Yet, for all these reservations, the last two years had been better than anything he had expected with a woman, except in the expectations of his dreams about marriage so long ago. They went for holidays together, for weekends to old friends, to the theatre, for special meals at restaurants, and for long walks. They made little treats for each other, gave each for long walks, They made little treats for each other, gave each other presents, had developed the private language of lovers. And all the time her gaiety and energy grew, while she could not prevent herself watching him — not knowing that she did it, and this humbled him and made him wretched — for the return of the old tyrant, the boor. Always he was aware that their happiness lacked a foundation.
But what foundation ought there to be?
Now he wanted to tell his wife the dream he had had about death. This is why he had been longing to see her. But he had not allowed himself to understand the truth, which was that he couldn't tell her. She dreaded change in him; she would feel the dream as a threat. And it was. For another thing, this new easy affection they had would not admit the words he would have to use. What words? None he knew could convey the quality of the dream. The habits of their life together made in inevitable that if he said: Rosemary, I had a terrible dream, well no, that was not it, its terribleness is not the point, wait, I must tell you — she would reply: Oh Jack, you must have eaten something. Are you well? — and she would run off to get him a glass of medicine of some sort. Her smile at him, while she handed it to him, would say that she knew, they both knew, that he didn't really need it, but she enjoyed looking after him when at last he was enjoying being looked after.
Tea-time came. Jack watched the young man from upstairs walk away under the summer's load of leaf. The telephone rang twice, both times for Rosemary. He took messages. He saw Elizabeth come up the path to the side door, nearly called to her, but decided not. He sat on into the summer afternoon, feeling that it was appropriate to be melancholy: it was what was expected of him. But that was not it! It was as if he had no substance at all, there was nothing to him, on purpose, no worth... something was draining quietly away from him, had been, for a long time.
Elizabeth came running in, saying: 'Oh Father, I am so sorry, you must be feeling low,' Caroline came after her. Carrie was now dressed in a purple shawl over tight red cotton trousers. Elizabeth, still in what she had worn to work, had on a dark-green trouser suit, but her own personality had been asserted since she came home: she had tied her hair back with an exotic-looking piece of red material, and it was making a froth of gold curls around her face. His cold heart began to stir and to warm, and they sat themselves down opposite, ready to share his grief.
Rosemary now came in, a large, tall woman, smiling and shedding energy everywhere.
‘Oh darling,' said she, 'you didn't telephone. I am so sorry. You have had tea, I hope?'
'He's dead,' said Elizabeth to her mother.
'He died this morning,' said Jack, not believing that it had been that morning.
Rosemary slowed her movements about the room, and when she turned to him, her face, like the faces of her daughters, was not smiling.
'When is the funeral?'
'I don't know yet'
'I'll come with you,' said Elizabeth.
'I won't' said Carrie. 'I don't like funerals. Not our kind of funeral.'
'And I won't either if you don't mind,' said Rosemary. 'That is, not unless you want me there.' A glass and decanter had appeared beside him, and Rosemary was causing Whisky to descent into the glass in a gold stream.
The whisky was not he point, the women's serious faces not the point, the funeral and who was at it, not the point.
'There is no need for any of you to come,' he said. And added, as he had been afraid he might: 'It wouldn't be expected of you.' All three showed relief, even Elizabeth.
Rosemary hated funerals: they were morbid. Carrie, being sort of Buddhist, believed, apparently, in putting corpses out for the vultures. Elizabeth's Christianity, like Ann's, was without benefit of church services.
'Oh no, I want to come with you,' said Elizabeth.
'Well, we'll see.'
He told them about the death — a mild and well-ordered affair. He said that Ellen and Cedric had been there, and watched for his wife's humorous glance so that he could return it: she wanted to convey sympathy for having to be with his family even for two days. Then he began speaking about the Twenty-Four-Hour Fast. He did not ask if they would join him, but he was hoping they would.
Now, while Rosemary had early on been inculcated with his life-wing opinions, during all the years of their unhappiness his activities had been seen by her as being in some subtle way directed against her, or, at any rate, as depriving her of something. But recently she had several times gone with him to a meeting or a demonstration. Looking guilty, she said that she couldn't join the Fast, because she had a lecture Saturday night, on Stress in the Family. She made it sound funny, in her way of appearing like an intelligent child submitting to official pedantry; but there was no doubt she would be at the lecture. Carrie said nothing: she thought any kind of politics silly. Elizabeth said she would have joined the Fast, but she had a demonstration of her own on Saturday.
Jack now remembered Ann's programme, said that Ann was coming at the week-end for a Pray-in. It turned out that this was the same as Elizabeths. Both girls were pleased that Ann was coming, and started talking about her and her relations with her parents. These were not very good: Ann found them materialistic, conventional, bourgeois. Jack was not able to be much amused; he found himself in sympathy with Cedric, possibly even with his sister-in-law. Probably Elizabeth and Carrie said to their friends that their parents were materialistic and bourgeois. He knew that his son Joseph did.
The girls had been going out for the evening, but because of the death, and wanting to cheer their father up, they stayed in to supper. Rosemary's new practice, now practice, now that the decades of compulsive cooking, buying, fussing, were done with, was to keep food to its simplest. She offered them soup, toast and fruit. The girls protested: the parents could see that this was because they needed to do something to show their sympathy. Rosemary and Jack sat hand in hand on the sofa, while the girls made a long and delicious meal for them all.
They went to bed early: it was still not quite dark outside. But he needed to make love with his wife, feeling that here at least the cold which threatened him would be held at bay.
But the shell of himself loved, the shell of himself held Rosemary while she fell asleep and turned away from him. He was awake, listening to the tides of blood moving in his body.
He crept downstairs again. He read the newspapers — making himself do so, like a penance for callousness. He listened to the radio, avoiding news bulletins. He did not go to bed again until it was fully light, and was woken an hour later by Cedric: practical reasons had set the funeral for tomorrow, Saturday, at eleven.
Friday he spent in the activities that the journalist was so good at. Saturday was not a good day for train and air services: to reach S— in time for the funeral, and to be back by two, would need luck and ingenuity. He checked the weather forecast: rain and mist were expected. Having made the arrangements, he rang Mona, since Walter was still in Glasgow. Mona was not only the wife of an 'Old Guard', but one in her own right. It had been agreed that he, Jack, would be on the steps of the church at ten, to welcome the fasters as they arrived, and to see that the posters proclaiming the event were in place. He now asked Mona to do all this, explaining why.