Passing On by Penelope Lively Read Free Book Online

wasn’t up to him to inform you, and indeed he would have been acting unprofessionally had he done so on his own initiative.’
    ‘Oh goodness,’ said Helen. ‘No one’s blaming him.’ She shifted slightly; the sun was in her eyes, obscuring her view of the visitor. Thick silvery hair and a face beneath that looked younger than the hair. Actually, she thought, my age — give or take a year or two. Nice voice.
    ‘All the same. We feel … concerned. I feel concerned. Not of course that it makes the slightest difference to … to your living arrangements. But obviously there is … there is . .
    ‘An effect,’ suggested Helen.
    ‘Precisely. Which could have been avoided.’
    ‘I don’t think my mother wanted to avoid it,’ said Helen. He looks like a film star, she thought, the one in that film about a man being chased across enormous fields by a plane. What’s he called, for heaven’s sake? Man with a nice face and thick hair. Bit younger.
    ‘Oh,’ said Giles Carnaby. ‘I see.’
    There was a silence. Got it, thought Helen. Cary Grant. Why on earth should I think of that? I haven’t seen a film in years.
    Giles Carnaby coughed. He ran a hand through the thick hair.
    The hand wore a heavy gold ring. Married? wondered Helen.
    Wedding ring? Some men wear them. Oh, married, presumably.
    Everyone’s married.
    ‘The other rather unfortunate thing is that — and I feel I really have to mention this — the tax advantage is not, to be frank, all that great. My predecessor was — well, his initial enthusiasm for the scheme turned out to be somewhat misplaced though, to be fair to him, he did put this to your mother. But by that time she appears to have got up a certain enthusiasm of her own. At least this is my impression, from the correspondence.’ Giles Carnaby looked at the floor, uncomfortable; he stirred the carpet with his foot, ran a hand through the hair again. Don’t take on so, thought Helen, please, it’s not your fault. It’s perfectly all right, honestly.
    Would you like a glass of sherry? No — heavens, it’s only half past four. Tea. Would you like a cup of tea?
    ‘Yes, mother would have,’ she said. ‘I can imagine.’
    ‘I hope it’s not causing family problems, anyway.’
    ‘My sister’s rather put out. She’ll calm down.’
    ‘The boy himself. .
    ‘He’s got green stripes in his hair,’ said Helen. ‘I don’t imagine they mean anything serious. He was always a perfectly nice child.’
    Giles Carnaby laughed.
    Helen sprang to her feet. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
    ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’
    He followed her into the kitchen, a move she immediately regretted. From time to time she saw Greystones as others must see it; this was one of those occasions. The cracks in the flagged floor. The green mould creeping up the wall by the back door that one just ignored because if you redecorated it simply crept up again within a month or two. The rusting cake tins. The crockery. That sink.
    ‘What a marvellous kitchen,’ said Giles Carnaby.
    Helen threw him a quick look of suspicion. No, perfectly sincere.
    He wandered around. ‘I say! Country Life calendar for 1962!’
    ‘It’s got some photos of bats that my brother is rather fond of.’
    ‘Doesn’t he get confused over dates?’
    ‘He’s never very bothered about that sort of thing,’ said Helen.
    She put the kettle on. Biscuits? She opened the Coronation tin and closed it again quickly. You cannot offer slightly mouldy Tea-Time Fancies (Dorothy’s favourites) to a visitor. Cake? No cake available.
    ‘Earl Grey!’ said Giles Carnaby. ‘I haven’t had Earl Grey since my wife died. I never know where to get it.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Helen. ‘Have this one.’ She thrust the packet at him, an extraordinary, unaccustomed sunny smile on her face. ‘I can get another.’
    ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
    ‘Please . .
    ‘All right,’ said Giles Carnaby. ‘But only on condition you come and drink a cup of it with