‘I have always found it very difficult to think of nothing,’ I said. ‘And I believe I am not alone. I believe the ability to think of nothing can only be acquired after years of practice—by Yogis and Sufis and people who spend all their time sitting on top of poles...’ If she had been completely sober I should not have spoken like that, but I was a little annoyed. Drink is supposed to loosen the tongue, and her smile had indicated that she was certainly thinking of something.

‘I mean it wasn’t important,’ she explained. ‘It wasn’t interesting.’ I found her composure remarkable. She was shy and too often silent, but when she spoke she sounded assured, cool and rather frightening.

There were quite a number of people present in the bar of the golf club—a ladies’ night—and God knows why I had allowed myself to be inveigled into joining them. Feeling more than ready for bed I had nevertheless been persuaded by Syl to accompany him to this festive scene. I knew Margaret was enjoying it no more than I was and I wondered if any of the revellers were. It was hard to tell. A few people were happily tight, some talking, but most were mute—either playing bridge or just sitting there.

‘On the other hand,’ I said, ‘I don’t think many of our fellow guests are thinking about anything much. Do you?’

She had, in politeness, to respond. ‘I think some of them are thinking their frocks are too tight,’ she said, her eyes on a fat woman in red.

‘And I’m thinking about bed,’ I said. ‘Monica, is it time to go home?’ She was at an adjacent table talking about weddings to another neighbour.

‘It’s early yet,’ she said and Syl brought Margaret another drink.

I wanted to say that she had had enough, but it was none of my business. I felt sorry for her. There was no real proof that she was bored almost to death but I knew that she was, and I wondered if she was contemplating the future with an infinity of these evenings to live through. I didn’t feel that I could bear many more myself and in the nature of things I didn’t really need to worry. There couldn’t be all that many in store for me.

‘I’m going home,’ I said.

‘Wait just a while,’ said Syl, ‘and we’ll come with you.’

‘There’s no need,’ I told him. ‘I can easily go by myself:’

But Syl wouldn’t hear of it, and I had to endure nearly another hour in the clubhouse, feeling that on the whole I would rather have been set upon by footpads and summarily despatched on the path home.