按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
o know all about you and about our divorce。 Do you know what she wrote？ She wrote that I'd told her that quite apart from being crippled； you weren't man enough for me。'
'I read it；' I said briefly。
'Did you？ And did you like it？ Did you like that； Sid？'
I didn't reply。 It was Charles who fiercely protested。 'Jenny！ Don't。'
Her face suddenly softened； all the spite dissolving and revealing the gentle girl I'd married。 The transformation happened in a flash； like prison bars falling away。 Her liberation； I thought； had dramatically e at last。
'I didn't say that；' she told me； as if bewildered。 'I really didn't。 She made it up。'
I swallowed。 I found the re…emergence of the old Jenny harder to handle than her scorn。
'What did you say？' I said。
'Well。 。。！。。。！。。。'
'Jenny；' Charles said again。
'I told her；' Jenny said to him； 'that I couldn't live in Sid's hard world。 I told her that whatever she wrote she wouldn't smash him or disintegrate him because no one had ever managed it。 I told her that he never showed his feelings and that steel was putty pared to him； and that I couldn't live with it。'
Charles and I had heard her say much the same thing before。 It was Anthony who looked surprised。 He inspected my harmless…looking self from his superior height and obviously thought she had got me wrong。
'India Cathcart didn't believe Jenny either；' I told him soothingly。
'What？'
'He reads minds； too；' Jenny said； putting down her glass and rising to her feet。 'Anthony； darling； we'll go now。 OK？' To her father she said； 'Sorry it's such a short visit；' and to me； 'India Cathcart is a bitch。'
I kissed Jenny's cheek。
'I still love you；' I said。
She looked briefly into my eyes。 'I couldn't live with it。 I told her the truth。'
'I know。'
'Don't let her break you。'
'No。'
'Well；' she said brightly； loudly； smiling； 'When birds fly out of cages they sing and rejoice。 So 。。。 goodbye； Sid。'
She looked happy。 She laughed。 I ached for the days when we'd met； when she looked like that always； but one could never go back。
'Goodbye； Jenny；' I said。
Charles； unprehending； went with them to see them off and came back frowning。
'I simply don't understand my daughter；' he said。 'Do you？'
'Oh； yes。'
'She tears you to pieces。 I can't stand it； even if you can。 Why don't you ever fight back？'
'Look what I did to her。'
'She knew what she was marrying。'
'I don't think she did。 It isn't always easy； being married to a jockey。'
'You forgive her too much！ And then； do you know what she said just now； when she was leaving？ I don't understand her。 She gave me a hug…a hug…not a dutiful peck on the cheek； and she said； 〃Take care of Sid。〃'
I felt instantly liquefied inside： too close to tears。
'Sid 。。。'
I shook my head； as much to retain posure as anything else。
'We've made our peace；' I said。
'When？'
'Just now。 The old Jenny came back。 She's free of me。 She felt free quite suddenly 。。。 so she'll have no more need to 。。。 to tear me to pieces； as you put it。 I think that all that destructive anger has finally gone。 Like she said； she's flown out of the cage。'
He said； 'I do hope so；' but looked unconvinced。 'I need a drink。'
I smiled and joined him； but I discovered； as we later ate panionably together； that even though his daughter might no longer despise or torment me； what I perversely felt wasn't relief； but loss。
CHAPTER 10
Leaving Aynsford early I drove back to London on Thursday morning and left the car； as I normally did； in a large public underground car park near Pont Square。 From there I walked to the laundry where I usually took my shirts and waited while they fed my strip of rag from Northampton twice through the dry…cleaning cycle。
What emerged was a stringy looking object； basically light turquoise in colour； with a non…geometric pattern on it of green； brown and salmon pink。 There were also black irregular stains that had stayed obstinately in place。
I persuaded the cleaners to iron it； with the only result that I had a flat strip instead of a wrinkled one。
'What if I wash it with detergent and water？' I asked the burly half…interested dry cleaner。
'You couldn't exactly harm it；' he said sarcastically。
So I washed it and ironed it and ended as before： turquoise strip； wandering indeterminate pattern； stubborn black stain。
With the help of Yellow Pages I visited the wholesale showrooms of a well…known fabric designer。 An infinitely polite old rnan there explained that my fabric pattern was woven； while theirs the wholesaler's was printed。 Different market； he said。 The wholesaler aimed at the upper end of the middle…class market。 I； he said； needed to consult an interior decorator； and with kindness he wrote for me a short list of firms。
The first two saw no profit in answering questions。 At the third address I happened on an underworked twenty…year…old who ran pale long fingers through clean shoulder…length curls while he looked with interest at my offering。 He pulled out a turquoise thread and held it up to the light。
'This is silk；'he said。
'Real silk？'
'No possible doubt。 This was expensive fabric。 The pattern is woven in。 See。' He turned the piece over to show me the back。 'This is remarkable。 Where did you get it？ It looks like a very old lampas。 Beautiful。 The colours are organic； not mineral。'
I looked at his obvious youth and asked if he could perhaps seek a second opinion。
'Because I'm straight out of design school？' he guessed without umbrage。 'But I studied fabrics。 That's why they took me on here。 I know them。 The designers don't weave them； they use them。'
'Then tell me what I've got。'
He fingered the turquoise strip and held it to his lips and his cheek and seemed to mune with it as if it were a crystal ball。
'It's a modern copy；' he said。 'It's very skilfully done。 It is lampas； woven on a Jacquard loom。 There isn't enough of it to be sure； but I think it's a copy of a silk hanging made by Philippe de Lasalle in about 1760。 But the original hadn't a blue…green background； it was cream with this design of ropes and leaves in greens and red and gold。'
I was impressed。 'Are you sure？'
'I've just spent three years learning this sort of thing。'
'Well； who makes it now？ Do I have to go to France？'
'You could try one or two English firms but； you know what …'
He was brusquely interrupted by a severe…looking woman in a black dress and huge Aztec…type necklace who swept in and came to rest by the counter on which lay the unprepossessing rag。
'What are you doing？' she asked。 'I asked you to catalogue the new shipment of passementerie。'
'Yes； Mrs Lane。'
'Then please get on with it。 Run along now。'
'Yes； Mrs Lane。'
'Do you want help？' she asked me briskly。
'Only the names of some weavers。'
On his way to the passementerie； my source of knowledge spoke briefly over his shoulder； 'It looks like a solitary weaver； not a firm。 Try Saul Marcus。'
'Where？' I called。
'London。'
'Thanks。'
He went out of sight。 Under Mrs Lane's inhospitable gaze I picked up my rag； smiled placatingl