Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [121]
Lucy said, “Don’t be silly. He’s at Tom’s house.”
Jo ignored her and spoke to Henry. “You’ve got my daddy’s clothes, and you’ve got mummy. Are you going to be my daddy now?”
Lucy muttered, “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings…”
“Didn’t you see my clothes last night?” Henry said.
Jo nodded.
“Well, then, you know why I had to borrow some of your daddy’s clothes. I’ll give them back to him when I get some more of my own.”
“Will you give my mummy back?”
“Of course.”
Lucy said, “Eat your egg, Jo.”
The child went at his breakfast, apparently satisfied. Lucy was gazing out of the kitchen window. “The boat won’t come today,” she said.
“Are you glad?” Henry asked her.
She looked at him. “I don’t know.”
Lucy didn’t feel hungry. She drank a cup of tea while Jo and Henry ate. Afterward Jo went upstairs to play and Henry cleared the table. As he stacked crockery in the sink he said, “Are you afraid David will hurt you? Physically?”
She shook her head no.
“You should forget him,” Henry went on. “You were planning to leave him anyway. Why should it concern you whether he knows or not?”
“He’s my husband. That counts for something. The kind of husband he’s been…all that…doesn’t give me the right to humiliate him.”
“I think it gives you the right not to care whether he’s humiliated or not.”
“It’s not a question that can be settled logically. It’s just the way I feel.”
He made a giving-up gesture with his arms. “I’d better drive over to Tom’s and find out whether your husband wants to come back. Where are my boots?”
“In the living room. I’ll get you a jacket.” She went upstairs and got David’s old hacking jacket out of the wardrobe. It was a fine grey-green tweed, very elegant with a nipped-in waist and slanted pocket flaps. Lucy had put leather patches on the elbows to preserve it; you couldn’t buy clothes like this anymore. She took it down to the living room, where Henry was putting his boots on. He had laced the left one and was gingerly inserting his injured right foot into the other. Lucy knelt to help him.
“The swelling has gone down,” she said.
“The damned thing still hurts.”
They got the boot on but left it untied and took the lace out. Henry stood up experimentally.
“It’s okay,” he said.
Lucy helped him into the jacket. It was a bit tight across the shoulders. “We haven’t got another oilskin,” she said.
“Then I’ll get wet.” He pulled her to him and kissed her roughly. She put her arms around him and held tightly for a moment.
“Drive more carefully today,” she said.
He smiled and nodded, kissed her again—briefly this time—and went out. She watched him limp across to the barn, and stood at the window while he started the jeep and drove away up the slight rise and out of sight. When he had gone she felt relieved, but also empty.
She began to put the house straight, making beds and washing dishes, cleaning and tidying; but she could summon up no enthusiasm for it. She was restless. She worried at the problem of what to do with her life, following old arguments around in familiar circles, unable to put her mind to anything else. She again found the cottage claustrophobic. There was a big world out there somewhere, a world of war and heroism, full of color and people, millions of people; she wanted to be out there in the midst of it, to meet new minds and see cities and hear music. She turned on the radio—a futile gesture, the news broadcast made her feel more isolated, not less. There was a battle report from Italy, the rationing regulations had been eased a little, the London stiletto murderer was still at large, Roosevelt had made a speech. Sandy Mcpherson began to play a theater organ, and Lucy switched off. None of it touched her, she did not live in that world.
She wanted to scream.
She had to get out of the house, in spite of the weather. It would be only a symbolic escape…the stone walls of the cottage were not, after all, what imprisoned her; but the symbol was better than nothing. She collected Jo from upstairs, separating him with some difficulty from