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him the message. Who is calling him? —No, no, it’s not important, said
Matilda. You can tell him that..., that the lady from the nursery called.
I just wanted to make sure that he will visit us tomorrow morning.
—O.K., the lady from the nursery. I’ll tell him.” She must think I am
one of his mistresses, the bitch. After all, what else am I?
She was dry now, she went to the chest of drawers and put clean
panties on, a white bra, and a slip. No, I would be too hot. She took
the slip off, folded it back. Went to the wardrobe, tried not to look
at her image in the tall tin mirror screwed on the open door. A dress,
any dress will do. I am not going to go out, not with Jane and Don,
at any rate. She felt hurt, something aching, all over and nowhere in
particular. A kind of nausea. She was not going to vomit, was she?
A weakness. It had to be the smell of mothballs. Then, suddenly, the
dress made its appearance, the only gown that remained from the old
time. She had already given away many of them to the Salvation Army
in the seventies, then the last four or five before she moved from Avalon,
three years ago. She had believed that she had freed herself of such
souvenirs. But, when she had unpacked, down on her knees, in the new
apartment, there it was, at the top of a box, vivid blue velvet and gold
bands on the sleeves, glaring at her. It had followed her. Now it was
too late. Like a pet you cannot take with you, you call the R.S.P.C.A.
and say farewell. But not twice, nobody could do it twice. She was not
brave enough. So she had tucked it in a corner of the wardrobe, with a
plastic bag over the shoulders. It was safe, but she had to silence it, so
that it would not talk to her, chat about the past, evoke sweet and sour
memories. She was not going to become another Miss Favisham. Away
with all expectations, great or small, good or bad. It had to be her iron
rule, from now on.
For the first time in three years, the dress had manifested its
stubborn presence. The floor felt hollow under the dark brown thick
pile carpet, as if there were many floors to fall through under it. This
sharp but subtle blue that she had so much sought in her paintings,
the same blue and gold that Jacques always saw as her own colours,
wanted to be worn tonight. “A will of its own!” she muttered ironically,
“I’ll accept the challenge.” —Poor dress, said the voice of reason, you
have done nothing to me, but Caroline Matthews is not in good shape.
Welcome back, Matilda! You have been a good girl for so long. This is
your night. Let it be.
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