Free Imaginative Experience by Mary Wesley Page B

open. ‘These are quite hard to come by, Sylvester, and it has its original handles, marvellous. And it’s in jolly good nick. Lashing out a bit, aren’t you?’
    ‘It was my father’s, it’s been in store. Celia didn’t like it.’
    Rebecca laughed. ‘I don’t suppose for one moment she realized what it’s worth, or perhaps she thought it was a copy? Or has Andrew Battersby got lots of valuable writing tables?’
    ‘Perhaps he has. Like a drink?’
    ‘Oh, yes please, just a little one. And the chair; that’s new, too.’
    ‘Also my father’s.’
    ‘It’s Chippendale, lovely.’ She ran her hand across the back and down the arm.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Just look at its legs,’ Rebecca crooned. ‘My goodness, Sylvester, I wish I had legs like that. Mine are like grand pianos.’
    ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Sylvester, who had often thought so. ‘I’ll get your drink.’ He left his visitor eyeing the room.
    Rebecca stopped stroking the chair and looked about her. Something was different apart from the desk and the chair; there was a subtle change since her last visit. The sofa was posed as before and the armchair, the shelves lining the back wall were still stuffed with books and the mantelshelf bare, as was the floor. What was it?
    Sylvester came back from the kitchen, carrying a tumbler in each hand. He handed Rebecca hers. ‘Do sit down.’ He indicated the sofa and sat in the chair by the desk, keeping his back to the window.
    Rebecca said, ‘Delicious. You know exactly how I like it.’
    Sylvester said nothing, crossed his feet at the ankles, sipped his drink.
    ‘If you are refurnishing, you should let me help you,’ Rebecca offered. ‘I am pretty hot on antiques.’ Sylvester thought, she never gives up. ‘For starters,’ Rebecca went on, ‘you will need some rugs. Those Persian rugs were lovely.’
    Sylvester said, ‘Turkish.’
    ‘Of course, Turkish. Any hope of getting them back? Surely that’s the sort of thing Andrew Battersby would have lots of?’
    Sylvester said, ‘I wouldn’t know.’
    Rebecca said, ‘Well, you must have rugs. You can’t live with a bare floor, it’s so uncosy. I’ll look about. I know a man in Fulham who has an excellent collection at quite moderate prices.’
    Sylvester said, ‘No.’
    ‘No? But—’
    ‘They are being cleaned.’
    ‘What are being cleaned?’
    ‘My rugs.’
    ‘So you’ve got some rugs?’ Rebecca flushed. ‘Your father’s?’
    ‘I bought them.’
    ‘Oh, lovely. Persian?’
    ‘No, Kelim.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Rebecca, ‘Kelim.’ She swallowed some of her whisky. He’s forgotten how I like it, she thought, this is weak. She looked at Sylvester, sitting with his back to the light in his father’s chair with his father’s writing table behind him. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’m latching on. Now you have the house to yourself you’ve started on “the new novel”. You are shot of Celia and have time to write. That’s it, isn’t it? What’s the novel about?’
    ‘I am writing the life of Wellington’s valet,’ Sylvester improvised. (What animal is it, he asked himself, which, when it gets something in its jaws, can’t let go?)
    ‘Wellington’s valet? I didn’t know he had a valet. Well, I suppose he must have. There will be a lot of research, I can help you with that. And if you want typing done, you must come to me,’ said Rebecca.
    ‘I shall have a word processor.’
    ‘It will spoil the look of the room. You don’t want a word processor, just let me—I would like to help,’ Rebecca said bravely.
    ‘I know you would.’ Sylvester uncrossed his legs and stood up, holding his empty glass.
    Rebecca perforce stood too. ‘You have done something to this room,’ she said, ‘something other than the desk and the chair. What is it?’
    Sylvester took her empty glass and stood waiting, a glass in each hand. Then Rebecca exclaimed, ‘I know! It smells. It smells of beeswax. It’s clean. Look at the floor! It’s