their daughter was in Athens, thinking probably in Greek as she listened to her husband, a friend, the radio. How did she make contact with her parents? ’Phone? Weekly letter?
‘It was hard for us,’ the woman said, ‘especially Daddy.’
He pulled a serious-comical face, blubbering his lips out.
‘It’s a very different thing being interested in a country, spending holidays, and, and, having your daughter live there, marrying. If Daddy hadn’t talked about it, and had books, then perhaps Phyllis wouldn’t . . . Well, we don’t know, do we?’
Fisher put questions, offered comfort, said he saw his sister at most once a year and she lived a mere hundred and twenty miles off.
‘We bring a family up, and they split, never meet,’ the man said. ‘We’re odd.’
‘Except at funerals.’
They laughed at the wife’s wry remark.
‘We’d only the one child,’ the woman continued, ‘and she’s none. She’s happy enough, and I tell myself that it’s not much of a misfortune not to bring children into this world we’ve got. Made.’
‘They might do better,’ the husband chided mildly.
‘They could hardly do worse.’
Fisher liked the couple with their sharp platitudes. In some small way they seemed alive, keeping their eye on humanity. Through such as these common sense prevailed, against gelignite and napalm, double-talk and pollution. After an hour, of course, he became bored, knew too much. A retired headmaster and his wife, lacking the expected captive audience. When they learnt that he worked in a university education department, they flashed names. Did he know Professors Whitemoor of Liverpool, Thorpe of Manchester, Winstanly of Hull?
Disappointed in himself Fisher left them about three. While they were two strangers, with a daughter in Greece, he could accept their hospitality, admire their bluntness. But now they talked schoolrooms and staff, they became dull, were grey and he excused himself. He concluded, as he walked towards a caravan park, that he liked only the products of his own imagination. That did not displease him; on the concrete slabs, between the caravans and chalets, the lines of jigging bathing suits and nappies, he congratulated himself on being able to distinguish between reality and fantasy.
He had now reached a road, headed townwards when he heard his Christian name called. Obstinately he failed to turn.
‘Edwin.’
On this second time he recognised the voice, that of his mother-in-law. He stopped, but could not see her. Mrs Vernon stepped out from a car among a parked row, posed for him.
A handsome women, not unlike her daughter in colouring but heavier, she had nothing of Meg’s vagaries, volatility. She smiled now, announced plummily that she was glad to see him. He made appropriate noises, shook her hand.
‘David wanted your address,’ she said.
He did not answer that.
‘A coincidence, wasn’t it?’ she laughed. ‘Meeting like that. A scruffy little pub, David said, not the sort of place either of you might be expected to patronise.’ For a second, he detected a Welshness of intonation, a parody of her husband in the sentence’s formality. He dismissed the suspicion; Irene Vernon carried no satire round with her.
Fisher stood, suspiciously. He’d not spoken to Irene since he’d deserted her daughter, and could see no reason why she should show him affability. She knew what Meg was like, had spent many years in contumely with her, but she expected matrimonial cracks, her own and others’ well papered over. Mrs Vernon paid attention to appearances; she was English, middle-class, a rich solicitor’s only daughter. Her husband could drink in back street pubs, gamble a few quid away at the tables or the courses, make tricky use of information form crooked clientele, play, it was said, with fancy young foreign vaginas, providing the office finances were straight, the Law Society unworried, and her own public pride undamaged. It wasn’t much of a
‘It was hard for us,’ the woman said, ‘especially Daddy.’
He pulled a serious-comical face, blubbering his lips out.
‘It’s a very different thing being interested in a country, spending holidays, and, and, having your daughter live there, marrying. If Daddy hadn’t talked about it, and had books, then perhaps Phyllis wouldn’t . . . Well, we don’t know, do we?’
Fisher put questions, offered comfort, said he saw his sister at most once a year and she lived a mere hundred and twenty miles off.
‘We bring a family up, and they split, never meet,’ the man said. ‘We’re odd.’
‘Except at funerals.’
They laughed at the wife’s wry remark.
‘We’d only the one child,’ the woman continued, ‘and she’s none. She’s happy enough, and I tell myself that it’s not much of a misfortune not to bring children into this world we’ve got. Made.’
‘They might do better,’ the husband chided mildly.
‘They could hardly do worse.’
Fisher liked the couple with their sharp platitudes. In some small way they seemed alive, keeping their eye on humanity. Through such as these common sense prevailed, against gelignite and napalm, double-talk and pollution. After an hour, of course, he became bored, knew too much. A retired headmaster and his wife, lacking the expected captive audience. When they learnt that he worked in a university education department, they flashed names. Did he know Professors Whitemoor of Liverpool, Thorpe of Manchester, Winstanly of Hull?
Disappointed in himself Fisher left them about three. While they were two strangers, with a daughter in Greece, he could accept their hospitality, admire their bluntness. But now they talked schoolrooms and staff, they became dull, were grey and he excused himself. He concluded, as he walked towards a caravan park, that he liked only the products of his own imagination. That did not displease him; on the concrete slabs, between the caravans and chalets, the lines of jigging bathing suits and nappies, he congratulated himself on being able to distinguish between reality and fantasy.
He had now reached a road, headed townwards when he heard his Christian name called. Obstinately he failed to turn.
‘Edwin.’
On this second time he recognised the voice, that of his mother-in-law. He stopped, but could not see her. Mrs Vernon stepped out from a car among a parked row, posed for him.
A handsome women, not unlike her daughter in colouring but heavier, she had nothing of Meg’s vagaries, volatility. She smiled now, announced plummily that she was glad to see him. He made appropriate noises, shook her hand.
‘David wanted your address,’ she said.
He did not answer that.
‘A coincidence, wasn’t it?’ she laughed. ‘Meeting like that. A scruffy little pub, David said, not the sort of place either of you might be expected to patronise.’ For a second, he detected a Welshness of intonation, a parody of her husband in the sentence’s formality. He dismissed the suspicion; Irene Vernon carried no satire round with her.
Fisher stood, suspiciously. He’d not spoken to Irene since he’d deserted her daughter, and could see no reason why she should show him affability. She knew what Meg was like, had spent many years in contumely with her, but she expected matrimonial cracks, her own and others’ well papered over. Mrs Vernon paid attention to appearances; she was English, middle-class, a rich solicitor’s only daughter. Her husband could drink in back street pubs, gamble a few quid away at the tables or the courses, make tricky use of information form crooked clientele, play, it was said, with fancy young foreign vaginas, providing the office finances were straight, the Law Society unworried, and her own public pride undamaged. It wasn’t much of a
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