The Angel in the Corner - Monica Dickens [108]
She stood in front of Virginia’s chair with her hands on her ample hips, the metallic necklace swinging out and down over her bulky chest, her hair piled up heedlessly, her strong, impetuous face alight with interest.
‘There’s nothing much to tell.’ Virginia smiled to see that Mrs Benberg was just as she remembered her. She had thought sometimes that the impression she had carried away from her first visit must be too excessive; but here was Mrs Benberg just as excessive as she had pictured her, filling the room with that same dynamic exuberance which threatened to burst the walls and lift the little house right off its foundations.
‘I’ve been married for almost a year,’ Virginia went on, ‘and I’m going to have a baby.’
‘Happy?’ Mrs Benberg shot it at her.
‘Yes, very.’
Mr Benberg, who had slipped into the chair on the other side of the leaping fire, smiled and rubbed his knees and nodded his narrow head.
‘Then why do you look like that?’ Mrs Benberg put her head on one side challengingly, and swung the chain necklace back and forth as if it were a censer.
‘Like what?’ Virginia met her eye defensively. ‘My face is a bit thinner, but the rest of me is rapidly making up for that.’
‘A bit thinner! Childie, childie, you’re all bones. Are you starving in a garret with a struggling painter?’
‘Nothing like that.’ Virginia laughed. ‘We have a nice flat, and Joe has quite a good job.’ She had not come here to complain. She had come to enjoy the company of friendly people.
‘Well, you don’t look it,’ Mrs Benberg said shortly. ‘I’m going to get some cake. We’ve had our meal. Father has high tea when he’s writing, but he’s never said no to cake yet, and I don’t suppose he’ll start tonight.’
While she was out making a great clatter in the kitchen, Virginia asked Mr Benberg about his books. He told her that he had completed another novel since her last visit. His weak eyes shone softly as he spoke of it.
‘Have you sent it to a publisher?’
‘Oh, no. I don’t send them anywhere any more. It isn’t any use. And I don’t see why I should let them discourage me with their rejection slips. One day, the publishers will come to me. Until then, I go on writing so that I shall have as much as possible to give the world when the world is ready to listen.’
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, swinging a slipper from the end of one foot. He looked completely satisfied with the situation. ‘Of course, it may not come until after I’m dead,’ he was saying, as Mrs Benberg came into the room with plates and mugs and a huge cake like a castle on a scarred tin tray.
‘Who’s talking about death?’ she asked. ‘Your time hasn’t come yet, my friend. Don’t forget I’ve drawn your horoscope. I’ll draw yours if you like,’ she told Virginia, setting the tray down on the floor, since there was no table uncluttered enough to hold it. ‘I’ve made cocoa,’ she went on, kneeling on the floor to cut the cake into vast wedges. ‘There’s nothing like a mug of cocoa when you’re feeding two. There,’ she said, as Virginia leaned forward to take the plate and mug from her. ‘Go on, eat. There’s plenty more when you’ve put that away.’
Virginia ate as much as she could of the cake, which was rich with fruit, soggy, and undercooked. It was like trying to force your way through a wedge of cold Christmas pudding. Mrs Benberg remained on the floor, sitting with her thick legs stretched straight out like a child, and her skirt in a limp pile, feeding the little brown dog with lumps of cake, and prodding at the fire from time to time with a poker as big as a pitchfork.
Mr Benberg finished his cake with ease. There was no knowing where he put it inside his concave frame. When he passed his plate down for more, Mrs Benberg said: ‘Ladies first. Give me your plate, Virginia. Oh, come, you