The Chimney Sweeper's Boy by Barbara Vine Read Free Book Online Page B

street. It was a principle of hers never to be early or on time for an engagement with a man (except Fabian, who didn’t count), but to be between two and five minutes late. This was difficult for her, as she was naturally a punctual person, but she persevered.
    That morning, in the interval between an interview with a client who wanted her to extract substantial maintenance from the wife he was divorcing and a client who wanted to set up a charitable trust, largely, as far as she could gather, for the benefit of his personal friends, Hope had been making plans for her father’s memorial service. The trouble was that each time she thought of some particular poem or song or piece of prose that he had loved, she started crying. The man wanting the charitable trust stared at her tearstained face and asked her if she had a cold.
    Hope wasn’t a literary person, but her father’s favorite pieces—at least their titles—were committed to her memory, or, as she put it, written on her heart, and would be there forever. Herbert’s “Jordan” and Tennyson’s “Ulysses” and a bit of Sartre, she thought as she wandered among the racks of floral dresses. “Is there in truth no beauty?” she asked herself. “Is all good structure in a winding stair?” But she had to stop that in case she began weeping again. Before leaving her office, she had made up her face with care and didn’t want it washing off before she met Robert Postle.
    He would very likely be there by now. It was three minutes past one, andas far as she could remember from his visits to Lundy View House that coincided with hers, he was as punctual as she would never allow herself to be. In the restaurant, they told her he was already there, and she soon saw him, standing up by his table and waving to her.
    Robert Postle had been her father’s editor at Carlyon-Brent since some time after
Hamadryad
was short-listed for the Booker Prize. The retirement of his former editor was the ostensible reason for this change, but the shortlisting was the real reason. That had been a long time ago and Robert was getting on a bit. To the teenage Candless girls, he had been a striking, even sexy, figure, and his marriage soon thereafter had brought Sarah half mock, half real distress. He had developed a paunch since then and a lot of his dark silky hair had fallen out, leaving strange springy tufts occurring above his ears and patches on the bald crown like wooded islands on a pale brown sea.
    He was a Roman Catholic, a devout man, who had apparently adhered to the letter of the law, for he by now had many children. In order to attend Gerald Candless’s funeral, he had asked permission of his parish priest to enter an Anglican church, though this was no longer regarded by Rome as necessary, and the priest had privately thought him a bit of a stickler. Hope thought he looked even deeper into middle age than he had two weeks before.
    Being kissed by him wasn’t the pleasure it had once been. It wasn’t a very graceful operation either, as she never went anywhere in London without a hat, and today she was wearing a cartwheel of coral-colored linen. She kept it on because she knew it brought a becoming rosy flush to her face.
    â€œWhat did you think of that piece in the
Mail
?” asked Robert.
    â€œNot a lot.”
    â€œI can’t imagine you talking about your ‘partner.’ ”
    â€œNo, well, my partners are three other people at Ruskin de Gruchy. What I said was my ‘feller,’ but they changed it. I really mind that stuff about my handkerchief. Of course I use handkerchiefs—tissues are so disgusting; they’re so
wet
—but I haven’t got an
H
on them. That was pure invention. Do you think I could have a drink? They do liter carafes of white wine here, and that’s what I need after the dreadful morning I’ve had.”
    They also do half liters, Robert