As those at the Gather know - I had written a bedtime drabble and then promptly forgotten it!
Thought you might be interested in reading it.The room was dark; dark and cold, despite the large coal fire burning at one end. The walls were panelled with a dark oak, whilst the furniture – a dining room table and chairs, were a rich deep mahogany. Two people sat in the room, a man and a woman. Both richly dressed; they were middle aged. The man had greying hair cut close to his scalp and intelligent grey eyes. The woman had her blond hair cut in a fashionable style and no evidence of any grey hairs. Her blue eyes were sharp and her mouth had a disagreeable curl.
The pair were sat at opposite ends of a large table and there seemed to be little warmth between them. The main course had been served and eaten; the food was very good but barely seemed to be appreciated, the woman only picking at her food whilst the man, although he ate with good appetite, barely acknowledged it. Conversation throughout dinner had been stilted.
“I saw Joseph Chapman in town today.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes, you remember him, don't you? Banker, capital chap, went to my school.”
“No, I don't remember him.”
“Oh you must, married one of the Forsythe-Smythes, we went to his wedding about fifteen years ago.”
“I don't remember him, we've only been married eight years,” there was a great deal of anger in the woman's reply but it seemed to just wash over the man.
“Well anyway, he says he can get me into the local Conservative club, it'll be good for business – men want to know that their solicitor is a stable man.”
“I thought we'd discussed this,” the woman said sharply, “you had agreed that we could move closer to London now. Don't you realise just how dreary it is living in Taverton? It's fine for you, you get to see people everyday, but what about me?”
“Now Irene, you speak to people everyday don't you? You speak to Cook and the maidservant,” the man stopped, suddenly aware of the anger in his wife's expression, he swallowed quickly, “well what of the Denes? They are our neighbours, aren't they? You speak with them.”
“Mrs Dene is seriously ill,” the response came quickly.
“Really? You never said.”
“I told you last week,” the woman's words were clipped and short as she was barely able to contain her anger.
“No, I'm sure that you didn't,” the man replied, “I would have remembered.”
“I have told you on three separate occasions, Harold,” the woman replied angrily, “but as you never listen to a word I say it's not surprising that you don't remember.”
There was a distraction as the Maid brought in dessert, the two remained in silence until she had left then Harold turned to his wife,
“You forget yourself, Irene, I will not be spoken to in that manner, kindly remember that. As for moving to London? I am perfectly happy here, I suggest you involve yourself more in the affairs of this town so you have people with whom to talk.”
Irene flushed with anger but held her tongue and the two ate dessert in silence. After some time, in an effort, perhaps, to make amends for his harsh words earlier, Harold cleared his throat,
“I received a letter from Grizel today.”
“Oh yes?” Irene's response was hardly encouraging.
“Yes, she seems to be doing well in her final year. She is Head Girl as you know.”
“Yes,” Irene's response was, if anything, even less encouraging but Harold persevered,
“Yes, well, she has made a request, that, once she has finished School she be allowed to train as a Games Mistress, there are some suitable courses for young ladies, apparently, one at Bedford. The cost is actually less than if she were to train in Europe for her music.”
Irene's eyes flashed, “Bedford? You mean she'd be in England?”
“Why yes, it would be good to see her more often, wouldn't it?”
Irene's brows met in a frown and she thought furiously, “It is, of course, your decision, my husband,” she said quickly, “she is your daughter, after all.”
“But?”
“Well, it seems to me that for her to not take advantage of all the years of training in music, all the extra lessons you have paid for her to have, it's a pity.”
“She says her great love is for games...” Harold said somewhat weakly.
“What eighteen year old girl knows what she wants?” Irene said quickly, “seems to me she thinks she knows better than her own Father – it's your decision, Harold, of course, but...”
“No, no you're quite correct, Irene, the girl can't know her own mind. She will study music and that's final.”
“Yes dear.”
.