observational talent. He knows at once the picture she means. Kath is sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of the garden pond at Nick and Elaine’s house. Her eyes are screwed up in the sunlight, she has bare arms and legs, and a radiant smile, beaming straight at the camera: she is entrancing. Yes, Sandra would have noticed that photo.
“That’s her,” he says. “Yup.”
“I see.” Sandra looks reflectively at him. “She was extremely attractive, then?”
“Yes,” says Oliver. “She was. Yes, you could say that.”
“I’d taken it that the photo was of some girlfriend.”
Oliver is almost shocked. “Oh dear me, no. No, no.”
Sandra gives him a little smile. She turns back to her screen. Kath has been dealt with, so far as she is concerned.
It still seems incredible to Oliver that Kath will not suddenly walk into the room. Never again. That is what she did, back then. No one was expecting her, Elaine didn’t know where she was, what she was doing, and then there she would be—smiling, laughing: “Are you all terribly busy? Can I come to lunch?”
He sees her arriving thus with a great tray of peaches in her arms. She has bought up the entire stock of some greengrocer. “Here . . .” she says. “I couldn’t resist. Let’s gorge.” And Elaine has pursed lips. Oliver can read her thoughts: extravagant, exaggerated, they’ll go bad before they can all be eaten.
Elaine was strange where Kath was concerned. You could feel that she was unsettled when Kath was around, there was that sense of concealed tension. She watched Kath a lot—but, then, everyone did that. And she chivied her. Criticized. Elder-sister stuff—but there was a compulsive edge to it. Though it all seemed to roll off Kath; she would smile, deflect. “All right, I’ll reform, I promise. . . . Listen, I want to tell you about this amazing place I’ve found—”
Kath. What a shame it was, thinks Oliver. What a crying shame. When Kath comes into his mind, it is always like a sudden shaft of light. She is talking about a place she’s been to, a person she’s met, she is all zest and animation, a group springs to life when she is there. There was nobody, Oliver thinks, but nobody, less likely to be . . . dead.
He sometimes wonders why he did not fall in love with her. Plenty did, after all. But no. Kath always seemed out-of-bounds. Sacrosanct, in some curious way. Not for him. She was never less than warm, friendly, welcoming. But then she was like that with everyone. Almost everyone. If Kath didn’t care for a person she simply moved away; you never saw dislike, disapproval, but she would have created a space, turned aside. What a talent, thinks Oliver. But that was how she seemed to run her life. When things no longer suited her, she moved on, moved off. Or so one understood. He remembers Elaine’s terse inquiries: “You mean you’re not working at that gallery anymore?” and Kath’s light responses: “Things weren’t going quite so well. And I’ve met this nice man who wants me to help with a festival he’s running.”
Occasionally, when Kath turned up, there was a man with her. Hardly surprising. Oliver can barely remember these men. One cast an eye over them, of course. Envious? Well, no, not that—but with a kind of proprietorial concern. Was this fellow worthy? And since the same man seldom came a second time, and more often than not she was alone, there was no reason to get exercised about the matter. It seemed remarkable that no one had snapped her up on a permanent basis, but clearly she had this talent for evasion.
Which made Glyn Peters all the more surprising. Oliver remembers well the advent of Glyn Peters. One became aware of an intensity about Elaine, a tautness. And then one day there was Kath and she had this bloke with her, very much at home apparently, knees under Elaine’s kitchen table as though he had a right there, one eye on Kath all the time, holding forth. Oliver had been wary at
“That’s her,” he says. “Yup.”
“I see.” Sandra looks reflectively at him. “She was extremely attractive, then?”
“Yes,” says Oliver. “She was. Yes, you could say that.”
“I’d taken it that the photo was of some girlfriend.”
Oliver is almost shocked. “Oh dear me, no. No, no.”
Sandra gives him a little smile. She turns back to her screen. Kath has been dealt with, so far as she is concerned.
It still seems incredible to Oliver that Kath will not suddenly walk into the room. Never again. That is what she did, back then. No one was expecting her, Elaine didn’t know where she was, what she was doing, and then there she would be—smiling, laughing: “Are you all terribly busy? Can I come to lunch?”
He sees her arriving thus with a great tray of peaches in her arms. She has bought up the entire stock of some greengrocer. “Here . . .” she says. “I couldn’t resist. Let’s gorge.” And Elaine has pursed lips. Oliver can read her thoughts: extravagant, exaggerated, they’ll go bad before they can all be eaten.
Elaine was strange where Kath was concerned. You could feel that she was unsettled when Kath was around, there was that sense of concealed tension. She watched Kath a lot—but, then, everyone did that. And she chivied her. Criticized. Elder-sister stuff—but there was a compulsive edge to it. Though it all seemed to roll off Kath; she would smile, deflect. “All right, I’ll reform, I promise. . . . Listen, I want to tell you about this amazing place I’ve found—”
Kath. What a shame it was, thinks Oliver. What a crying shame. When Kath comes into his mind, it is always like a sudden shaft of light. She is talking about a place she’s been to, a person she’s met, she is all zest and animation, a group springs to life when she is there. There was nobody, Oliver thinks, but nobody, less likely to be . . . dead.
He sometimes wonders why he did not fall in love with her. Plenty did, after all. But no. Kath always seemed out-of-bounds. Sacrosanct, in some curious way. Not for him. She was never less than warm, friendly, welcoming. But then she was like that with everyone. Almost everyone. If Kath didn’t care for a person she simply moved away; you never saw dislike, disapproval, but she would have created a space, turned aside. What a talent, thinks Oliver. But that was how she seemed to run her life. When things no longer suited her, she moved on, moved off. Or so one understood. He remembers Elaine’s terse inquiries: “You mean you’re not working at that gallery anymore?” and Kath’s light responses: “Things weren’t going quite so well. And I’ve met this nice man who wants me to help with a festival he’s running.”
Occasionally, when Kath turned up, there was a man with her. Hardly surprising. Oliver can barely remember these men. One cast an eye over them, of course. Envious? Well, no, not that—but with a kind of proprietorial concern. Was this fellow worthy? And since the same man seldom came a second time, and more often than not she was alone, there was no reason to get exercised about the matter. It seemed remarkable that no one had snapped her up on a permanent basis, but clearly she had this talent for evasion.
Which made Glyn Peters all the more surprising. Oliver remembers well the advent of Glyn Peters. One became aware of an intensity about Elaine, a tautness. And then one day there was Kath and she had this bloke with her, very much at home apparently, knees under Elaine’s kitchen table as though he had a right there, one eye on Kath all the time, holding forth. Oliver had been wary at
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