The Sibyl in Her Grave by Sarah Caudwell Read Free Book Online Page A

Isabella tomorrow if she chose. But if she did, where would she go, and what would she do? She isn’t qualified for anything—Isabella’s brought her up to think that “what they teach you in school isn’t true knowledge” and exams aren’t important, so of course she’s never passed any. And she certainly wouldn’t get a job on the strength of her looks or personality.
    In any case, she doesn’t want to leave. If one asks her what she wants to do with her life, she looks very round-eyed and earnest and says, “I just want to feel I’m caring for someone who needs me.” And she seems to believe that Isabella does. Why a grown woman in the prime of life and possession of all her faculties should need a full-time personal attendant I can’t very well imagine, but she’s somehow persuaded Daphne—”brainwashed” says Griselda—that she’s not merely an invalid but practically a saint, who’s sacrificed her health in the cause of helping others, and it’s an honour and privilege to serve her.
    Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Isabella’s health that a little fresh air and exercise wouldn’t put right, and I feel there are probably more effective ways of helping people than telling them to avoid travel when the sun’s in Capricorn and distrust dark-haired strangers when Mercury’s in the ascendant or whatever it is she does. One can’t say that to Daphne though—any criticism of Isabella almost reduces her to tears.
    Which does make talking to her rather a strain on one’s patience. Her conversation consists almost entirely of quotes from the same source—”Aunt Isabella always says this” and “Aunt Isabella always says that”—as solemnly pronounced as if she were citing Scripture. Someone has evidently told her that it’s polite to talk to people about things they’re interested in, but she hasn’t quite grasped how it works in practice. So her idea of conversing politely with me is to tell me Isabella’s views about art—“Aunt Isabella says real artists don’t need to go to art school, they’re born knowing how to paint”—andwith Griselda Isabella’s views about gardens—”Aunt Isabella says it’s cruel to shut flowers up in flower beds, they ought to be allowed to grow naturally.” Even if I liked Isabella I’d be getting heartily sick of her.
    Blast the woman—I’ve talked as much about her as if I found her almost as interesting as she thinks she is, and still not explained why I’m not pleased with Ricky.
    Well, as I think I told you, the last company that Ricky advised us to invest in was one called Giddly Gadgets. Just after we sold our shares in it, and while we were wondering whether or not to reinvest the proceeds, I happened to be in the wine merchant’s, being tempted by a rather delicious claret they had in, much more expensive than I usually buy. I was trying to make up my mind if I could afford half a case of it when Isabella came in, attended by Daphne to do the carrying. She doesn’t usually do her own shopping, of course, but the wine merchant counts as grand enough to deserve a personal visit.
    I didn’t want to stay and make conversation, so when we’d exchanged good-mornings I gave my usual order and told the young man serving me that the claret was really too expensive. And Isabella smiled at me, in that infuriating way she has, as if she knew something you didn’t want her to know, and said, “Ah—what a pity Giddly Gadgets didn’t do better.”
    “Yes, isn’t it?” I said, and walked out of the shop feeling absolutely furious.
    As I say, if Ricky chooses to be friends with Isabella that’s entirely his own business, but he musthave known that she’s the last person on earth whom Griselda or Maurice or I would want to know any details of our financial affairs. And he was absolutely the only person who could possibly have told her about us investing in Giddly Gadgets—anyway, I rang him to say how surprised I was,