Free Down in the City by Elizabeth Harrower Page A

like that—as if he hated her? He felt that he had hated her, too, this afternoon. He had envied her—her life, her family, her very self. He knew it was nothing but the prospect of that damned party that had made him rake up Nobby and Jock and drag them back. That, and the envy and the fear. Sometimes he was frightened of men like the Prescotts.
    He was too old to cry. He had not cried when he was a very small boy and he was not going to start now. But tomorrow he would tell her that he would truly die for her—that he would not let a cold wind blow on her if he could help it.

CHAPTER NINE
    Rachel Demster hung with her head and arms dangling over the balcony wall, wondering whether or not she would be sorry if she leaned further and fell. She wondered if Laura Maitland would be sorry if she were dead, and she thought not. She wondered about her father, and she thought not. Coming to her aunt and uncle, she saw them now in imagination as she had done so often in fact, as they dripped stickily round some parched, deserted golf course in the middle of summer. They’re mad, she thought, just mad! And she sighed.
    This must be ennui I feel, she thought, and wondered how to pronounce it. It felt like ennui, or perhaps it felt worse than that. If she had a dictionary she might have looked it up to see if she felt worse than ennui, but probably she would not.
    The blood began to pound unpleasantly in her head, so she dragged herself up and flopped back into a chair. Another quiet, hot, horrible, boring Sunday! I can’t bear it another second, she thought calmly. I’ll go mad. All right—go mad. Who cares? You’d be better off. No, but I’m really desperate, I’ll have to do something…And I will. I’ll get a job. I’ll advertise for one.
    Immediately she was appalled at having made the decision, for she knew what she had said, she must do. She had promised herself, sometime around the age of twelve, that she would be truthful and true, just, reasonable and, when desirable, kind to herself; for it was clear that these necessary comforts were not to be depended upon from any other source.
    She craned impulsively over the balcony to find someone to talk to, someone to tell, but the cement courtyard wore its blank Sunday look, and the balconies above were empty as far as she could see.
    She sat back again in disgust, and tears tried to edge their way into her eyes, but their falseness irritated her. She knew very well that she could bear her ennui—if that was what it was—without tears. It was altogether the wrong time for them.
    Head thrown back, eyes fixed on an incredibly high and windswept summer sky, she wished that she could disappear into its cool, airy distances. How much easier it would be than living. How much happier. Imagine floating along like a cloud or a bird, or just being a piece of sunny blue space. Rachel imagined, half smiled, then sighed, and went to find a pencil and paper so that she could draft her advertisement.
    â€˜Intelligent girl (17) desires job,’ she wrote. She looked at the bald black statement for some time, and pencilled the (17) over and over until she wore a hole in the paper.
    If she lived to be sixty-seven she would have to work for fifty years, so it would have to be a good job. But what could anyone do for fifty years?
    She rubbed the back of her neck and buried her fist in her cheek, trying to forget that Mrs Maitland had condemned her to remain single and solitary for the same length of time—consequently she could think of nothing else.
    But do you care? Is it what you want most? she asked herself nicely. Sometimes it is, she confessed, and pictured a country cottage, roses round the door, babies on the floor, someone simple and kind coming home at night. They would sit by the fire and play the gramophone. And they would never think, and never plan, and never, never change. The country would be fresh and cool: there would