â€œWhat do you think of that Colonel Batten, the doctor’s mysterious brother?”
    â€œMysterious?” Mary was guarded. She saw