Anastasia said rapidly, “Did he bring all the bags? I was afraid he’d forget one. It’s the little one I’m worried about. It’s always getting lost, it’s so small. He was an idiot, that man. He talked the head off me, all the way from the station, really—”
The grandmother waited for her to finish.
She said, “It is nice to see you again, Anastasia. You are looking well. Isn’t she, Katharine?”
Her voice was cool and unemphatic. Hearing it, Anastasia was held to attention.
“Indeed, she looks grand!” Katharine said enthusiastically. “She’s a real young lady! I’d never have known her. How old is it you are,now?”
“Twenty-two,” said Anastasia. She touched her hair nervously and smiled at them. Her hair was dark and brushed smoothly back from her forehead. Her mouth was stubborn and her eyes were puzzled under faint, flyaway brows. She was anxious to please.
The grandmother finished looking at her.
“Well,” she said. “Katharine tells me your room is all ready for you. Would you like to go on up, and take off your coat?”
This was her own room, the room that had been hers since childhood. It was at the back of the house, on the third floor, and its windows overlooked the garden. She stood for a while by the window, and stared down where the garden was. She yielded for a moment to the disappointment that had been spreading coldly over all the homecoming. She tried to grow quiet, leaning against the hard window glass. She thought of her mother, who had been dead only a month, and the glass became hot with her forehead, and she pressed her hands to her face and tried to forget where she was, and that she was alone in her home.
Home is a place in the mind. When it is empty, it frets. It is fretful with memory, faces and places and times gone by. Beloved images rise up in disobedience and make a mirror for emptiness. Then what resentful wonder, and what half-aimless seeking. It is a silly state of affairs. It is a silly creature that tries to get a smile from even the most familiar and loving shadow. Comical and hopeless, the long gaze back is always turned inward.
The mother’s face, intent and gentle, is closer than the rest. Now it is a dead face, with no more bewilderment in it. She used to walk alone in the garden every evening after dinner. Close the eyes to see her again, a solitary figure in the fading light, wandering slowly down the garden and slowly back, between the neat black flowerbeds. It is unbearable to remember.
That was a time of uncertain mood, that time when she used to walk in the garden. Then the family, the sparse little family, was together, the grandmother, the father, the mother, the child. They were together and it was no satisfaction to them.
At night after supper they gathered together around the living-room fire and then quite soon separated, and went to their own rooms. While Anastasia was small she went the first. Taking her mother’s hand she proceeded upstairs and was put to bed. Her room was papered with pink and blue rosebuds in fancy baskets and she was in the habit of watching one of the baskets until she fell asleep. Her mother would fuss quiedy about, tidying things away, arranging clothes, straightening up. Often Anastasia roused from sleep to see her mother sitting motionless at the window, looking out at the darkness. She would speak to her.
“Mother.”
“Yes, pet. Go back to sleep.”
“What’s out there, mother?”
“The garden, silly.”
“It’s dark in the garden now, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Very dark. You ought to be asleep.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s terribly late. It’s nine-thirty, and time for you to shut up both eyes and go fast asleep. Fast asleep, now.”
Fast asleep. Once the mother came and crept into Anastasia’s bed at night.
She said, “I’m cold, pet, and you’re warm as toast always.”
The bed was too narrow for the two of them. After a while they fell asleep.
At breakfast time Anastasia said proudly to her father, “Mother says I’m warm as toast.”
He laughed at her.
“I’m sure you are, at that.”
“She came and got into bed with me last night She was cold and I warmed her up.”
The father looked up in surprise.
The mother said, “You’re a great talker, Anastasia.”
“Why on earth was that necessary, Mary?”
“Ah, John, don’t be angry. I was only cold.”
“I’m not angry, for God’s sake. Haven’t you enough blankets on your bed without disturbing the child in the middle of the night?”
“Ah, I was lonely, that’s all.”
She began to cry, stirring her tea.
The father said, “Anastasia, go away and play like a good girl.”
The grandmother, Mrs King, came in, prayer book in hand from early mass.
“What’s this?” she said. “What’s this now?”
She said, “John, tell me what’s up. Why is Mary crying?”
“It’s nothing, mother.”
She sat down at the head of the table, facing her son, and poured tea for herself.
“This is ridiculous,” she said, “scenes at breakfast. It’s something I’m not accustomed to in this house.”
The mother looked up with a wet trembling face. She looked back then in desperation at the tea she was stirring.
“I’m not accustomed to them either. I’m not accustomed to them either. You needn’t belittle me.” Her voice shook, and her mouth lifted nervously into an imitation smile.
“Great God,” said the father. “You’ll drive me mad.”
“Mary,” said the grandmother, smiling, “you’re making a fool of yourself.”
“You’re trying to belittle me,” said the mother in a disappearing voice. “In front of the child. That’s what you’re after, to turn her against me too.”
The father threw his cigarette on the floor.
The grandmother looked at him.
“What brought all this on anyway?” she asked pleasantly.
She began to butter her toast. One hand held the toast firm. The other spread a neat layer of butter. Anastasia’s mouth watered, although she had just finished breakfast. The grandmother stretched across the table to her.
“Here, pet,” she said, “have this nice toast.”
“It’s nothing at all,” said the father. “Only a stupid argument. Mary hasn’t enough blankets, and she had to sleep with Anastasia last night, she was so cold.”
“Is that true, Mary? You know you can have all the blankets you want. All you have to do is tell me.”
The mother folded her napkin and stood up. She was no longer crying.
She said, “It’s all right.”
“What’s all right?” asked the father. “Why don’t you come right out with it, whatever it is?”
She said again, “It’s all right,” and she pushed her chair tidily into place and went out of the room.
“Poor child,” said the grandmother conversationally. “She’s too intense altogether. She takes things to heart.”
“She does that,” said the father. “I never know how to take her. I never know what to say. Whatever I say is wrong.”
“That’s the way it is with some people,” said the grandmother. “Don’t blame her. It’s the way she was brought up.”
Anastasia finished her toast and waited for a nod from her grandmother. She wanted a smile of approval. She wanted to be seen. But they were busy with politics, and after a few restless minutes she slipped down from her chair and away without being noticed.
The trees around Noon Square grew larger, as daylight faded. Darkness stole out of the thickening trees and slurred the thin iron railings around the houses, and spread quickly across the front gardens, making the grass go black and taking the colour from the flowers. The darkness of night fell on the green park in the middle of the square, and rose fast to envelop the tall patient houses all around. The street lamps drew flat circles of light around them and settled down for the night.