‘I answered it,’ I said, ‘to save you the trouble of flying downstairs and breaking your head on the parquet.’

‘Who was it?’ she inquired, not really mollified by my care.

‘It was Robert,’ I said. ‘Soon he will be coming.’ Oddly enough this seemed to cheer Monica. Perhaps she missed having a man around. There were women, I knew, who felt that life was incomplete without a man around. No reason to cook. No reason, really, to comb your hair. Perhaps, underneath, Monica felt like that. I did myself. Sometimes I did and to be honest sometimes I didn’t. It was a matter of mood. Sometimes, when I was little, it was better when my father was away and I was alone with my aunts and my mother. It was easier to laugh and there seemed more to laugh at, but then when he came he brought presents and a certain sense of excitement. He brought me a monkey once. I wonder what happened to it.

Down came Margaret—rather like rain—grey and not cheerful. I said, ‘Here comes the bride’, and I thought—poor girl. How ridiculous. People who look like that don’t get married. They sit in corners and people pretend not to notice them. I said out of curiosity: ‘When will we be seeing Syl again?’ I wasn’t all that curious about this, actually. I wanted to see her reaction to his name. She didn’t react at all, just said he’d be round in the evening, and nothing more.

She made no effort at all and I began to feel depressed. It was cold outside and I could see things blowing about. I said: ‘We can have a party.’ Monica would probably quite enjoy a small party, I thought. Then, on the other hand, if she caught me planning parties in her parlour without asking her she’d be mad with me again. ‘Maybe we won’t have a party,’ I said. Quite often I didn’t like parties; nasty, noisy occasions. Can’t hear yourself think. Too hot. Squashed. When I was Margaret’s age I didn’t like parties at all unless I was asked to dance. I don’t mean May-I-have-the-next-waltz type of thing—I mean me dancing all by myself in a clear space so that everyone could see me. Graceful Lili. Such talent.

Monica came in worrying about dinner and looking quite, quite as depressing as the weather. The weather, by contrast, began to look almost inviting. A brisk walk would be good for me. Monica hadn’t got enough chops for dinner, poor soul, not if extra people were coming, so I said I’d go and get her some.