The Needle's Eye by Margaret Drabble Read Free Book Online

way she rather resented the real obduracy of his silence. Why didn’t he forget about it one day and just complain? Everyone else did. But even to Nick, Nick said, he didn’t complain. It was annoying of him, this discretion, it was inhuman, it even made one suspect from time to time that after all he hadn’t got any feelings, that he was not so much suffering (which would be understandable and vaguely pleasing) as insensitive (which would have reflected no credit upon anyone). And then, as if to counteract such a suspicion, he would give one of those anguished glances, or crack one of those very slightly bitter jokes, or make one of those generalized but savage remarks about the futility of progress or the turpitude of mankind, and she would know again where she was, happy again, for she found such remarks (she didn’t quite know why) exhilarating. She took such remarks, such glances, as signs of vulnerability, as appeals, and she prided herself on her sensitivity to them. She liked, passionately, to be liked, to be thought worthy of confidence, and having despaired of any more intimate confessions she was happy to accept such moments of emotion as came her way: guessing (correctly?) that such was his only method of communication, that no others were more honoured or more favoured than she, and that she herself, because more awake to him, because more awake to people altogether, saw more than most.
    She was tired. She was beginning to think it was time that people left, but they were all talking about Germany, a subject that did not interest her at all. It did not interest Maisie, either, she could see, for Maisie had gone unnaturally quiet and was starting to heave restlessly in the depths of her chair. The men, of course, were absorbed in the topic: she often wondered what satisfaction they found in exchanging such dry pieces of information, such probably inaccurate platitudes. Gwenda, of course, was rigid with attention, with the effort to show that she was taking an intelligent interest, and really she wasn’t holding her own too badly: although a glaze of boredom
had covered her eyes, she was still managing to ask apposite questions, and even at one point was able to volunteer a small fact. Rose was listening, simply listening, she too looked tired, but she was too well bred (quite literally so, thought Diana with great satisfaction at the thought) to fidget or sigh. I will offer her another drink, thought Diana, but didn’t, because she knew that any move on her part at this juncture would be interpreted as a signal for departure, and although she was exhausted and longing for them to go, she needed them too much to want to stay to be able to take any steps to precipitate their going. They would leave, in the end, of their own accord, she only had to sit and wait: so she sat and waited, and in the end the Wilsons said they must get back to their baby-sitter, and everyone started to struggle to their feet – and amazingly enough, now the note of reprieve had sounded, she suddenly found herself anxious to retain them, to retain at least some of them (though it was with relief that she heard someone offer and Maisie accept a lift) – because she could not bear to think of them all going away, their separate ways, and discussing with one another as they went her cooking, her house, her dress, her marital problems, and leaving her out of these discussions, leaving her with the cigarette ends and the unwashed dishes, leaving her, quite simply, because they had had enough of her and wanted to go home. So she started, hopefully, to offer more drinks, but it was too late, they were all determined upon departure, except Rose, who sat quite still in her chair, evidently not knowing how to set about leaving. Simon was on his feet, and she wondered, as she received the Wilsons’ thanks, whether she should say anything to him about giving Rose a lift, but luckily she did not have to, because she saw that he had noticed the