Permanence was threatened everywhere.
David had begun to talk of selling the house.
‘No. I couldn’t do that. No.’
‘But Mum – ’
‘I can’t talk about it. No.’
In spite of her obstinate mental silence, the conversation edged forward week by week.
‘That is where all the money is, Mum. There really isn’t much cash. I don’t know. We always lived as if we had rich parents. I feel guilty at what you both spent on us.’
‘It didn’t seem to matter. Your father put so much money into superannuation when he took the University job.’
David brightened.
‘You have a strong claim on that, I think. And it’s indexed, safe from inflation. If you take a lump sum you’ll have to live on investments and you could be vulnerable.’
They could not understand the bottomless terror she felt at the thought of losing her house.
Why should I? Did I do anything wrong? She thought, but she did not ask the question aloud. They talked about the nice little unit she would buy as if it were a charming friend they wanted her to meet.
‘At least we have to have the house valued,’ said David. ‘There can’t be any sort of settlement until we can put a figure on the house.’
He took silence for consent and brought in the valuer.
Ella escaped into the garden and weeded in the rockery while he walked through the house, measuring, prodding and tapping.
He startled William out of his burrow into the air.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked Ella.
She straightened up and looked towards the house. The man had emerged now and was examining the outer walls and the foundations.
‘He’s valuing the house. Deciding what it would fetch on the market.’
He looked startled and questioning, then remained standing beside her, watching the invader with earnest attention.
She hadn’t expected any companionship from William – not even any communication, except about food. They had a serial conversation about food, which did make the association a little easier.
She concentrated on her impressions of William to keep her mind off the valuer.
William didn’t take advantage, that was certain.
When Sophie spent a fine weekend at the computer, bringing the clean copy up to date, Ella thought sadly of other young people out bushwalking, playing tennis, courting, or at least engaged in activities that could lead to courtship, but she couldn’t blame William for that. There was even some grace in his acceptance of her help. He might take it for granted, but he took it seriously, ready to respond when she knocked at his door with a question about the interpretation of his tiny script.
Sophie was doing the favour, yet somehow it was William who was showing kindness.
But in some ways, how difficult! One would think a man could help himself to instant coffee without being asked. It had taken her a week to find out why he didn’t drink tea or coffee with his meals, and then of course she had felt guilty about it.
Then there was the dirty washing. Her tactlessness there. Not his fault if his underwear was in rags. No wonder he had been washing his clothes out at night and hanging them in the laundry. ‘Leave those,’ she had said. ‘It’s no trouble to put them through the machine with the rest of the wash.’ He had complied with a look of dumb suffering. If she had been more observant, she would have left him alone. She had hung the garments on an inner line of the hoist, concealed by the sheets, ironed them and waited till he was out of his room to leave them on his bed.
Sparing William’s feelings was work for two women.
It was over cooking that they communicated. He carried a small notebook and a ballpoint pen to record her recipes and her observations. Such a small notebook, such a large man – he did look absurd, poor fellow, making notes in the tiny script which one connected with the all-important novel, and asking questions with the earnest air one connected with matters of great importance.
Well, she took food seriously, too, so that was a real meeting of minds.
‘Pea soup. How much water? How many stock cubes to that weight of peas? How long should I soak them? Would this recipe do for lentils?’
‘It’s a good idea, when you do have money, to build up your store of spices and flavourings.’
He made a list: curry powder, chili powder (mild), paprika, dried onion flakes, stock cubes (chicken and beef) …
If only he showed some enthusiasm. Clearly, food was survival only.
He said unexpectedly, ‘Were you ever poor?’
‘Yes, in London, when my husband was studying. That’s when we learnt to live on lentils.’
‘Ah.’
It seemed that he knew enough of the matter to leave that subject at once.
Drifts of sadness did come with some of the recipes. Pease pudding – she hadn’t made that since those days in London, in the cold little bedsitter where Bernard studied and she cooked their meals on a gas ring, living, as her mother would have said, on the smell of an oily rag.
Sadness was all right – painful but not dangerous. Rage was the enemy.
*
David had come out of the house. He raised his hand in greeting and came to join them.
‘How’s the novel going?’
‘I’m nearly there. Perhaps ten days more.’
Ella was astonished at her own dismay.