‘I am not going out.’
He gave the fire a vigorous poke, and the flames came up. Almost jovially, he said, ‘Well then, at least you can remove your hat, Margiad.’
She stared into the fire and remained silent.
He half rose, ‘Why of course, what on earth am I thinking about, you’ve been out,’ and he gave a curious little laugh.
He lit his pipe, spread legs, was suddenly comfortable.
‘Margiad!’
He got up, leaned over her, ‘Are you all right?’
‘I am all right.’
‘I saw old Miss Pugh,’ he said, not seeing her, not wanting to, seeing only Miss Vaughan, thinking of Miss Vaughan, seeing her totally all the way from the hotel to her office door, and seeing no other, and wishing and hoping that for a single moment she might answer his good morning, turn, even smile, and he thought of another letter he had written her, he thought of tomorrow. If for a single moment she became real.
‘Margiad!’
It seemed an age before she said in a hollow voice, ‘Well?’
‘The days have changed,’ she thought, ‘it’s like becoming lost. My brother is a stranger to me, I do not know him.’
‘Aren’t you going to take off your things, sister?’ he asked.
Slowly she began removing the pins from her hat.
He could not hide the sudden anxiety in his voice when he asked quietly, ‘Are you not well, Margiad?’
She was miles from the room, from the sight of him, remembering only the waiting-room, a consulting room, the bespectacled Dr Hughes.
‘Dr Hughes will not call,’ she thought.
He extended a hand, ‘Margiad?’
‘How is Miss Pugh?’ she asked, and so suddenly that it startled him.
‘I told you, sister. I said she is well, and she is well. Live for years,’ and more slowly, incisively, ‘Didn’t you hear me say that I had?’
‘I don’t know what you said,’ Margiad replied, and went off into the hall and removed her coat and scarf and gloves. She stood there for a moment or two, undecided. Should she go up to her room, go straight into the kitchen, prepare the meal, as if nothing had happened. ‘Did you give Miss Pugh my message?’ she asked.
‘Message?’ and Mervyn came violently down from the clouds, and stuttered nervously, saying, ‘Yes, of course, you don’t suppose I’d forget, did you?’
‘I don’t know what you forget, and I don’t know what you remember.’
She stood at the foot of the stairs.
‘It’s past noon, sister,’ he said, feeling hungry.
‘I did not notice the time,’ she replied, and went slowly upstairs.
He got up, stood at the foot of the stairs, called, ‘Margiad! Margiad!’
The bedroom door slammed in his face.
‘Margiad,’ he shouted. ‘What on earth is the matter with you, sister?’
The door opened suddenly, she faced him.
‘You won’t starve,’ she said. ‘I shall be down in a minute.’
She did not sit down, she could not sit down, but stared out of the window.
‘I shall not stay here.’
She closed the window, and opened it again. And then the salvo.
‘He goes out at night. Where does he go? What is going on? What am I to do? Soon I will not be able to go to chapel myself.’
She heard him go into his study, slam the door.
‘Let him wait,’ she thought, and began idly wandering about the room, picking up first one object, and then another, thinking of other days, of acceptance and contentment, wishing herself back at Hengoed, wishing herself happy at Glan Ceirw, and one after another the pictures came, and she knew then that they should never have come to Garthmeilo, a miserable little town, a mean town. She heard him pacing his room, the door open and close again. ‘Perhaps I’d better.’ She gave a final glance through the window and went downstairs. Hearing her, he left his study, joining her in the kitchen.
‘It’s nearly one o’clock,’ he said.
She was bent over the pans. ‘Is it?’
‘You can call me when it’s ready,’ he said roughly, and rushed back to his room.
