Imaginative Experience by Mary Wesley Read Free Book Online Page A

upset, too utterly—’
    Glancing sidelong, Maurice fell into step beside her.
    ‘I tried to see Julia in London,’ he said.
    ‘Oh,’ said Madge, ‘Julia.’
    ‘She was out.’ Maurice persisted. ‘They said she is out all the time,’ he lied.
    Madge said, ‘I wouldn’t know. They were divorced, on the point of absolution. Oh, wrong word. I mean, the divorce was almost absolute. Of course they should never have married.’
    Maurice thought of the girl running, long legs, scissoring towards the sheep. ‘Wasn’t there a child?’ he murmured, collating information gleaned at the pub.
    ‘Of course there was a child—Christy. It’s so terrible for Clodagh, devastating, dreadful. How will she ever—? This is my cottage. Why don’t you come in? Like a cup of tea?’
    Maurice said, ‘Thank you very much,’ and followed her in. Hollyhocks and roses, clematis and honeysuckle, traces of these in late autumn, converted workman’s cottage, pricey, very Homes and Gardens, mind the beams. He ducked his head.
    Madge said, ‘Mind the beams. Go in there, I’ll put the kettle on. Won’t be a minute,’ and, waving him into a sitting-room, turned right into a kitchen, leaving the door open.
    ‘I did try and telephone.’ Maurice raised his voice. ‘But no luck from the number in the book.’
    ‘It’s ex-directory,’ Madge shouted. ‘Julia pretended Giles rang up at all hours and why not? He was Christy’s daddy, wasn’t he? Had been her husband. I’ve got the number somewhere, we got it from the police. I’ll give it to you.’
    ‘That would be kind.’ Maurice examined the room. Chintzy covers, fussy curtains, plethora of china ornaments, women’s magazines, a bag of knitting, large television, open fire, nutbags hanging outside the window, tits feeding, greenfinches fluttering near by and a tree creeper on the oak across the lawn, nice.
    A set of photos on the mantelpiece. Let’s have a dekko. Madge Brownlow with a younger woman. Clodagh May? The same with a young man, and again but with a child in her arms, the child in the man’s arms, child alone. Child looks exactly like the man, ergo must be its father. There was a clatter in the kitchen. Maurice called, ‘Can I help?’
    ‘Oh, could you? I’ve put too much on the tray. Cracked a cup, butter-fingers. I thought a whisky in our tea would be in order, I need cheering up.’
    Maurice said, ‘Let me carry it. You carry the whisky,’ (nice kitchen, Raeburn, Welsh dresser, blue plates, pine cupboards, Homes and Gardens again but awful tile floor) and led the way back into the sitting-room where, solicitous, he said, ‘You must be chilled. Shall I put a log on your fire?’
    Madge said, ‘Oh, do, thank you,’ and began pouring tea. ‘I brought a large cup,’ she said. ‘Men like large cups, Clodagh always had a large cup for Giles. Help yourself to whisky, it was a present from Giles. He was so thoughtful—’
    Maurice said, ‘Later, perhaps. Just tea would be lovely, milk, no sugar.’ Watching her pour (Edwardian silver teapot, common, but even so can fetch a lot these days), he took the cup from her and sat back in his chair.
    Madge dolloped whisky into her cup, drank, sighed, said, ‘That’s good, that’s better,’ and stared into the fire.
    Maurice said, ‘Interesting photographs,’ nodding up at the mantelpiece. ‘Your family?’
    ‘Oh! Oh yes. I think of them as my family. I have no blood relations except some sort of cousin in Canada. Clodagh has always—and Giles, of course, and little Christy. Oh, I can hardly bear—Oh! That’s Clodagh, and that’s Clodagh with Giles, and Clodagh and Christy, and little Christy alone. Such a darling—Clodagh’s younger than me but we’ve been so close so long and then Giles—That’s a very good one of Giles, the one with his head thrown back, and his hair all—Taken before Julia broke his nose, of course.’
    ‘Broke his nose?’
    ‘Of course! Didn’t you know?’
    ‘Um, I’d