A Jest of God - Margaret Laurence [49]
“No. What?”
Nick hesitates, as though he regrets having mentioned it. Then he laughs and says it quickly and lightly.
“Nestor the Jester.”
“But it wasn’t meant badly –”
“He didn’t mind the name. He used to play up to it. He adored it when he could get a laugh. He always thought people were laughing with him, never at him. At least, that’s how he seemed to me then. Now I don’t know.”
I am afraid to reply in case I say the wrong thing.
He gets up and begins roaming around again.
“I’ll bet Jago’s got a mickey of rye hidden behind the stove or some unlikely place.”
But he can’t find any, and it’s getting late.
“I have to go now, Nick, really.”
“Oh, well, all right. If you say so.”
The town is totally asleep as we drive back. We don’t talk much, and then I remember something I meant to ask him.
“Was your brother the one who was always going to take over your father’s place?”
“Yes. He wanted to, of course, and I didn’t. But it wouldn’t have made any difference even if I had wanted to. He and my dad got on well together. I guess I never realized until this summer how much older the old man is getting. He needs more help than Jago can give him now.”
“Surely he’d never suggest that you –?”
“No,” Nick says. “He’d never suggest that. Only – well, it’s kind of difficult to see what to do, that’s all. He can’t cope here for ever, and he’ll never give it up until he drops dead. He won’t hire anyone else – he refuses completely. He says it wouldn’t pay him. I don’t know what he’s saving his money for. So he can pass it on to Julie and me, I guess. I don’t know about Julie, but I don’t want it. Actually, he doesn’t want to pass on his money, such as it is, at all. He wants to leave his place to someone who cares about it.”
“And there isn’t anyone who does, now.”
“No. I wonder if a person could make themselves care about something? I guess that wouldn’t be possible. It wouldn’t solve anything.”
Nick couldn’t make himself care about something, if he didn’t. Nor about someone either.
SEVEN
“Hello, dear. Have a nice evening? What time is it?” She’s wide awake. I swear she doesn’t take a sleeping pill on the evenings I’m out. She takes benzedrine instead.
“Very nice, thanks. It’s just twelve.”
“Oh, you are a Cinderella, aren’t you?” Mother cries with a carolling laugh.
This coyness, with its concealed undercoat, the tint of malice, for some reason shocks me. But when I turn on her light, I see she’s frightened. Why? Her face has a blanched-almond look, whitely wrinkled, unnaturally soft.
“What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
“Oh yes, dear, perfectly all right. A little restless, perhaps, that’s all.”
“Too much bridge, maybe.”
“I would have thought that,” she says petulantly, “although the girls did think it was a little odd, your going off like that, not that they actually said anything.” Then, pinchingly, like a bee sting, “was it a party, Rachel?”
“No. Why should you think so?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just that your breath is – you know. I suppose I’m a little more sensitive to that particular smell than most people.”
“I had precisely two drinks, if you want to know. Nick took me to his house – to meet his family.”
Why did I say that? Why did I have to? She’ll find out, likely, and then she’ll be more upset than if I’d told her straight out. She won’t find out. How could she?
Her face has gone even more wan and sunken.
“Rachel – is it serious?”
“Serious?”
“Yes – I mean –”
So that’s it. I ought to have seen. She’s wondering – what will become of me? That’s what everyone goes through life wondering, probably, the one absorbing anguish. What will become of me? Me.
“No, it’s not serious.”
“Well, dear, I mean to say, of course it’s your own life, as I’ve often said –”
“It’s not serious. He’s just – a friend. Try to sleep now. Did you take your sleeping pill?”
“Not yet, dear,” she says. Then with a cosy smile, certain she’s speaking the gospel truth, “I forgot.”
She sinks down, relaxed now, and when I give her the pill, she’s all prepared to sleep, out of sheer relief.
Is it serious, Rachel?