‘We don’t need that much.’
Janet snorts. ‘Mum, there are three adults here – we do need that much. Which means I need to go in the car. I won’t be long.’
‘Take some money from the drawer.’
‘I did,’ Janet says breezily but Daphne thinks she’s lying.
Ever since her daughter moved in Daphne’s been telling her she doesn’t have to pay for things, but Janet has her pride – or so she says – and as she’s not paying rent the least she can do is pay for groceries. She’s out the door before Daphne can say anything, though, and her Volkswagen can be heard puttering to life in the street.
‘Shall I put some music on?’ Daphne says, patting Hector’s hand.
‘Shall we dance?’ he says again.
‘Maybe later,’ she repeats.
This exchange is its own sort of dance, because he may say the same thing five more times, and she’ll give him the same reply five more times, and they can keep dosey-doeing their way around each other. So instead of anything with a beat, she puts a Mahler record on the stereo.
Hector always likes an Austrian composer. Mozart or Mahler – or Strauss, Schubert or Haydn – are safe bets. Daphne prefers theGermans but never pushes the point, although it means she hasn’t been able to listen to Beethoven for a while. And that makes her a little heartsick.
Music has always been a feature of this house, whether on the stereo or being played on the piano that sits in the dining room, in need of tuning. At one time, while she was dreaming of making clothes, she was also practising piano all the time. But it was Adelaide who became the musician, and Daphne who found her talents absorbed into domestic life. She hasn’t been jealous of her friend, but she has wondered, over the years, what it must be like to pursue one’s dreams. To live immersed in creativity and art and the joy they bring. It is unlikely she will ever know.
‘Adelaide,’ Hector says, as if reading her mind. He waves an index finger as if it’s a conductor’s baton.
‘Yes, Adelaide was in the orchestra,’ Daphne replies, adjusting the volume so it’s not too loud for conversation.
Hector sighs and keeps waving his finger. His eyes are watery, as if he’s about to cry; he does become emotional these days.
‘Janet, my love,’ he says and holds out his hand to Daphne again.
She frowns. This isn’t the first time he’s confused her with someone else, although she’s not entirely sure if he is confusing her with Janet or wants to say something about her. It won’t do to ask, though, because it won’t mean anything to him and may upset him. She doesn’t want to do that.
He whimpers, his hand still out, so Daphne takes it and squeezes to reassure him.
He pulls her closer and kisses her cheek. ‘You mustn’t tell,’ he says.
‘Tell what?’
He shakes his head. ‘Don’t say anything.’
Her breath catches in her chest because his confusion is growing worse by the day. What happens if he forgets whoshe is altogether? Forgets Janet and Noel? It’s too awful to contemplate.
‘I won’t tell,’ he says reassuringly. ‘She’ll never know.’
Sniffing back her distress, Daphne squeezes his hand again. ‘No, she won’t,’ she says.
Hector presses the back of her hand to his cheek as Mahler’s Symphony No 2 swells. His eyes close and he sways a little in his seat.
They sit like this, her hand to his cheek, him moving to the music, tears in her eyes, until Janet arrives home and Daphne gently pulls her hand from his so she can help her daughter put away the shopping.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Are you going to sit inside all day?’ Lavinia says to Margot with a slightly chastising tone.
Lately Lavinia’s been getting irritated, and more than once she’s asked Margot if she’s looked in the classifieds for a job. Margot has looked. Her problem is that she doesn’t know what she’s looking for – there is still the matter of her not being qualified to do anything.
Which won’t be solved, she knows, by spending the day in the sitting room hoping that will change. It would just be so much more convenient if itcouldchange that way.
‘I hadn’t decided,’ she tells Lavinia, because she doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being right.