The Queen of the Tambourine by Jane Gardam

ladder somewhat and was nearly out of the game for good. She never speaks of that!
    Beside the word-processor and the flowers is a photograph of husband George when young without the gin-hammocks. I remember now that it was you who said—the only unkind thing I remember of you: why does everybody dislike George?—that it must be some sort of trick photography, one of those things done on the pier by sticking your face through a hole in a cardboard figure. Anyway, there’s George in gold and white braid, like Lives of a Bengal Lancer . Before he took the old yo-ho.
    â€œHow’s George?”
    â€œOh goodness, George . He’s fine . I suppose. Of course I hardly see him. When he’s home I’m away on one of my promotional tours, and vice versa. He’s in Hong Kong at present. Isn’t it sad the way none of us sees much of our husbands now? In the Road I mean. We’ve all done so well. Got so rich. And my dear, the next generation will be richer still, they work even harder. It’s the penalty, isn’t it? It’s a hard one.”
    â€œIt’s good that you have your work,” I said, not jumping.
    â€œOh—my salvation ! My children’s books. Well, that’s what people call them.”
    â€œOh, but I’m sure they’re not.”
    â€œI’m not a bit ashamed of it you know if they are .” Her cheeks had begun to glow.
    â€œOf course not. I didn’t mean that at all?”
    â€œMean what? After all, there’s Mrs. Molesworth.”
    We looked into our de-caffs and thought of Mrs. Molesworth and I found that tears were trembling in my eyes and were about to splash out, tears of longing. Longing for a white-stockinged, pig-tailed world. Bat and bail. Lemonade. Days ages and ages long, and people laughing. Anne was examining my filthy kitchen.
    â€œI’ve just heard,” she said, “that you’ve lost Angela.”
    â€œYes. Long ago. She first left Joan, then me.”
    Anne Robin looked serious. “D’you want someone else? I’m sure mine would give you an hour or two.”
    â€œOh, no thanks. There’s nothing to do now, really, since Henry left. I might as well clean up after myself.”
    â€œ About that . . .”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œOh well, nothing. I just wondered if there’s anything one could do?”
    â€œAbout Henry? No, I shouldn’t think so. He’s gone off with Charles, you know. He wants a divorce.”
    â€œSo it is true? Nobody quite knows.”
    â€œWell, I don’t quite know myself.”
    â€œI mean, we wondered if you’d like to talk about it? In the Road? You’ve always been so good whenever anything went wrong. The nice notes you used to send. And the advice you used to give. ‘Counselling’ it’s called now. So natural and unprofessional . . .”
    â€œI wrote a note too many. I wrote a note to Joan.”
    â€œAh,” she said. “Now Joan .” She looked at me nervously.
    â€œDo you ever feel you have written a word too many, Anne?”
    â€œToo many? Well, mine are just tiny books you know. Not didactic in any way. Just fun books. No, I don’t think I’ve written too many. Nothing like as many as Enid Blyton did. I have the same difficulty as she did you know, they just flow out of me. I just use the same plot again and again and nobody notices. I wish I got more reviews though. I say, you won’t tell anyone all this, will you, Eliza?”
    â€œI’m sure that children are very pleased you write so much. I expect they love you.”
    â€œYes. Well, no. Well I’m not sure. You know the awful thing is, Eliza, I’m not sure that children read my books at all. I’m just known in the Children’s Book World and creative writing classes. But—you won’t tell a soul this, will you Eliza?—it seems so conceited for someone like me to push in among the wonderful people