Quarter Past Two on a Wednesday Afternoon by Linda Newbery Read Free Book Online Page B

lovely to see you and You found us, then , she registers her own dullness and drabness, her safe clothes. Fortunately Malcolm is far scruffier than his wife, dressed as if for gardening in saggy trousers and a zipped top.
    Everyone seems to kiss nowadays, the double air-kiss that once looked flamboyantly Gallic, even people who are barely acquainted. Reluctantly she submits. Kathy, one hand still on her shoulder, says, ‘Come through and sit down, Sandra. Such a cold night! Malcolm’s lit the wood-burner.’
    ‘Cassandra. My name’s Cassandra.’
    Why’s she saying that? Sometimes it’s as if a different person speaks for her; the words are out so quickly that she hears them before they’ve formed in her mind.
    ‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I thought Don said Sandra.’ Kathy recovers quickly. ‘Well, Cassandra is lovely – I don’t blame you for preferring it. Do you predict the future?’
    ‘No.’ The answer yips out of her. ‘I can’t even predict the past.’
    Kathy laughs, as if this is immensely witty, but there’s an awkwardness now, affecting all of them. Malcolm rubs his hands together. ‘Drinks! Let me get drinks organized. White wine, er, Cassandra – Soave? Or there’s soft drinks if you prefer.’
    While Kathy takes the coats and Malcolm officiates in the kitchen, Don gives her a puzzled, warning look, and mouths, ‘What’s that about?’ She doesn’t answer. Drinks are brought in; there’s bluesy piano music in the background, and warmth from a log-burning stove. Sinking into a too-soft sofa, she stretches out her feet and assumes a vaguely genial expression, saying nothing. Kathy is answering a question from Don: something about her grandson, how naughty he is; how she looks after him every Tuesday and Thursday morning, how he plays her up.
    ‘Have you got grandchildren?’ Kathy asks, looking at her.
    ‘No. Not yet.’ Her voice sounds much louder than she meant. ‘Not until Rosanna …’ The pause stretches into silence; they’re all looking at her.
    ‘Rosanna?’ Kathy prompts. ‘Don mentioned your daughter – an estate agent, isn’t she? That must have been useful.’
    She is thinking of Rosanna in the garden, the coming and the going – like people weaving patterns in a folk dance, looking as if they’ll collide but always swerving away, looping back. Finding a gap to disappear into. Always someone has to disappear. It seems to be a rule.
    The pear tree. She can close her eyes and take herself there, beneath its branches, in the everlasting summer.
    ‘Yes,’ Don says quickly, with a sharp, sidelong glance. ‘Anna was very helpful in all our house-searching.’
    ‘Anna,’ she says, bringing herself back. ‘Yes, yes, she was.’
    ‘So you’re moving to Cranbrook? Lovely, and not too far.’ Kathy passes a plate of olive canapés. ‘And you’ve been in your house for – how long?’
    ‘Oh,’ Don says, ‘more than thirty years now. We moved there when …’
    The pause stretches out while everyone waits. It’s the sort of harmless-sounding question that can easily trip them up. This is his own fault, she thinks almost with relish, for getting them into this situation. Their oldest friends, their real friends, know about Rose; it’s understood, no one needing to mention her name. With new acquaintances they have to skirt around this unstable ground that won’t bear their weight.
    ‘… when Anna was three,’ Don finishes.
    ‘Aaah, so all your memories of her childhood are there. It’ll be a wrench to leave, Cassandra, I’m sure?’
    Kathy’s sympathetic tone sends her into a foment of rage. She feels her limbs tensing against the sofa’s embrace. I understand , says the crooning voice; you don’t need to tell me. I know what you’ll be leaving behind .
    No, you don’t. No one knows. No one can begin to know.
    She has to grant Kathy this, though – during that stilted conversation, a decision has made itself. On the way home, in the car, she announces to Don: