‘And that was that.’
‘Well, you know Daddy and Kitty are dead against hitting kids and so on.’
‘So they are. Is there anybody else here? Christopher and his girl?’
‘They’ve gone back to Northampton.’
We had moved along the passage, which was lined with piles of empty cardboard cartons, across the hall, where there was a mound of old newspapers and a much bigger one of apparently discarded toys, and into the drawing-room. Here, surprisingly, everything was in order, though there was no look of disuse. I said something about this to Penny when she came up with my drink.
‘I live in here, really,’ she said. ‘Here and in my bedroom. The rest of the place I’ve pretty well had to let go. Oh, except for the kitchen. I can just about manage, with only me to look after.’
‘Don’t you get lonely, on your own in the house?’
‘No, not a bit. I love it. I never want to go out: there’s so much to do here. I know I should have gone down to see Daddy in hospital, but when I telephoned they said he was doing well, and I suppose it was ghastly of me, but he seemed to be coming out more or less straight away, and I was so busy I just didn’t go. You’ll have been, I expect?’
‘Yes. He’s all right, physically at least. Busy doing what?’
‘Oh, nothing much.’ She gave me an embarrassed half-glance. ‘Reading and . . . all that kind of thing.’
I noticed, on a table beside a clean ashtray and a bowl of freshly cut roses, a thin paperback in a format I thought I recognized. I soon saw it was the BBC publication by Denis Matthews on Beethoven’s piano sonatas. And, I further saw, the first volume of these sonatas lay on the music-rest of the piano, open at the minuet of No. 1. Immediately – though belatedly enough – I said,
‘What’s happened?’
‘Happened about what?’
‘Even the way you talk. And your accent. And the way you stand. Have you fallen in love, or what?’
She laughed: a different laugh, with no edge of sarcasm to it. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. That wouldn’t be me at all.’
‘What is it, then? You seem so self-contained. Happy.’
‘Yes, both of those. It’s very simple. I’ve gone on to the hard stuff.’
‘You mean the booze.’
‘No, Douglas. Hard drugs.’
‘Heroin?’
‘Don’t sound so terrified. Yes, well, that kind of thing. It’s not a bit what you think it’s like. Surely you can see that just by talking to me.’
‘The expectation of life of a heroin addict is about two years. A doctor friend of mine was telling me.’
‘That’s one of the things that’s so nice about it. Nothing’s going to last. None of that awful business of getting married and having children and being responsible. Nobody expecting anything of you.’
‘What about Beethoven? He lasts.’
‘He won’t last me. I’ll never be good enough. You’ve got to find out what your limitations are. I’ve found out mine, and I can arrange my life to fit in with them exactly. Not many people can do that.’
‘Penny, go up and pack a suitcase and come down to my flat and let me look after you.’
She laughed again. ‘Do you remember me telling you, nobody takes me on? Anyway, I do. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. And you couldn’t do it. Thank you for asking me, but you wouldn’t stick at it, would you? Do you think you could do what Gilbert couldn’t do?’
I looked down at the newly swept carpet. ‘Does your father know about this?’
‘I don’t think so. I suppose he’ll find out eventually. He won’t do anything about it either. Why should he? He’s got his own life to lead. You know, Douglas, going off with that girl is going to be the best thing he’ll ever have done. For everybody, not just him. We’re all free now.’
Girl, 20 Page 26
