“It would have been so stupid,” Niki went on, “if you’d just accepted everything the way it was and just stayed where you were. At least you made an effort.”
“As you say. Now let’s not discuss it any further.”
“It’s so stupid the way people just waste away their lives.”
“Let’s not discuss it any further,” I said, more firmly. “There’s no point in going over all that now.”
My daughter turned away again. We sat without talking for a little while, then I rose to my feet and came closer to the window.
“It looks a much better morning today,” I said. “Perhaps the sun will come out. If it does, Niki, we could go for a walk. It would do us a lot of good.”
“I suppose so,” she mumbled.
When I left the living room, my daughter was still sitting astride her chair, her chin supported by a hand, gazing emptily out into the garden.
When the telephone rang, Niki and I were finishing breakfast in the kitchen. It had rung for her so frequently during the previous few days that it seemed natural she should be the one to go and answer it. By the time she returned, her coffee had grown cold.
“Your friends again?” I asked.
She nodded, then went over to switch on the kettle.
“Actually, Mother,” she said, “I’ll have to go back this afternoon. Is that all right?” She was standing with one hand on the handle of the kettle, the other on her hip.
“Of course it’s all right. It’s been very nice having you here, Niki.”
“I’ll come and see you again soon. But I’ve really got to be getting back now.”
“You don’t have to apologize. It’s very important you lead your own life now.”
Niki turned away and waited for her kettle. The windows above the sink unit had misted over a little, but outside the sun was shining. Niki poured herself coffee, then sat down at the table.
“Oh, by the way, Mother,” she said. “You know that friend I was telling you about, the one writing the poem about you?”
I smiled. “Oh yes. Your friend.”
“She wanted me to bring back a photo or something. Of Nagasaki. Have you got anything like that? An old postcard or something?”
“I should think I could find something for you. How absurd” — I gave a laugh — “Whatever can she be writing about me?”
“She’s a really good poet. She’s been through a lot, you see. That’s why I told her about you.”
“I’m sure she’ll write a marvellous poem, Niki.”
“Just an old postcard, anything like that. Just so she can see what everything was like.”
“Well, Niki, I’m not so sure. It has to show what everything was like, does it?”
“You know what I mean.”
I laughed again. “I’ll have a look for you later.”
Niki had been buttering a piece of toast, but now she began to scrape some butter off again. My daughter has been thin since childhood, and the idea that she was concerned at becoming fat amused me. I watched her for a moment.
“Still,” I said, eventually, “it’s a pity you’re leaving today. I was about to suggest we went to the cinema this evening.”
“The cinema? Why, what’s on?”
“I don’t know what kind of films they show these days. I was hoping you’d know more about it.”
“Actually, Mother, it’s ages since we went to a film together, isn’t it? Not since I was little.” Niki smiled, and for a moment her face became child-like. Then she put down her knife and gazed at her coffee cup. “I don’t go to see films much either,” she said. “There’s always loads on in London, but we don’t go much.”
“Well, if you prefer, there’s always the theatre. The bus takes you right up to the theatre now. I don’t know what they have on at the moment, but we could find out. Is that the local paper there, just behind you?”
“Well, Mother, don’t bother. There’s not much point.”
“I think they do quite good plays sometimes. Some quite modern ones. It’ll say in the paper.”
“There’s not much point, Mother. I’ll have to go back today anyhow. I’d like to stay, but I’ve really got to get back.”
“Of course, Niki. There’s no need to apologize.” I smiled at her across the table. “As a matter of fact, it’s a great comfort to me you have good friends you enjoy being with. You’re always welcome to bring any of them here.”
“Yes, Mother, thank you.”
The spare bedroom Niki had been using was small and stark; the sun was streaming into it that morning.
“Will this do for your friend?” I asked, from the doorway.
Niki was packing her suitcase on the bed and glanced up briefly at the calendar I had found. “That’s fine,” she said.
I stepped further into the room. From the window, I could see the orchard below and the neat rows of thin young trees. The calendar I was holding had originally offered a photograph for each month, but all but the last had been torn away. For a moment, I regarded the remaining picture.
“Don’t give me anything important,” Niki said. “If there isn’t anything, it doesn’t matter.”
I laughed and laid the picture down on the bed alongside her other things. “It’s just an old calendar, that’s all. I’ve no idea why I’ve kept it.”
Niki pushed some hair back behind her ear, then continued packing.
“I suppose,” I said, eventually, “you plan to go on living in London for the time being.”
She gave a shrug. “Well, I’m quite happy there.”
“You must send my best wishes to all your friends.”
“All right, I will.”
“And to David. That was his name, wasn’t it?”
She gave another shrug, but said nothing. She had brought with her three separate pairs of boots and now she was struggling to find a way of putting them in her case.
“I suppose, Niki, you don’t have any plans yet to be getting married?”
“What do I want to get married for?”
“I was just asking.”
“Why should I get married? What’s the point of that?”
“You plan to just go on — living in London, do you?”
“Well, why should I get married? That’s so stupid, Mother.” She rolled up the calendar and packed it away. “So many women just get brainwashed. They think all there is to life is getting married and having a load of kids.”
I continued to watch her. Then I said: “But in the end, Niki, there isn’t very much else.”
“God, Mother, there’s plenty of things I could do. I don’t want to just get stuck away somewhere with a husband and a load of screaming kids. Why are you going on about it suddenly anyway?” The lid of her suitcase would not shut. She pushed down at it impatiently.
“I was only wondering what your plans were, Niki,” I said, with a laugh. “There’s no need to get so cross. Of course, you must do what you choose.”
She opened the lid again and adjusted some of the contents.
“Now, Niki, there’s no need to get so cross.”
This time, she managed to close the lid. “God knows why I brought so much,” she muttered to herself.
“What do you say to people, Mother?” Niki asked. “What do you say when they ask where I am?”
My daughter had decided she need not leave until after lunch and we had come out walking through the orchard behind the house. The sun was still out, but the air was chilly. I gave her a puzzled look.
“I just tell them you’re living in London, Niki. Isn’t that the truth?”
“I suppose so. But don’t they ask what I’m doing? Like that old Mrs Waters the other day?”
“Yes, sometimes they ask. I tell them you’re living with your friends. Really, Niki, I had no idea you were so concerned about what people thought of you.”