Another wasp, or the same one, came to the cut-up peach and began to drown in melted sugar. He left it to its fate.
'Sarah, my life doesn't add up to anything — no, listen. If I'd earned the money, it would be a different matter. My grandfather earned it all.'
She was too surprised to speak.
'I envy Benjamin. He uses money.'
'Don't you?'
'I keep things going, anyone could do it.' He got up. 'I told the boys I'd take them riding.'
'I saw you this morning teaching them to shoot.'
'If one only knew what sort of life they should be educated for. I wish I knew. They learn all the new things at school — computers. As well as the usual things. James can drive. He can use maps and a compass. They can shoot. They can ride. I'll make sure they won't be dependent on craftsmen to do their plumbing for them — that kind of thing. They aren't artistic at all, not musical. They do well at games at school. That's still important.'
'Do they know how to read?'
'A good question. But that's asking a lot these days. James has some books in his room. Norah still reads to the younger ones. But perhaps shooting will turn out to be the most useful thing in the end. Who knows?'
Mid-afternoon. Henry's car came to a crunchy stop on the gravel. He jumped out to open the door for his wife. Out stepped a small woman, almost invisible because of the large child in her arms. She set him down, and the little boy, about three years old, rushed into his father's arms with screams of delight. Now it could be seen that Millicent was pretty and blonde, if that was an adequate word for the casque or fleece of yellow hair which, like Alice's, fell almost to her waist. From it a little determined face smiled while Henry whirled his son around and then again, before setting him down, but Joseph refused to be put down. He clung to his father's legs until Henry picked him up again. Millicent stood looking about her. It was a competent but above all democratic inspection: she was refusing to be diminished by ancestral magnificence. She smilingly faced the big steps, where Stephen, Elizabeth, Norah, and Sarah were waiting. She had a philosophical look. They have a hard task, the wives, husbands, loved ones generally of the adventurous souls who so recklessly (and so often) immerse themselves in these heady brews and who have to be reclaimed for ordinary life: talked down, brought down, reintroduced to — reality is the word we use. Norah descended the steps to help carry up the innumerable cases, hold-alls, bags, of toys and clothes and comics necessary for a contemporary child's well-being. (Children, that is, of certain countries.) She and Millicent managed it all, because Henry's arms were full, and likely to remain so. His face and his son's were joyous.
Introductions were made, and the family went upstairs; Norah went with them to show the way. She came down in a few minutes, joining the others in the little sitting room, where tea was waiting for them. Her smile, as so often, was brave, this time because of the tender scene she had been observing. Elizabeth and Stephen were there, and Mary Ford had arrived, with apologies from Roy, who had departed to London. His wife had decided after all not to live with her new lover, and he hoped to talk her into returning to him, restoring the marriage. He was armed with arguments, and statistics too, one of which was that 58 per cent of men and women in new marriages regretted their first marriages and wished they had never divorced at all. The company drinking tea wished poor Roy welclass="underline" he had really been looking awful recently, they agreed. They wished him well for the space of about half a minute, and then Norah remarked, 'I'm afraid Millicent has put a veto on the restaurant. It seems the little boy is overwrought. I can't help feeling he would put up with me. I am supposed to be good with children.'
Mary said, 'I'm afraid we are up against that good old culture clash again. Well, I'm on their side. I love it when I'm in Italy and France and you see everyone from granny to the new baby out together having a meal.'
'Speaking for myself,' said Elizabeth, 'I think it's extraordinary they should take it for granted a three-year-old child would go out to dinner with adults.'
Stephen said, 'But they wouldn't see it as going out to dinner. It's normal for them to go out for meals in restaurants.'
'Since they're off tomorrow, I suppose that's it. I'll ring up the restaurant and cancel,' said Elizabeth. When she was doing something practical, her body filled with vitality, her haunches moved with a look of intense private satisfaction, her hands seemed ready to take hold of a situation and manage it. 'And the next excitement,' she said, coming back from the telephone, 'is your Frenchman. Do you think we should take him out to dinner?'
Sarah said, 'You don't seem to realize — just being in this house will be a thrill for him, as it is for all of us.'
'I suppose we do rather take it for granted. Damn. I wouldn't have minded going out to dinner. They'll just have to take pot luck.'
'Never mind, darling,' said Norah. 'I'll take you out to dinner when everyone has gone.' She spoke emotionally, and the darling had slipped out. She was embarrassed, and Elizabeth did not look at her.
Stephen said quickly, 'Too much cooking and catering these last few days. I did warn you that it might be too much of a good thing.'
'I've enjoyed it,' said Elizabeth, smiling at them all. Then she gave Norah a smile, just for her. The two women began talking about the people they had gone to lunch with, in a hearty social way, and this became a joking exchange of gossip about neighbours, Joshua among them. Stephen was listening to the women with that look one sees on the faces of husbands and wives — and lovers — not in the confidence of their partners, when they talk in their presence to other people. It was a strained eavesdropper's look. Elizabeth and Norah then said they had thought of taking a week's holiday when Julie Vairon was done. Stephen remarked that it was possible he would not be here. Elizabeth said, 'Well, never mind; the boys will be at school by then.'
The gravel announced an arrival. It was Jean-Pierre, who shook hands all round, kissed Elizabeth's hand, and then kissed Mary, one, two, three. For the space of seconds the two were in a time of their own. Again the grounds had to be shown, and soon, because Jean-Pierre would be off early tomorrow, with Sarah. They all strolled about in the late afternoon sunlight, and Jean-Pierre exclaimed in polite enthusiasm about everything he saw, as well he might. He was overwhelmed, he said, it was magnificent, he said, and so it went on till they showed him the theatre area, when he began to show doubt. They had expected him to.
The chairs had no numbers on them: did the audience not reserve seats?
It was not necessary; people sat where they could find a seat. And if they're late, too bad, they have to stand. We only reserve the front row.
The paths leading to the theatre were not marked. The posters were everywhere, so how did people know where to go?
'Don't worry, they work it out for themselves,' reassured Norah maternally.
And there was no definite place where refreshments were served. He supposed there were refreshments?
Stephen said all that kind of thing was very well organized by Elizabeth and her staff. Wine, ice cream, soft drinks, cakes, appeared on trays in the intervals, borne by volunteers from the town, who enjoyed this contact with the world of the theatre.
'Of course, sometimes they don't turn up,' said Elizabeth, who was enjoying teasing Jean-Pierre. 'But if they don't, then I and Norah and the children, if they're here, we fill in the gaps.'