He had been so bent, and close, and concentrated on his task. Mervyn Thomas was always most careful about what he wrote, and, too, he liked his own style. Then the door had burst open so suddenly. ‘Margiad,’ he exclaimed, but when he looked up the door was closed. Her voice was distant, yet penetrating. ‘I suppose you are coming in for your supper?’
‘I’m coming.’
‘D’you want the cake I made yesterday?’
He got up and stood fingering the doorknob. ‘I will have it.’
He staggered rather than walked into the sitting-room, and saw his sister stood at the small table by the fire that she had just laid.
‘How queer you look, Mervyn,’ she said.
‘Queer?’
‘I said it,’ she snapped, and sat down, and beckoned him to do the same.
She served him. ‘What is the matter?’
‘I told you, nothing.’
She leaned across the table, stared. ‘Are you sure about that? And it is now ready for Sunday?’
His voice tired again, the words dragged. ‘Yes. Said it,’ and, after a pause, casually, ‘I just dropped off whilst I was doing my notes about Cain’s terrible deception of a loved brother. And that,’ he concluded, stabbing his plate, ‘is all.’
‘I see. You will have the cake, Mervyn?’
He sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘I’d an idea you’d fallen asleep in there.’
‘I dozed off.’
They continued their supper.
‘With your collar off, Mervyn, you look no different to me than other men.’
And he said nothing.
‘You did not even say the grace,’ she said.
And he said nothing.
He avoided her penetrating stares, he hurried on with his meal, and then got up, and sat in the big chair by the fire, collected a pipe from the rack, and filled and lighted it. He then lay back, relaxed, and closed his eyes.
‘Strange indeed, Mervyn,’ she exploded.
He looked across at her. ‘I’m sorry, Margiad. I just forgot.’
‘You should not forget that, and it seems to me you are forgetting a number of things lately. You seem not to be yourself.’
‘I am quite - - - all - - - right.’
‘Others may not think so,’ and she got up and began clearing the table.
‘What others?’
She stood over him, the filled tray in her hands. ‘The world,’ she said, and went out and left him, and now he hunched a little, drew nearer the fire. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, ‘ah!’
She came in and sat opposite him, picked up her knitting, and settled herself comfortably. He puffed contentedly at his pipe.
‘You were late again last night, Mervyn,’ she said, but did not look up from her knitting.
‘I was rather late.’
‘And the night before that,’ she said, ‘and this afternoon. I am not blind. I do not like it,’ and she let the knitting fall to her lap.
‘A lovely fire, Margiad,’ he said, and offered her a smile. ‘You are very good to me.’
‘Your tongue hasn’t always got such silver in it,’ she snapped, and picked up her knitting again, and attacked it with some vigour. She was always ready with the questions, readier still with the answers.
‘And you?’ he asked.
‘What about me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘There’s a meeting at Penuel tomorrow afternoon,’ Margiad said.
‘I see.’
